Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I was a freshman at the University of Texas, “the Drag” seemed to be a magical place. A six-block stretch of Guadalupe Street on the western edge of the UT campus, it has long been where one could buy Longhorn paraphernalia, books, food, records or clothing. It has changed since I first set foot on the 40 Acres, and it continues to do so. The shops on the Drag are, by nearly all accounts, more corporate than in times past. Many efforts have been made by the university, by Drag merchants themselves, by the Austin City Council and by private citizens, to make improvements. Most of them have been to no avail. In 1982 or so, Brian Ullom and I cleared a patch of ground and planted some flowers. You can guess how long our little garden lasted.
What has been consistent over the years is the presence of “Drag worms,” also known as “Drag rats.” Such unkind terms have been given to the homeless young people who spend so much of their time on that stretch of concrete between 21st and 27th streets. Whether by choice or circumstance, they are always there. Almost invariably, they want money. I could not count the times I heard “Spare change, man?” I had little patience with these people. I generally ignored them or offered some on-the-spot advice such as “Get a job and you’ll have lots of money. Then you won’t have to bug me.”
One time, I was on the sidewalk opposite to the Drag (adjacent to the campus) when I happened to see a Drag worm approach a student. He reached in his pocket and made a donation. I was so incensed, I crossed the street and spoke to him: “Why did you do that? He’s just going to spend it on cigarettes, beer or drugs. Save your money, young man!”
Do I seem heartless? I hope not. Let me tell you about Shorty, who also went by Pee-Wee. As his names indicate, he was not tall. I knew he had been on the Drag for years, and I paid him no mind. One night, I was on UT’s famous sidewalk when I saw him leaning against a store wall in obvious pain. I asked why he was hurting so badly. It turned out that some of Shorty’s fellow bums had some fun with him the day before, resulting in a broken leg. I told him to wait there because I would be back very soon in my car, which was parked on a nearby street.
The poor guy, I really felt sorry for him. He was a human being like me, no better and no worse, and he needed help. Note that he did not ask; this help was offered freely. I got him into my Volkswagen, and we drove a mile south to Brackenridge Hospital. We went directly to the Emergency Room of Austin’s oldest medical facility, the one with a reputation for handling the indigent.
I took Shorty inside and began making inquiries about how he might get treatment for his leg. A nurse who looked like she had seen it all asked him questions and wrote down the pertinent information. Only then did she turn to me and ask, “And who are you?” I told her that Shorty and I were complete strangers. He needed help, I helped him, and that’s all there was to it. I think I discerned a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. She took Shorty off to have his leg fixed, and I left the hospital. I never saw him again.
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