Artie used to panhandle over on 15th. He was a cop's son who'd never made good. After a dozen or so trips to the drunk tank, a judge had told him, "Arthur, get a job." But if you knew Artie, you knew that wasn't going to happen. Sober, he was a good conversationalist and an interesting guy. He just drank too much to hold steady work. When he did get a gig, it was usually putting in drywall for a day or two, after which he was paid in cash. Then he'd go on a three-day run and wake up in jail. To break this cycle, he'd developed an ingenious way of weaving his homelessness into an entrepreneurial opportunity. A local ticket scalper had hired Art to sleep out on line for tickets before a big show. As Art explained it, "I sleep outside anyway, I might as well get paid for it." Art would hold the place in line and the scalper would show up when the ticket window opened and swap places. In return, Art got free tickets and a little cash. He was the only homeless guy in town to have seen every major rock act for the past decade from Ozzie to Guns 'n' Roses. Sometimes we'd share a forty and stand around like two dogs chained to the same post. "Man's two greatest killers," he once told me, "are worry and loneliness." I've never been able to prove him wrong. Art was always working an angle. Once I saw him in a wheelchair and thought someone'd broken both his legs. "No man," he said, "I found it." He couldn't have grinned wider if he'd found a pot of gold. He had his cup out and was working the crippled vet scam. Problem was that he'd taken a vodka break and was getting pretty drunk. When a passerby said something he didn't like, Art got up and chased the guy for a block in front of a street full of witnesses. Years later I ran into his brother, Chuckie, working a janitor's gig at the airport. He said Artie had died, speedballing. But I knew better. It was worry and loneliness.