The San Francisco call., 1910-03-13

when my shoes were still pretty good,
sold them for 10 cents to buy wine
was living in the wine cellar and did
not need shoes as much / did wine.
But / did not always sleep in the
dens Often 1 slept in dark spots in
the streets. One of my favorite places
was dark hole near the German saw.
ings bank in California street. I lost
that when building was put up there.
AT other times I slept under temporary
sidewalks in front of buildings being
erected. If it was cold, several of us
would huddle together to keep warm.
Not long ago, when driving past one
of the old retreats of this sort 1 saw
several wine buns crawling down into
their berths. I could not believe that
/ was ever one of them.
Every now and then I run across
some old bum whom I know well; per-
haps one who staked me to a nickel
to buy pint Of wine, l hate to give
him money. / know where it will go.
But what can 1 do?
Once friend of the old days man.
aged to recognize me on the street,
picked me up literally out of the gut
ter, took me to his house, fed bathed
and clothed me and gave me a couple
of dollars. I went right back to the
wine cellar. The two dollars and the
sale of the clothes kept me in wine for
over week; plenty of it, too When
ever l went into wine den I stayed
there as long as could get wine. Then
/ went to another.
The hold that miserable poison has on
you, once in its grasp, is something I
can not even now understand It sets
you crazy, makes you lost to all shame
and unmindful of anything except get
ting some. more. You do not want any
thing else When / was wine bum
and man would come to me and offer
to buy me a drink of good whisky, 1
would refuse it. L wanted only wine.
1 have had delirium tremens three
times. Each time I was cured by the
emergency hospital doctors. Then I
returned to the wine dens. Once, when
/ was 'vagged" by the police, escaped
punishment because a friendly wine
dive keeper testified that I worked for
him cleaning up, and I thus did not
fall under the vagrancy law I was
not on the streets much, as I sang for
my wine most of the time. instead of
begging. like most of the others. So
] escaped being .'vagged" oftener. Be-
sides, as never kept more than enough
clothes to cover my nakedness, pre-
ferred to go to sleep in a chair or on
the floor of the wine cellar. That is,
when I thought of anything at all be-
sides getting more wine.
I don't know yet where that wine
comes from. 1t is as different from the
good California table claret as shellac
is different from champagne. Speak
ing of shellac, / may say here that I
have met, in my degenerate days, men
who used to drink not only shellac,
but cologne and wood alcohol. Wood
alcohol generally kills them quickly
and SO will shellac and cologne, unless
they get prompt medical attendance, or
unless they take only Little of it.
The so called wine kills a lot of them,
too. Doctors have told me that moth
ing but the fact that I was blessed
with an iron constitution saved me,
1 was so far gone.
Hypo. dope and cocaine fiends are
generally looked upon as the last word
in drug degeneracy. Wine buns, in my
opinion, are fully as bad. They
made crazy with the drink they live on.
1t is bad enough anyhow, but it keeps
them from eating, too. AS long as the
wine bum has his wine he cares very
little for food. He's afraid that if he
eats he will miss a drink. He is the
worst type of lifes wrecks.
1t was through friends of my better
days that l was saved. They would
hunt me up. always knowing, of course,
where they would find me. They would
take me away, doctor me up and take
care of me, even after repeatedly went
back to the wine 1t was only when
they practically imprisoned me for a
long time that / became myself again.
1t was not an easy job either. 1 had to
be put far from the wine and kept with
out money. For weeks. even with my
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