I've known Billy for about six years...
He showed up in the cell block I was housed in, and being only several years older than me, we hit it off. Like me, he grew up in New York City with a history of behavioral problems during his early years in public school, such as not always getting along well with his teachers, and getting into several after school fights with his classmates.
But Billy's biggest problem was booze. He was an alcoholic and freely admitted to it. According to him, he started drinking when he was seven or eight years old. His father was a drunkard. His birth mother, what little he remembers of her, suffered a lot of abuse. Then, when Billy was about three, his mother apparently had enough and walked away from her marriage, leaving Billy and her husband behind. He never saw her again and said he has little memory of her.
But not long after his mom left, another woman suddenly appeared. His dad, Billy told me, found someone to take his wife's place. She was a regular at the same bar Billy's father hung out in. She, too, was an alcoholic, and now she became his stepmother, although he never acknowledged her as such.
With his father often in a drunken state, both Billy and his stepmom frequently became the victims of his wrath. For Billy, books became his escape. Despite his poor performance in school, he became an avid reader. Somehow, he managed to finish high school. But like his dad, Billy loved to drink. Like father, like son.
Billy admitted struggling through life, working odd jobs. He never married. But his drinking problem often led to arrests, usually for vagrancy and public intoxication. He also logged some assaults as well. For Billy, short overnight and weekend stints in jail became the norm, with occasional longer stays when he was found guilty of injuring someone in a fight.
Then one day, a highly intoxicated Billy got into an altercation where he ended up pulling out a knife. He stabbed his opponent several times, and Billy was arrested. The result, a sentence of seven and a half to fifteen years. It was his first felony following a lengthy string of misdemeanors.
Now with a felony conviction, it was off to one of New York State's prisons. Hence, my meeting up with Billy. For him, meeting me was a chance encounter. But for me, it was a divine appointment.
I found a friend I could talk to about current events, and who was knowledgeable about other topics too. Billy was also a heart attack survivor, and due to a past injury during one of his drunken brawls, he had to use a cane for support.
But Billy also had a temper. In jest, I nicknamed him "The Angry Irishman." When Billy got angry at someone or something, everyone knew about it. His shouting made it clear that he was pissed. Yet he could be funny, as well. His drinking stories led me to also give him the nickname, "Billy Bottles," a title he quickly became fond of.
Many times I invited Billy to come to the Chapel. And a few times he did. However, it didn't last. He simply
preferred his cell to church. I did give him a Bible, though, and he would read it on occasion. So I settled for this, while the guys in my fellowship kept praying for him.
But now it was time for "Billy Bottles" to leave. His prison sentence was coming to its end. He spent a decade behind the walls. And not having any living relatives nor a permanent address, Billy was going to be paroled to a shelter in New York City. Unable to work, he will be given assistance for food, clothing, and medications to help keep his seventy-five-year-old heart pumping. Otherwise, Billy will be on his own.
I watched as Billy packed his belongings. All he had was a few changes of clothes and some hygiene items. He packed a roll of toilet paper, too. While the last item to go into his travel bag was the Bible I gave him.
"May God be with you, Billy. I'll miss you!"
D.B.
But Billy's biggest problem was booze. He was an alcoholic and freely admitted to it. According to him, he started drinking when he was seven or eight years old. His father was a drunkard. His birth mother, what little he remembers of her, suffered a lot of abuse. Then, when Billy was about three, his mother apparently had enough and walked away from her marriage, leaving Billy and her husband behind. He never saw her again and said he has little memory of her.
But not long after his mom left, another woman suddenly appeared. His dad, Billy told me, found someone to take his wife's place. She was a regular at the same bar Billy's father hung out in. She, too, was an alcoholic, and now she became his stepmother, although he never acknowledged her as such.
With his father often in a drunken state, both Billy and his stepmom frequently became the victims of his wrath. For Billy, books became his escape. Despite his poor performance in school, he became an avid reader. Somehow, he managed to finish high school. But like his dad, Billy loved to drink. Like father, like son.
Billy admitted struggling through life, working odd jobs. He never married. But his drinking problem often led to arrests, usually for vagrancy and public intoxication. He also logged some assaults as well. For Billy, short overnight and weekend stints in jail became the norm, with occasional longer stays when he was found guilty of injuring someone in a fight.
Then one day, a highly intoxicated Billy got into an altercation where he ended up pulling out a knife. He stabbed his opponent several times, and Billy was arrested. The result, a sentence of seven and a half to fifteen years. It was his first felony following a lengthy string of misdemeanors.
Now with a felony conviction, it was off to one of New York State's prisons. Hence, my meeting up with Billy. For him, meeting me was a chance encounter. But for me, it was a divine appointment.
I found a friend I could talk to about current events, and who was knowledgeable about other topics too. Billy was also a heart attack survivor, and due to a past injury during one of his drunken brawls, he had to use a cane for support.
But Billy also had a temper. In jest, I nicknamed him "The Angry Irishman." When Billy got angry at someone or something, everyone knew about it. His shouting made it clear that he was pissed. Yet he could be funny, as well. His drinking stories led me to also give him the nickname, "Billy Bottles," a title he quickly became fond of.
Many times I invited Billy to come to the Chapel. And a few times he did. However, it didn't last. He simply
preferred his cell to church. I did give him a Bible, though, and he would read it on occasion. So I settled for this, while the guys in my fellowship kept praying for him.
But now it was time for "Billy Bottles" to leave. His prison sentence was coming to its end. He spent a decade behind the walls. And not having any living relatives nor a permanent address, Billy was going to be paroled to a shelter in New York City. Unable to work, he will be given assistance for food, clothing, and medications to help keep his seventy-five-year-old heart pumping. Otherwise, Billy will be on his own.
I watched as Billy packed his belongings. All he had was a few changes of clothes and some hygiene items. He packed a roll of toilet paper, too. While the last item to go into his travel bag was the Bible I gave him.
"May God be with you, Billy. I'll miss you!"
D.B.
