Curtis showed up Sunday at the Horse Stables at Moore Square (south parking lot). This is where Alan stays now. Curtis is in a wheelchair. Here’s his story.

The youngest of a brood of boys, Curtis was his mom’s favorite and his older brothers resented him for it. Curtis was the good student, the one who stayed out of trouble. He saw how his brothers behaved and would have none of it. After high school, he applied to the Air Force with the intention of becoming a mechanic. The day before he was to catch the bus for basic training, one of his brothers gave him PCP. Curtis’ “trip” left him horrified.

And busted for being high in public. He spent two weeks in jail.

Upon release, instead of going to rehab (as he’d been told would happen), they sent him home. Home, where his brothers were. Home, where the drugs were. Home, where he soon became addicted.

“My brothers wanted to break me and they did,” he said. “I made the choice to take the drugs, but they fed me the idea and kept feeding me what I wanted until the drugs took me down. Here I am, in a wheelchair with cancer and kids who don’t talk to me, and a wife who won’t answer when I call. I have nobody. I didn’t start out to become this. It’s just how I ended up.”

This is Curtis. The guy we roll past when we see someone looking for a handout. This is Curtis, the guy who first approached last Sunday asking if I had anything to eat. Now I know his story. Now he’s one I pray for.

This is Curtis: The Story of Joseph without the happy ending.