Morgan from New Zealand

“I’m from New Zealand,” said Morgan.

“New Zealand!” I said.

“Yeah, I’m a Kiwi.”

A homeless man in his 70s named Morgan had just told me where he hailed from. He had been a regular presence in my Coos Bay neighborhood of Empire ever since I’d moved here seven months ago. We had held multiple, brief, pleasant conversations and Morgan was a big fan of Elmer the husky. In fact, we had introduced ourselves early on, and Morgan would always call out my name and Elmer’s when we walked past him.

New Zealand!

In all our previous conversations, I had never detected any accent, but then again, Morgan had no teeth and was sometimes difficult to understand.

But as soon as he said “Kiwi” I heard the accent. And the more Morgan talked the more pronounced it became.

It was 7:30 on a weekday morning and Morgan sat on the sidewalk, under an awning of non profit organization that serves the developmentally disabled. He often sleeps there when it rains. He was drinking a can of malt liquor. His possessions amounted to one small backpack resting on the ground. Everywhere around Morgan was tidy. He never left a trace after spending the night.

I had vowed at some point to ask Morgan his story of homelessness and for some reason, this morning was the time.

In due course, I learned Morgan had been living on the streets for ten years and residing in the United States since the late 80s. He was a tourist in LA, missed his flight home, and never returned. He worked construction in California and Arizona for many years. I asked him how in the world he came to live in Coos Bay. He laughed and said, “That’s a long story.” Doubtless, I’ll hear it one day. How could I not? A homeless man from New Zealand ends up in Coos Bay?

I asked Morgan if he had any desire to get into housing.

“I think I’ve been doing this for too long,” he said.

I asked him if police hassled him. He said one cop gave him an MRE for a Christmas present and another one threatened to jail him. Why the stark difference?

“They’re just two different people,” said Morgan.

A younger homeless man crossed the street and came up to us. He was wearing an all red, mismatched ensemble and bedecked with gold chains. A classic 90s white rapper look. He smiled and asked if he could pet Elmer because Elmer was so handsome. I said of course! Elmer dug that 90s white rapper look as much as I did.

I didn’t have any cash on me or I would have given Morgan a few bucks. Perhaps next time when we meet.

Elmer and I said our goodbyes and walked away. Behind me, I heard the two homeless men talking about my dog.