I went to Russian River Brewing Company yesterday, and met a man named John Paul. As he was quite fond of pointing out, he was named after two saints.

He was obviously drunk, although this may be a persistent state for him, and he was homeless. A bum in a wheelchair without any legs.

He'd called me over to help him get a bracelet on. The two ends needed to be screwed together 'round his wrist, and John Paul, named after two saints, had neither the requisite number of limbs or the dexterity to pull this off. I put it on him, and was formally introduced to John Paul, Named After two Saints, and his friend Henry.

One of the things that shocked me most about John Paul was that he had a vocal opinion about the Democratic Primary for the last gubernatorial election. Keep in mind this is not because I expect a lower intelligence or concern out of the homeless, but more because even myself and most of my friends, who have access to near unlimited amount of information on which to build an opinion, didn't bother to form an opinion for the Democratic Primary.

John Paul, Named after two Saints, also had a brief history with the DA's office, and had a first hand account of Passalacqua, whom he said was untrustworthy and a killer. Too busy destroying people's lives in order to look tough on crime for politics. Not a skew observation, either.

John Paul went on to immediately comfort me that he was not about to swing his wheelchair around and smack me in the nuts, since I had apologized for the bracelet taking so long to get on. (It was a tight fit.) It was almost as if making this joke had reminded him of his own attachment to the device. He pondered for merely a second or two, then began his slurred and passionate retelling of the story I am about to relay to you.

The Story of how John Paul, Named After two Saints, Lost His Legs.

John Paul, named after two saints, had been on fairly hard times for a years already, having lost his job some time ago. He was one of the many bums living on the railroad tracks over in old railroad square, and his traveling companion at the time was an old old man he called Howler. Howler, as John Paul was quite insistent I understand, was '90 fucking years old.'

John Paul, Named after Two Saints, is a heavy drinker. He refers to himself as a Confirmed Alcoholic, and this day was like no other. Howler and John Paul were crossing the tracks, a good 30 feet between them, with Howler in front. A train was barreling down, with one of the men on either side of the tracks. John Paul, named after two Saints, was understandably most concerned with making sure he was the one with the booze while they were waiting for the train to pass. Howler's plan was to the throw the booze, but, as we all know, that guy was 90 fucking years old. I mean, 90 god damned years old. There was no way John Paul, named after two saints, was about to put the fate of his 40 in a near century old man's Nolan Ryan impression

As it turns out, the alternate plan wasnt much more sound. John Paul, Named after two saints, ran for Howler, trying to make it to his side of the tracks before the train passed. It wouldn't have been an amazing feat, there was plenty of time, except that, thanks to the pace John Paul was taking, which was a  good combination of stumbling and jogging, didnt give him quite the clearance he needed to get over the tracks. He tripped and fell right in the middle. His priorities having shifted now, John Paul crawled for the edge of the tracks, and right before he made it, the train rolled over and clipped off each leg about 3 inches below his knees.

Probably partially due to massive intoxication, and mostly due to shock, John Paul rolled over and looked at the engineer as he approached. He remembers a slight sarcasm in the man's voice as he handed the vagrant his boot, complete with foot, and informed him that he was under arrest for attempted suicide.

John Paul, named after two saints, was in fact arrested my a Police Officer who had been on the train. At his trial, he told the judge, whose name I forget but John Paul passionately remembers, that the suicide charge was ridiculous and that he was just after the booze. The judge informed John Paul that outbreaks would result in a contempt of court charge, which would carry a penalty heftier than his initial sentence would most likely be. In the end, he was sentenced to 180 days in a county jail.

Again left to his own devices, but without the use of his legs, the state provided John Paul a wheelchair and sent him on his way. I imagine most of his days closely resemble yesterday. Wandering throughout the city, booze in a bag, hand rolled cigarette in the other. The only difference is that the ear he bent yesterday was mine, and I was eerily inclined to relay the tale. So sit for a minute, and just contemplate the meaningless story of one of our society's untouchables. Realize that we all have lives and stories, and that we all have our occasional turn for the worse. And maybe next time a homeless person calls for your attention, in addition to giving the old man some entertainment for an hour, you'll get a halfway decent blog entry out of it.