The Coming Cold

by Mike Newall

Sterling is afraid he's going to die.

"I'm not going to make it, not this winter," he said one evening not too long ago, while the weather was still warm. "It's over for me. I'll be dead soon."

Sterling is a man who assists drivers looking for parking on Bainbridge Street between Third and Fifth. These are wide, two-way streets with parking islands. Many South Street visitors park here, so traffic is almost always heavy, and Sterling can almost always be found limping along, waving drivers into open spaces and offering parallel-parking directions. Then he smiles his cracked smile from a respectful distance, and says, "I still got you, Dog" or, "Hi there, Sweetie." He will never turn down compensation for his service. He sleeps in a battered sleeping bag on a wooden bench under a lamplight in Mario Lanza Park, preferring these surroundings to the city's overcrowded shelters.

"The squirrels ain't mess with me none," he said.

Sterling is a tall, painfully thin man with protruding cheekbones and sunken eyes. Most of his teeth are rotted beyond the point of discomfort, and he wears a baseball cap, which looks oversized and boxy on his narrow head. His joints are arthritic and he is badly in need of a hip replacement. He drags his right leg from the pain. He drinks daily.

"I take that from my mother," he said. "Her name was Miss Patricia."

Sterling can be jittery and persistent when his pockets are empty and his throat is dry. But mostly he carries himself like a gentleman, tipping his hat to ladies. He is well-liked by the neighborhood residents, bar-goers and shop owners.

"These people look out for me," said Sterling. "Like the animal doctor over there." He pointed to a veterinarian's office across the street. "He gives me $100 for my birthday and another $100 on Christmas. I'd be dead already if it wasn't for that animal doctor."

Sterling is nearly 52, and after years on the street — maybe 10, maybe 12, he forgets — he now believes he is dying.

"I'm old and tired and stressed out like a big dog," he said.

I thought of Sterling recently, after reading that the city was considering cracking down on public loitering and panhandling, to allay the concerns of some Center City civic associations. Homeless rates are rising and we're in desperate need of more permanent housing, but some still think the answer is to keep moving the homeless around.

The last time I'd seen Sterling, weeks earlier, he was sitting on a stoop rubbing his sore legs when he spotted an old pal, a tough-looking guy heading back from the bars with friends.

"Yo Sterling, you all right?" the guy said.

"I can hardly walk, but ... "

"I'm heading somewhere now," the guy cut him off. "I had to do some time but I'm back living around here now."

The guy's friends kept walking.

"Yo, yo stop ... " the guy called after them.

"Just tell them to slow up before they blow up," Sterling said with a nervous laugh, hoping his friend would slip him some bills. Sterling struggled to lift his legs.

"Sterling, stay here." The guy's friends were turning the corner. "I'll get you later, just stay here ... "

"Look, look," said Sterling, lifting himself up.

"Stay the fuck here," the guy shouted, freezing Sterling.

The guy turned on a smile now.

"Look Sterling, I'm old-school. I've been up and down."

HALF OFF DEPOT

Why live life at full price?

"Yes, you have. It's official," replied Sterling, happy to be back in the guy's good graces.

"I'm still here, though, and so are you. I'll be back, Sterling."

The guy ran after his friends.

A long, quiet hour passed.

"I hate when people jive me," said Sterling, hanging his head. "Man, I'll be dead if I'm out here this winter. Fucking dead."

I went to look for Sterling this past Monday night, the first truly cold night of the season. He was not on the stoop, or at Jim's Steaks or at the all-night speakeasy on Christian Street where the old lady sells beer in paper cups.

"He was around here earlier buying cigarettes," said one Bainbridge Street shop owner.

At midnight, Sterling had yet to return to his bench in Mario Lanza Park. There was no sign of his belongings, but someone had left him a plastic bag with a freshly washed comforter inside. There was a message scrawled on it. It looked like a woman's handwriting.

"God Bless," it read.

This is how Sterling will live or die this winter.

Dispatch is filed from all corners of Philadelphia. E-mail mike.newall@citypaper.net.