In the small town where I grew up, we had a town drunk. We all called him Homer, but that wasn't his real name. I remember asking my parents about him, because the other kids made fun of him when he walked past the bus stop quoting Shakespeare and Poe. My parents said he was once well respected and but lost it after his wife died. He did odd jobs for money, sometimes at our house. He was a hard worker, and never drank when he was doing a job. He scared me once when he knocked at the door when I was the only one home and preparing to leave for school. All he wanted was a cup of coffee with a couple of raw eggs in it, which he got. I think I was frightened mostly because I couldn't understand the way he acted. He always treated people with kindness and other than himself, he wouldn't have hurt a fly.

He eventually went into a nursing home. Around the same time, the head of the English Department in our school became disabled with degenerative arthritis. He was extremely depressed and shut himself off from the world. Homer used to "escape" from the nursing home and go visit him - he was the only person outside of his family who's presence the teacher would tolerate.