His Name Was Danny

A body found behind a local retail store. Citizens wonder what happened. A local "news man" rushes to the scene. His first priority is "Likes" and "Stars" and exploiting one more tragedy for a few bucks.

Who died? How? Was it someone they knew perhaps or just another addict that went a little too far, right? The comments roll in, some seemingly sincere, others looking for one more conversation starter. I'm sent a screen shot and once again my heart sinks to my toes. I'm not the only one. Loved ones with missing family members or rougue family members, case workers, outreach workers, crisis intervention teams, mental health workers, all hoping and praying that it's not one of theirs. We wait.

Monday morning I texted the officer I work with and ask if he knows who was found Saturday. The text back, "Claude Evans". I got up from where I was sitting, took two steps and doubled over in a pile of my own tears. I couldn't breathe. It felt like that time I was kicked in the stomach by this awful kid in 6th grade. My thoughts were just racing and I didn't want it to be true.

Claude Daniel Evans. He was Danny and he was a friend. So many days I sat on a bucket next to him or this dirty couch he used to sleep on, and just chatted about all the people we knew, about life, about nothing really at all sometimes.

The first encounter with Danny was not pleasant. We were in his camp where many people called home. He was drinking whiskey. The longer we stayed, the angrier he got. He started swearing under his breath, saying we couldn't help and we weren't going to. The next encounter, the same. The third time must have been the charm, because that's the day we made a connection.

My outreach team and I showed up to take pictures of the camp. The owners were clearing the property and wanted to know what would need to be removed before that happened. We explained this to the guys there and to my surprise, Danny hopped up and says, "You want me to go with you? I know these woods like the back of my hand." Hesitatingly, I said "Sure."

We walked, talked, and even laughed. He was completely different that day. Every time I saw him after that, I stopped. He once told me he trusted me because I kept coming back. He said he knew I cared. And he cared about me.

Although, we definitely had moments we would tease each other. I called him Claude sometimes just because I knew he hated it. He would give me a side-eye every time. I would laugh. He acted like he was even more annoyed.

He helped us find people we were looking for and sometimes weren't. He would say, "If you give me a ride, I'll take you to some people that need help." The deal was made, every time.

There were times I would be out by myself and I would stop just to check on him. The alcohol was breaking his body down and I worried. There were times I would cry all the way home and then I couldn't sleep. I wanted him to be okay and I had no control over any of it.

In 2018 he told us he wanted to get help. He was serious. Myself and another outreach worker went to check on him and he was so sick he couldn't get off his couch. He was a good shade of yellowish-green. I pulled out my phone and told him I was calling an ambulance, if that was okay with him. I will never forget the sadness and exhaustion in his face that day.

He spent 9 days in the hospital, a perfect detox. Immediately upon release, I loaded him up, my mom agreed to go with me, and we took him to a rehabilitation program that agreed to take him in Tupelo. In just 5 days, he was in the ICU and they were telling us he wasn't going to make it.

He did make it. He made it 2 more years. I saw him just a few weeks ago. It really hadn't been that long. We talked like no time had passed though, like old friends, like always. We talked about everyone we knew and then we asked if he had seen some people we were looking for. Again he says, "I know right where they are. If you give me a ride, I'll take you there." Before we left that day we asked if he wanted to try again in a housing program. He declined. And the words, "I love you, man." fell out of my mouth without hesitatation. He looked right in my eyes, waved, and that was it. I told him we'd see him soon. Soon has certainly been extended and my heart aches.

I miss my friend. We found out we grew up in the same hometown. We were born in the same hospital. He had the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met. He was rough around the edges, but he is someone that has walked into a group of strangers with me, and I knew, without a doubt, he had my back. He always left us with, "I love y'all."

He wasn't a body found behind a store.

He was a brother, a friend, and someone I will miss every single day. His name was Claude "Danny" Evans and he was only 57 years old.