Cowboys hang on

"An old guy in a wheelchair just arrived and he said he's really hungry, wet and cold and he says he's glad that we're here," Jason announces as he walks through the kitchen in Pioneer Hall. I look out and see that he's all set up with a plate of food and so I go back to trying to finish washing the dishes.

Fifteen minutes pass and I look up and see a figure in a wheelchair passing by the kitchen. "Hey, I know you," a voice greets me.

We met in the plaza a few weeks ago. He's a veteran who had a heart attack and a stroke and was wearing a hospital bracelet when I saw him last time.

We lobby greetings and small talk back and forth for a few minutes. He's a talker and I'm a listener and we both practice doing what we're best at.

He served a tour in Vietnam with the Marines. Back then he was a skinny 20-year-old kid who wound up losing part of his leg. Honorable discharge and three marriages followed, all of that ending with the last wife who died of Alzheimer's about six months ago. He chokes up when he tells me about her, and I pat his gnarled hand and express how sorry I am. "That had to be so hard," I say as I try to acknowledge his grief.

A sob escapes his chest.

He changes the subject and starts telling me about his grandfather, and how he knew Jesse James, and that's followed by a long story about someone he knows who has a house that's worth about nine million dollars, but only about six in this economy, but even still that's a pretty good chunk of change.

I sit down near him and listen. He has a lot of stories to share. He says that he thought there would be shelter tonight and I have to explain that it starts on Saturday morning. He rails against that. "I want to talk to the mayor," he says. "Does anyone have the number for the police chief? I am a US Marine and I do not want to go out in the rain." This conversation goes on for a long time until he finds a cell phone and calls 911 for help.

Two officers arrive and they gently talk to him. I stand nearby and listen as he gives them both an earful about how he served his country and doesn't have shelter. They are sympathetic listeners.

I take a deep breath and ask if I can talk to one of them. I worry that I am risking being charged with interfering, but I have an idea. "What about the Medford mission? Wouldn't he be a good candidate for that?"

The man who is almost 70 years old and frail in his wheelchair tells us about how he's been banned from there for fighting.

The officers leave a few minutes later.

We're closing and we have to tell the old man that he has to go back outside. One of my friends has been helping with all the cleanup and he volunteers to walk this man to the bus stop. "I'm going to the Goose. Going to do a little karaoke," he says. He asks me to help him get his jacket on. It's in a plastic bag on the back of his wheelchair and I pull it out. It's soaking wet, but there's nothing to replace it with. I've already helped him get his sweatshirt on, so at least he has one dry, warm layer. My friend helps me get his jacket zipped and we see that it has some missing teeth, so it does not zip up all the way. It's also a little too snug to be gently guided over those aging hands. He asks me to place a plastic bag over his lap so it will help keep him dry and I tuck it around him as if he was one of our kids.

He sings a Johnny Cash song before he carefully sets his cowboy hat on top of his head. "A Boy Named Sue."

"And he said, "Son, this world is rough

And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough

And I knew I wouldn't be there to help ya along

So I give ya that name and I said goodbye

I knew you'd have to get tough or die

And it's the name that helped to make you strong"

"You look like John Wayne in that hat," my friend tells him. He seems to really like that. "We're going to the Goose together and we're going to do a little karaoke," he tells him. He keeps singing as he’s walking out the door.