Donnie, Gigger Extraordinaire
Donnie from the Old Crow Book Club stood outside the grocery store selling the newspaper that advocates for the homeless, but doesn’t practice the kind of journalism that’s needed to address the crisis.
It was both a surprise and relief to see Donnie because I’d heard he was back in detox (fifth or sixth time). The last time I’d seen him, over a week ago, he seemed near death and splayed on the sidewalk in a mega alcoholic stupor. He hadn’t even recognized me when I called out.
Donnie was talking with a customer and I slipped behind him into the store unnoticed.
I purchased groceries and exited the store. Donnie saw me and waved. I walked up to buy a paper.
Donnie was a man transformed. What an appearance! He wore slacks and a Hawaiian shirt. He looked ten years younger. His hair, to quote Warren Zevon in “Werewolves of London,” was perfect.
I mentioned his vastly improved physical stature. He said he’d stopped drinking and found transitional housing. He could only stay there six months then he would transition into permanent housing as long as he met the minimum income requirement. He was 57 years old and received no state or federal income assistance of any kind. He hadn’t worked in years. I doubted he had the stamina to work.
Donnie would have to find a job and work full time to keep his subsidized apartment.
I asked him, “Can you do it?”
I’m pretty much point blank with the club members these days. The candor feels so much better than milquetoast concern. Candor gets us somewhere.
“Yes,” he said.
“Would you pump gas?”
“Yes.”
“Would you stock shelves at the grocery store?”
“Yes. I’ll do anything.”
“Have you really stopped drinking? You’ve said it before.”
“I know. I think this time it sticks. I’m going to meetings and a counselor all the time.”
Christ! I was grilling a homeless man in recovery in public!
I gave him five bucks for the newspaper. Donnie thanked me and said, “I’m reading one of your other books, The Gigging Life. I love it. It’s better than The Old Crow Book Club.”
DONNIE THE CRITIC! YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH!
He continued: “I got something important from the book. I’m out here gigging the paper and trying to gig that I can get better with sobriety and talk to people about it.”
I’d gigged my books and stories a thousand times over 200,000 miles across Oregon and here was a man roughly my age who was gigging to show he could lick the demons and others could too.
“You need more Old Crow books?” I said
“Yes,” he said. “And I wanted to tell you, I left a copy of the book in detox. Everyone was reading it in there.”
Top that Ernest Hemingway! They ain’t reading The Sun Also Rises in there!
I hustled to the car, stashed my groceries, and retrieved three copies.
Donnie was engaged with another customer when I returned, an older man wearing shorts who was accompanied by a woman I recognized as former Oregon Governor Barbara Roberts. The Governor kept walking to the store as the man talked with Donnie. He then pulled out an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Donnie. It had all the markings of a payoff!
The man followed the Governor into the store.
What was going on? I asked Donnie about the envelope. He gave me the lowdown: the man carried envelopes with a $20 bill tucked inside and distributed them everywhere he went around the neighborhood, typically to homeless men and women performing some kind of public service, not panhandling.
I told Donnie to give the Governor one of the Old Crow books when she emerged from the store. Gig it goddammit!
“I’ll do it!” he said. “I know just what to say.”
Of that I had no doubt. Since the Old Crow book came out, I have learned that the homeless men and women who are my friends gig my books with more zany originality than anyone I know.
Well, maybe not so much originality. They are gigging right out of the classic playbook of the New York newsboys/newsies in the heydays of the Hearst/Pulitzer penny press. “Extra! Extra! Read all about the Old Crow Book Club! Get your free copy here! Extra! Extra!”
A few weeks later, Donnie was standing outside the grocery store selling the newspaper it was incredible what sobriety had done for his appearance. A summer tan and a striped dress shirt added a special dash of panache. The man definitely has a new mojo going on.
I was on my bicycle and stopped to purchase a copy of the newspaper. He told me he wanted to read another book of mine and I promised I’d rustle one up. But which one?
A man appeared to my right. He carried a skateboard and had no teeth. His face was creased. He wore a faded red ball cap with Chevy emblazoned across the bill. He exuded a definite homeless vibe and I couldn’t begin to guess his age.
Donnie introduced him as ****. Donnie told **** that I was the author of The Old Crow Book Club. **** hopped a bit in the air and did a little jig. For the next five minutes he riffed. Here’s what I recall.
He loved the book!
It was fucking awesome.
He’d read it three fucking times!
He said I’d got it fucking right, brother!
It was the only book he read.
It was going to be huge.
It was going global.(What? Not viral?)
His friends in Idaho wanted copies!
He’d been homeless in the neighborhood for almost 25 years. September 17th would be his 25th anniversary.
He had a job helping out a cabinet maker in the neighborhood.
He drank alcohol and smoked pot. Never touched the hard shit.
He didn’t steal or trespass.
He had a story to write but didn’t want to use his name.
(I asked him I could write about him, promising anonymity. He said no but here I am. When a homeless man in your neighborhood reads your book about the homeless people in his neighborhood—three times!–and hops in the air and does a little jig when he meets you, well, damn right you are going to write about it!
**** stopped riffing. I asked how he knew my book was going global. He looked at me as if I’d asked the dumbest question in the world.
“I believe you,” I said.
“You should, brother.”
I gave him three bucks as a donation for improving my mental health. He initially refused but I kept insisting.
“Take the money, you son-of-a-bitch!” I roared.
He laughed and took the money. I bicycled away in absolute bliss. There is nothing like riding a bike when you are happy. You never ride in a straight line.