Yesterday I had a conversation with a homeless man named Albert at our church. He was there for the service and I’ve known him for several years now since I volunteer at our church’s bi-monthly homeless breakfast. “How are you?” I said when I saw him at coffee hour. “It’s been a while.”

“Two years,” he said, “I’ve been down in Long Beach.”

He is tall and thin, a Native American, with olive skin and a sharp nose. He was wearing a long dark coat – it was raining outside – and a beige fisherman’s hat, which covered his long gray streaked hair that was pulled back in a ponytail. His eyes, usually yellow-tinged and blurred from years of alcohol, were clear. “You look good,” I said.

He smiled. “I’ve been in rehab. Haven’t had a drink in a year and a half.”

I knew he was telling me the truth. His eyes told the story. “I can see that. What happened that made you stop drinking?”

Now this man is someone who slept on the church property for months several years back, stumbling and reeking of alcohol. He was usually respectful, but most often drunk. Our priest finally banned him because he began to get belligerent with parishioners. That was when he disappeared.

Albert said that he got in trouble with the law because of his drinking and that’s how he ended up in rehab. He was there for nine months and got completely clean. From there, he moved back home with his mom in Long Beach and had been there until two weeks ago when he and his brother had an altercation about his brother’s girlfriend. “She is a nasty woman,” he said. “I mean she keeps the door open when she’s in the bathroom, and hangs her washed underclothes up for all to see. I have three sisters and none of them ever did that when we were growing up. They knew men were in the house and that wasn’t okay.”

I stood listening to Albert talk and realized that for the first time in all of these years, probably ten, that I have “known” him, I’ve never pictured him growing up in a house with sisters, a brother, a mother and a dad. I just saw this tall homeless man who seemed decent enough, but losing in his battle with a demon. “Where are you now?”

He shrugged. “I worked construction while I was down in Long Beach. I have money. So, I spent the past week and a half in a motel here in Hollywood, but now, I’m back on the streets.”

“Where will you go to get out of the rain?”

“I know how to live on the streets,” he said. “I’m used to it so it’s no big deal.”

“Are you completely clean?”

“Everything except weed.”

“Does that work for you?”

“Yeah. The rehab program I was in was different than any other I’d been in before. They said no alcohol, but they said they didn’t care if we smoked weed. That way, I could get off the booze.”

He was clearly not stoned at the time I was talking to him. Or if he was, he knew how to maintain a very cogent conversation. “I’m happy for you,” I said.

“Yeah, I’m happy, too. It’s funny, though, when you’re on the streets, it’s easier to be drunk or stoned. It makes being there not so bad.”

“Lots of temptation out there for you?”

“It’s funny. Last night, I saw people who I’ve known on the street and the first thing they said was, ‘Want a beer or a joint?’ One guy had a whole pizza sitting there and a six-pack of beer and he offered me a beer. I said, ‘What about the pizza?’ and he said, ‘Hell, no, that’s my food, man, don’t touch that.’ It’s crazy out there.”

I couldn’t believe that I was having a normal conversation with this man who hadn’t been capable before of more than a “How you doing?” I said, “I hope you can stay straight.”

“Me, too.”

Later, as I was leaving the parking lot, there was Albert sitting on the ground under some bushes, waiting out the rain. He waved at me as I left, and I waved back. Our church hosts regular AA meetings and he was probably waiting for one in the afternoon.

I get angry thinking our country doesn’t have better resources for someone like Albert. Someone ready to get his life together, but who doesn’t have anywhere else to go. I wish I could take him home, but know I can’t. I can’t be the social service agency that Albert and the other homeless people need. I can get up twice a month at 6 on a Saturday morning and make them a good hot breakfast. It doesn’t seem like enough, but at least they’re not hungry for a while.

Albert is a good guy. I’ll see him on Saturday for the breakfast and I’ll know in a glance how he is. I hope he can make it, though I know it will be tough. I can see how being stoned or drunk makes living out on the streets easier. Particularly when it rains…