Dugger

"What's wrong with him?" I ask as the man shuffles his feet a couple of inches at a time walking across the lobby.

"He's doing the Thorazine Shuffle," I'm told.

Thorazine is used to treat schizophrenia and this dude is obviously heavily medicated with his head down, eyes almost shut, body leaning forward and moving a foot an inch at a time.

"Who is he?"

"Dugger," I'm told. "Part of a prominent Savannah family."

"Why's he homeless?"

"Look at him! Nobody wants to take care of him."

Nodding my head, I take several quick steps and put my arm him. "Hey Mr. Dugger! Welcome!"

His feet stop shuffling and his head turns ever so slightly towards me. Glazed eyes look through me and he grunts something then continues inching forward.

"I like him," I say out loud.

One of the things about working with the poor, homeless, sick, addicted and depressed is you have to have favorites. There are simply too many and you can easily be overwhelmed. I counter this by choosing a few to take special interest in and keep it personal.

Over the next several months ... in flagrant violation of HIPPA code, public safety requirements, political correctness and common sense ... I take Dugger with me most everywhere I go.

Ever so slowly his self awareness returns and we talk.

He begins to dress better, even wearing a tie and combing his thick black hair.

Standing on the corner of 34th and East Broad, we're meeting with a real estate agent because I want to buy ten dilapidated apartments across the street from Phoenix Place, a residential medical program for people living with AIDS. We need to expand.

"What's it gonna take to make this happen?" I ask.

The agent throws out impossible numbers.

Out of nowhere, Dugger steps forward
and machine gun fires questions at the Agent. They go back and forth for half an hour with me occasionally nodding and before I understand ... we've reached a deal, shake hands and make our way back to my car.

"How did you ...?" I ask cranking the engine.

For the only time I ever witness, Dugger smiles, looks me the eyes and answers, "My family knows Real Estate. That's how we made our money."

"You're homeless," I laugh and he shrugs his shoulders.

That was Dugger's shinning moment. He decompensated afterwards, the schizophrenia aggravates, he stops combing his hair and shuffles his feet again.

He disappears.

I was told he was later found in the Casey Canal, a water way beside a Parkway and was heavy a backhoe was necessary to lift him out.

That's the last I heard.

Sarah, Maddie and I zip along the Parkway towards a function and staring at the Canal, I remember Dugger.

It was a long time ago but he's worth remembering and I'm glad I do.