Eddie

By Vince Basehart

June 13 -- His name is Eddie. Another homeless man wanders by, lifts his chin and calls out, "Hey E." Eddie nods back.

You may see him anywhere in Santa Monica, most often sitting in the park along the bluffs on Ocean. That's where we are sitting, on the grass with our backs propped against the trunk of a palm tree.

Eddie would be recognizable to any of the regulars who jog and walk their dogs past here. He is very tall and very lean, a black man distinguished by a hairline which has receded into a horseshoe of graying black hair. He has sharp cheekbones and big, startled-looking eyes. I would guess he is 50 years old.

He has to pick out the turkey from the half of a turkey and cheese sandwich I am sharing with him.

"My teeth," he explains simply, meaning that the turkey is a challenge to them. Indeed, there are large gaps between his Chicklet-sized choppers the color of old ivory.

I will admit, the sandwich is as much my way of opening up a conversation with this intense-looking man who I've seen a dozen times before, as it is any act of generosity.

"I played ball in Europe from '80 to '85," he states, referring to his time in the Euroleague, one of Europe’s oldest basketball leagues. It may not be the NBA, but it takes serious talent to get there, and players make real money.

"I lived in Italy for three years, Germany for two." Before making the move to the Continent he almost got picked up by the Cleveland Cavaliers.

During the first year of his career he got married and moved into a house in Baldwin Hills. From the glass walled living room you could take in a view of the LA basin and the Hollywood sign.

He bought his mother a house. He bought his young wife and himself matching convertible Mercedes. He bought lots of drugs.

During his marriage he barely spent any time with his bride, living most of the time in Europe, playing ball, flying home once a month or less.

The money fueled the drug habit, the temptations of female fans a world away from home ruined his marriage, and finally a knee injury which never fully healed sent him back to the States and out of basketball forever.

Within a year he was divorced, penniless and sleeping on a friend's couch in his living room. From there things get blurry.

"Yeah. I ran around, partied a lot. Messed around." He hesitates before adding matter of factly, "I went to jail."

I don't ask why or for how long, but it was most certainly due to drugs, and it sounds like he was away for a long time. "But I'm still here man," he says, in a tone which suggests he’s amazed by it.

Eddie is perfectly lucid and able-bodied. He takes care of himself with regular showers and check-ups at a free clinic in West Hollywood. I've never seen him beg for food or money. On rare rainy days he will seek out shelter downtown. He has friendships with the other homeless men in the park.

It's his spirit which is damaged, like an injured, unseen organ, from half of a life’s worth of regrets and shame. I imagine him coaching basketball or gym at a high school, or even doing sales. He has a way with people. But he does not have the will.

Referring to his life story I tell him, "That's fascinating. You could write a book."

He just shakes his head, "No way would I want to tell about everything I did."

He had a daughter by his wife. Eddie says the last time he saw her was at her eight year birthday “and I was high.”

While remembering her, he reaches up to his neck where a small orange bead suspended by a piece of yarn hangs against his dark skin.

“She’s at USC now.”