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MICHAEL S. WIRTZ / Inquirer Staff Photographer
John Zaharchuk baits his hook to fish in the Schuylkill in East Falls. Now 59, he’s not sure whether he lived on the streets for 10 years or for 15 years.
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Homeless in Philadelphia: First of three parts
'I'm tired of it. I want to go in. Can you please get me into detox?'
Sixty percent of the people living on the streets suffer from drug or alcohol addiction.
John Zaharchuk is a little fuzzy on details.
A lifetime of booze and drugs will do that to you.
He sniffed glue as a kid in reform school. Shot heroin at 18. Smoked crack, before settling into a regimen of malt liquor and vodka.
Now 60, he can’t remember if he lived on the streets for 10 years — or 15?
Whatever.
The only date that matters now is June 26, 2007.
On that night, outreach workers for Project HOME, a nonprofit that works with the homeless, tried yet again to coax him off the street.
“John, do you want to come in?” they asked.
Usually, Zaharchuk would tell them to go away.
He hated shelters. Too big, too dangerous, too rough. He preferred sleeping on a steam grate on Van Pelt near 22d Street.
He liked the hot dog vendor on Market who gave him hot chocolate and a doughnut every morning.
And the young lady at the sandwich shop who left him a wrapped sandwich in the doorway after hours.
And the barber who cut his hair free of charge.
On June 26, Zaharchuk was ready to pass out for the night when, instead, he told the outreach team yes.
“I’m tired of it,” he said. “I want to go in. Can you please get me into detox?”
His health was bad and getting worse. He threw up blood. His nose bled.
The outreach team sent him to Eagleville Hospital in Montgomery County. It was a brutal two weeks. “I was shaking like a dog and throwing up my guts,” he says.
After that, he got a bed at St. Elizabeth’s Recovery House in North Philadelphia, a residence run by Project HOME for formerly homeless men who are dealing with mental illness or addictions.
At St. E’s, Zaharchuk has his own room and is expected to stay sober and work on his recovery. He gets Social Security disability for his hepatitis C and is saving up for an apartment.
Zaharchuk, whose hair is now cut short, knows that alcoholics like him have to want help to be helped. “You can talk to me until you’re blue in the face,” he says, “but if I’m not going in, I’m not going in. I’m stupid that way.”
He knows there are risks if he lapses into his old lifestyle.
As he says, most of his drinking buddies are no longer on the streets.
They’re dead.
A lifetime of booze and drugs will do that to you.
He sniffed glue as a kid in reform school. Shot heroin at 18. Smoked crack, before settling into a regimen of malt liquor and vodka.
Now 60, he can’t remember if he lived on the streets for 10 years — or 15?
Whatever.
The only date that matters now is June 26, 2007.
On that night, outreach workers for Project HOME, a nonprofit that works with the homeless, tried yet again to coax him off the street.
“John, do you want to come in?” they asked.
Usually, Zaharchuk would tell them to go away.
He hated shelters. Too big, too dangerous, too rough. He preferred sleeping on a steam grate on Van Pelt near 22d Street.
He liked the hot dog vendor on Market who gave him hot chocolate and a doughnut every morning.
And the young lady at the sandwich shop who left him a wrapped sandwich in the doorway after hours.
And the barber who cut his hair free of charge.
On June 26, Zaharchuk was ready to pass out for the night when, instead, he told the outreach team yes.
“I’m tired of it,” he said. “I want to go in. Can you please get me into detox?”
His health was bad and getting worse. He threw up blood. His nose bled.
The outreach team sent him to Eagleville Hospital in Montgomery County. It was a brutal two weeks. “I was shaking like a dog and throwing up my guts,” he says.
After that, he got a bed at St. Elizabeth’s Recovery House in North Philadelphia, a residence run by Project HOME for formerly homeless men who are dealing with mental illness or addictions.
At St. E’s, Zaharchuk has his own room and is expected to stay sober and work on his recovery. He gets Social Security disability for his hepatitis C and is saving up for an apartment.
Zaharchuk, whose hair is now cut short, knows that alcoholics like him have to want help to be helped. “You can talk to me until you’re blue in the face,” he says, “but if I’m not going in, I’m not going in. I’m stupid that way.”
He knows there are risks if he lapses into his old lifestyle.
As he says, most of his drinking buddies are no longer on the streets.
They’re dead.
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