When I finally worked up the nerve to hand “Hank” some cash, he drew back as if I was coming at him with a knife. This startled me, and for a moment I wondered what kind of fix my attempted charity had gotten me into. Would he lunge back at me in self defense? Or would he start to channel the cacophony of voices inside his head and yell profanities at me instead? I braced myself for just about anything. I suddenly wished I had just left well enough alone and dropped off the money at the checkout counter, just like everyone else did.

If you’ve ever bought a Diet Coke, picked up a can of almonds or printed pictures at the Walgreens down the street from my office, chances are you’ve seen him. Once long and lanky, around 6’3″ if I had to guess, his upper back has now adopted the sloping, C-shaped bend brought on by osteoporosis and a catch-as-catch-can diet. His salt and pepper hair spikes upward like an over-the-hill punk rocker, and the wrinkles on his weather-worn, leathery face far outnumber his years. He seems to wear the same long, ratty coat whether it’s below freezing or triple digits, and he shuffles along lugging all his earthly possessions around in a large khaki pack. Occasionally, he stops long enough to converse quietly with the chattering demons inside his head.

Hank is King of the Corner of Longwood and Whitesburg, and from what I can tell, his dominion extends outward to about a 4-5 block radius from the front door of the Walgreens. But I have absolutely no idea where he sleeps at night.

On that corner, loose change from the steady stream of customers flows more freely. Like a savvy angler, he’s scoped out his “favorite spot,” and there he patiently bides his time, waiting for a nibble or two, or even the occasional strike. Sometimes he wanders inside the store, and since he never bothers anyone and always pays for his small items in cash, the employees and patrons there tolerate him and go on about their business as if he wasn’t even there.

But we see him. We’ve all gotten in the habit over the years, especially on those 100 degree days, of occasionally leaving our spare change at the counter for Hank. “Make sure he gets one of those extra tall bottled waters,” someone might whisper conspiratorially to the checkout person. “Here. Give him this bag of beef jerky,” another might add as she points over her shoulder toward the front entrance where Hank usually stands and then rushes past him and bolts for her car.

Still, that there is a pang of social consciousness at all is no small thing. In these parts, pulling oneself up by one’s own bootstraps is as sacrosanct a philosophy as holy writ itself. But something happens when a piece of honest-to-God, down-and-out flesh and blood shuffles past you near the intersection of the oral hygiene and feminine products aisles.
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Forty-eight years ago today, I made my debut at Jefferson Memorial Hospital in Roanoke, Virginia. My arms may be too short and my back a little stiffer these days, but that building was torn down in the late 70s to make room for a new medical office complex, and I’m still standing. So I guess that’s saying something.

There was a time earlier this year when I wasn’t sure I would be by now, though. You see, I became quite obsessed with the idea of whether or not I was going to make it past 47 years, 118 days because that’s exactly how long Dad lived. So on the day in mid-March when I turned one day older than him, I took some sick leave and skipped down to the local heart center to have a cardiac CT for a mere $99, cash on the barrel head. I really didn’t need a whole day to do that, but mental health counts too, you know.

My pipes were cleaner than a dinner plate full of rib sauce after Amazing Gracie the Wonderdog is done with it (hold it down with both paws, don’t let that sucker run away). I told the cardiac nurse about the history of early death from heart attacks in my family and about how that weighed on my mind a little and he laughed and told me I had a greater chance of dying from getting hit by a Mack truck at the corner of Governors and Whitesburg.

I celebrated with a heart-attacking meal of fries and a double cheeseburger at Sonic. It felt great going down, but hours later when the acid started rising in my esophagus like scalding steam from Old Faithful, I suddenly remembered why I don’t eat meals like that much anymore. [...]

In many respects, every day is Veterans Day for me. By virtue of my chosen profession, I have spent the majority of my waking hours over the past 17 years with former soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen. By and large, they are a respectable, salt-of-the-earth lot, as good as they come.

It’s an honor to care for them each day, and since I never served in the military myself, I’ve come to think of it as a way of giving back to my country a little bit of what it has given me. But I’ve formed a few impressions about the military and war over the years, and perhaps today is as good a day as any to share some of them with you.

When I started out, I counted a few genuine doughboys among my patients, innocents who were once pretty, dapper boys scrambling off “Over There” to seek their adventure in “The War to End All Wars.” The young Yanks returned, mud-caked men, deflowered and broken in the sludgy trenches of Western Europe in a war that failed to fulfill it’s lofty promise.

They’re all gone now, and the World War II and Korea vets are quickly following them. The former have probably received the most praise and positive press (who wouldn’t want to be referred to as “The Greatest Generation?), but sometimes I have to look deep into the chart to find out that a veteran was in Korea. It’s easier, really, to simply look at their hands. The missing fingers, broken off by frostbite, are a dead giveaway.

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