A DEATH UNNOTICED

On the first weekend of May, 2011, the world reacted to the death of Osama bin Laden in a variety of ways. Many were openly jubilant, while many others cautioned that that kind of response to the death of any human being was not appropriate. But even those with more sober reactions to news of bin Laden’s death at the hands of US Navy Seals were more likely than not to consider his death with, if not satisfaction, relief. The story had “legs” and it consumed the media for days.


It is no wonder then, that other, less dramatic deaths missed the paper that week. Because on that same weekend, my friend John Deak was found dead. Not one word about him in the paper. No news story about the circumstances of finding this homeless man’s body, nor how he died. No obituary. Until this one.

John “Boxcar” Deak lived on the streets of Columbia for most of the past several years. His life on the street was broken up a bit by stints in the county jail, mostly for trespassing or stealing alcohol from convenience stores. He spent a winter-long sojourn at St. Francis House a couple years ago. We would have kept him with us longer but the call of the bottle was stronger than the call of a warm bed. It was more complicated than that of course, but addiction and despair are always more complicated than they seem on the surface.

John was born in 1961. He grew up in St. Louis, Missouri. I’m not sure when he landed here in Columbia, but I’ve known him for years. He would manage to stay sober for a couple weeks at a time and stay with us at St. Francis House until he fell off the wagon again. I remember giving him a blanket on the street more than once when he was too drunk to stay with us. I remember him coming in to eat at Loaves and Fishes, and I remember his simple thankfulness.

My last conversations with John took place when he was living on the street. We had a couple of brief interactions when I was serving at the soup kitchen or stopping by during day center hours (the day center is in the same location as the soup kitchen). He was trying to stay sober enough to have someplace to come in out of the weather and get something to eat, but every day was a struggle. I touched base with him by accident a couple months before he died. I had driven up Lakeview Ave, but then I realized that I couldn’t make a left turn onto Rangeline. I turned my car into the parking lot of the Motel 7 to turn around, just as John stepped out of one of the rooms. I waved to him, and for some reason, decided to get out of the car to say hello.

One of John’s street friends who “gets a check” had rented a room at the Motel 7 and invited John to stay with him. He was glad to see me and of course, in typical John fashion, apologized for having been drinking. But it was good to see that he was out of the cold weather for a few days. He looked like he had showered. His hair and beard looked like a red lion’s mane around his head and shoulders. When he stayed with us he was clean shaven and his hair was trimmed up and just reached his collar. We talked for a few minutes, and then I said I had to go. He gave me a hug and thanked me for talking to him.  I didn’t know that would be one of the last times I saw him.

John, we hardly knew you in life. The world would like to ignore you in death, but you are not forgotten. John Deak carried the heavy burden of addiction through his life until he finally laid it down for good. He was a pilgrim on life’s road, but his journey has moved beyond where we can see. In the words of Steve Earle, I hope we meet again on some bright highway. John, until I see you, fare thee well.