He just liked his beer

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity. Gilda Radner

We gathered in the multi-purpose room on the sixth floor of the shelter where I work. Outside the large floor to ceiling window, the river flowed, gun-metal grey in the misty light. The room was dim and quiet. Music played in the background. Sarah McClaughlin. I will remember you.

We were there, all thirty something of us, to celebrate the lives of four people who had passed away. The departed ranged in age from 35 to 73. Clients of the shelter, their deaths do not go unnoticed.

Tom, a longtime shelter client, was 54. He liked to sit under the bridge of the overpass leading into downtown and drink his beer. His cronies were in attendance. One started to sob when Tom's picture appeared on the screen. "Yeah Tom." he called out to the room. "You're my buddy Tom. I miss ya!"

They were an unruly bunch, these cronies of Tom. Unruly and loud and funny and sad and full of the life they lead. The air smelled of beer and unwashed bodies. They sported beards and dirty finger nails. Unruly hair and cuts and bruises. A black eye here. A scrape across the nose there.

Pastor Rob, who was officiating, asked the crowd, does anyone want to share a few words about Tom? A staff member from Intox stood and walked to the podium. Tom's cronies cheered him on. "Yeah Danny! How's it goin' man?" They chatted amongst themselves, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"That Danny. He's a good one."

"Hey Danny. D'ya know I stash my beer in the back of your truck before I come into the building?"

I watch Danny's face grow red. A sheepish grin appears. I wonder if he knows and just doesn't say anything? I think he does. I smile. Unwitting co-conspirators.

Danny shares a story of Tom and one of the cronies cries louder. "That Tom. Good man. I miss you!" one calls out.

More staff rise and speak of this man who spent his days shuffling from beer depot to bottle depot. Sitting on river banks. Hanging out. Hanging on to what little he had like a terrier hanging onto an idea of a rabbit scurrying down the hole.

Pastor Rob invites a few more words from friends. The friend who has cried says, "I can't get up there and talk about my friend. I'll cry." And he stands and moves to the podium. He's a bit unsteady on his feet. But he makes it to the front without incidence. He grabs the mic. Leans against the podium for support.

"Me and Tom go way back," he says. "He could be a mean sod. But me and Tom. We always got along. I remember a time..." and he goes on to tell a hilarious story of Tom's wily nature, always evading 'the law'.

"I know them officers thought we were up to know good," he says of a time the friends were sitting on the river bank, beneath the underpass, beer in hand, hopes of a quiet retreat dashed as two police officers approached. "But we're not bad men," he states firmly. "We just like our beer." Pause. He nods his head. One large hand grips the podium. "We're not bad men. We just want a quiet place to be in peace." Pause. "Tom's found it. I'll see him next in heaven and in the meantime," he glances at the screen where Tom's face smiles mischievously, "I'm gonna miss you!"

It was a celebration of people and stories. A celebration of lives lived away from loved one's but surrounded, none the less, by a community that cares. By friendship and support. And no judgement. Stories of hope lost and sometimes found sitting on a riverbank with a friend who wasn't a bad man, he just liked his beer.