In his mind, he chose homelessness because he was dying. Years of corporate America, wining and dining, seminars and evaluations, left him believing his life was spiraling downward. The harder he worked, the more he neglected his family, the richer his bosses became until, one day, he simply said, “I can’t do this anymore!” and walked out. The next morning, he woke in a panic. How would he pay bills? How would the family eat? He could’ve had his job back—He was sure of it!—but he couldn’t swallow his last modicum of pride. Lazurus oh Lazarus his mother used to sing whenever she couldn’t figure him out. She’d always end the melody with a question like What’s wrong with you, dear Lazarus? Now, the refrain echoed, like a scratched record, in his memory and reignited longing for a mother he could never have again.

Deborah could have it all, he’d said, although he’d meant to say she was his all. The look of rage, lingering upon her face, made him know that an attempt at reconciliation was futile. He loved her far more in his head than his heart, and once he began to despise his previous life, he despised her along with it. He’d tried to separate the two, the life from the love, but the day he quit his job and Deborah didn’t understand, the two entities blurred into one lump of disgust.

The real reason he quit was because he lost everything. Overnight, just like that, the economy bottomed and when he woke, his life’s savings had dwindled to nothing. Every month, hundreds of dollars had been drafted into 401ks and money market accounts, and suddenly his hope of financial security was gone. Dissolved. Vanished. It didn’t matter that others lost everything, too. They weren’t him. They didn’t know what was at stake for a black man who had risked everything, who had trusted America, who had done the right things. Now, he didn’t know what to do. But he knew for sure he wouldn’t do that again. Now he understood why granddaddy had hid cash beneath his mattress. No, he didn’t earn interest, but he didn’t lose anything either.