Roscoe. Roscoe P. Coltrain. That's my name; don't ya dare forget it, neither!
I live in Fort Worth, Texas. Live on the streets, don't have nowhere to go to. Am poor, always been poor since comin' back from Vietnam.
I left a boy; came back a man--a changed man. Figgured that people would welcome me back, call me a hero: instead of glory, all I got was shit. Spit upon, hit with sticks, rocks thrown at me, people callin' me "Baby-Killer", worse.
Left me broken in spirit; also broken in body. Ya see, I have no legs: lost them in the war; legs too far gone, so they had to cut 'em off, right above the knees. Now depend on a wheelchair to get by. My mind also messed up; have post traumatic stress disorder, which plagues my mind, my very existance. At times I think I am still on the battlefield; keep thinkin' I hear the bombs, guns goin' off, smell the odor of blood, sweat, tears, napalm; see people dyin' all 'roun' me--then I wake up, realize I'm back in Texas, not in Vietnam.
Then I feel stupid. In my nightmare, I probably called out nonsense gibberish; I'm sure people would rather have me committed to the crazy house, to see if they can get my fucked-up mind straightened out...
I try to make some money sellin' poseys on the street corner; yet people, they don't like me panhandlin'; what's a guy to do to try to get some little food on the table?? I am lucky if I get $5; if I get that, I feel like I'm a millionaire; I then go to the local coffee jernt not far from where I've been stayin', get me a cup of joe, maybe a biscuit or a bagel, then I'm fine for mebbe an hour or so.
Most I ever got in one day sellin' poseys--$20.00. It was around Christmas-time; got me an' some of my buddies coffee, donuts, even some Cokes.
Felt like I was on top of the world!
Anyways, back to my story: if it weren't for the local homeless shelter, I'd a been dead long ago. I go there every week, for a hot meal, to see my friends, engage in some conversation. One of my favorite people there is a young kid named Kenna; Kenna's a teenager, but has a great head on her shoulders: she helps out in the soup kitchen, always has a smile on her face. To see her makes me glow inside; I soon forget of my troubles whenever Kenna and her kind are around.
The world needs more Kennas!
When I'm at the shelter, I'm outta the elements, can get a decent night's sleep, can think of other things: like how life was before I left for battle, how good I have it--I miss those days; what happened to cause me to end up like this??
Why can't people be more sympathetic to a hurtin' ol' soldier-boy who only went to war to serve our country? I'm a person too; jus' 'cause I don't have legs doesn't mean I don't have a brain!!
Can't people realize I need help too?? Or are they happiest kickin' me onto the curb, like an injured puppy-dog??
Well, I've done upset myself again; gon' go find me a beer, drown out my troubles. I will write in here again, take care!
~Roscoe. :(
