Lives interrupted by grief
Most of the time we don’t question what is holding our lives together. If it works, it works. Sometimes, though, things fall apart. In the last year I’ve talked with some of the 40,000 unhoused people in the city of Los Angeles, and I’ve found that many were basically getting by until grief knocked them off their feet. I had conversations recently with two men living unhoused on the Westside whose lives were disrupted by the loss of a spouse. Steve and Jeffrey had each been married — to women named Lisa, coincidentally — and each man lost his wife to cancer. Marriage had been a steadying force for them, and without their spouses, Steve and Jeffrey were both thrown into spirals of grief that upended their lives in profound ways. Sometimes slipping into homelessness is a result of events over which we have no direct control, events that set off a cascade in our lives. Remembering this seems crucial as our community tries to address this overwhelming issue. Steve and Jeffrey agreed to share their stories with The Times on condition that their last names not be used. Full versions of the interviews are at latimes.com/opinion.
Steve
My name is Steve, and I’m 63 years old. I’m originally from Chicago, and I graduated from high school in the suburbs. This was in the ’70s, before all the nonsense, when they still believed in education. So it was pretty good. My favorite subject? Auto shop. I can still fix cars — old ones, that is. I could take apart a ’65 Chevy and put it in that building — but I couldn’t touch a new car. They’re computers now. At 18, I came out here to try to be an actor. I was an extra for a while, and I met some good people. Then I met a girl. I got her pregnant. That was the end of my acting career. That and the next one were practice marriages, but then I met Lisa. We were married 30 years. I got lucky with her.
Why did it work? Well, every time Lisa would go to the store, she’d come back with cupcakes for me. It was the way she took care of me. That’s why it worked. I wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to take care of, but she never turned her back on me.
For a while Lisa and I lived in Koreatown, in Section 8 housing. When it wasn’t safe for Lisa anymore, we left. Soon after that we got a motor home. We went all over the country, mainly to Arizona. Sedona is the most beautiful place in the world. Lisa got sick about 10 years ago. Her ashes are buried in Sedona.
I was a drug addict for a long time. Lisa — and a judge — saved my life. In rehab, I realized I’d wasted my whole life. I’d wasted my relationships with my children. I’d wasted everything in the world. I got sober; I’ve been sober for 14 years.
So I’m homeless, fine. I sleep in that car. But I have issues with people who don’t clean up after themselves. See, these people, living in their cars, they work for a living. This guy works at a cafe. That one is a waiter someplace else. It’s not like the nonsense with the guys in tents, on Venice Boulevard. There’s no excuse for that. The police say the people on Venice Boulevard have “rights.” You know who also has rights? People who are paying $3,500 a month to rent houses along Venice Boulevard. They have the right to
look out their window and not see a bunch of tents.
I drove a cab for 30 years. It was a great education.
I was working for a cab company when I met Lisa. I was dispatching, and Lisa called for a taxi. I talked to her. I liked her voice. We ended up chitchatting, and we clicked. We were inseparable until the day she died.
She used to volunteer at the senior center here, before the city turned it into offices. I want to turn this place back into a senior center and to name it after Lisa. That’s my goal now.