John Alexander

Within the past 32 vendor profiles in the Denver VOICE—which is my stint as the biographer for these prodigious individuals—no one has ever been repeated.  However, it’s time to revisit the profile from 33 issues ago (December 2008), Johnny Alexander.  

Signing up in September 2008, Johnny initially took to vending the paper in high numbers, and was highlighted for it. As much as vending was an instant economic tool—that doesn’t capture the true change vending the VOICE afforded him. 

It’s logical he would instantly excel. He was born in Grand Rapids, MI, moved quite a bit, and by the age of seven was living in Los Angeles. His father would pack up his knap-sack with bags of peanuts and he would hop on a bus—all alone for the whole day—travelling all over the metro area selling peanuts.  He didn’t know the bus routes, but even hours away, he would get on the closest bus, tell the driver where he was headed and sit closely.  

At eight, his family moved to Minnesota and peanuts were replaced with shoe shining equipment. Johnny would go into the “white bars” and shine shoes for $0.25. By the age of eighteen, he owned his own pool hall, and his life began to paint a hustler’s tale.  He was sober then, but Capital Hill in Denver would someday change that.

In 1989, after moving a lot, he made it to Cap Hill. A consummate entrepreneur, Johnny sold his artwork (as he still does), but also got into selling drugs. In October, without logic, he stepped into a Colfax motel and began to use his product. Not leaving the room for three days and nights, he was an instant addict.

Johnny suffered with the pangs of addiction, hustling this-and-that, and one day found his money eaten up by his habit.  He ran into his brother, who talked of the VOICE, a legal way to make money. Johnny signed up, thinking he would get the ten free papers, make a little money and leave.

But, it didn’t turn out that way. Johnny went straight to the Auraria Campus and students and professors were instantly intrigued with his welcoming demeanor; it was the beginning of Johnny’s iconic tenure. The police came and tried to shoo him off many times, and by saving business cards and politely standing his ground, it has definitively become “his” spot.  

As he got to know his customers’ names, including students sharing their term papers or personal lives with him, he made money, but “I could find no peace,” he said.  Johnny kept repeating that line—over and over again, each time etching in the reason why this “job” helped an addicted man transform into the leader he is today.  

The money given by these sincere people was still going to drugs, and the paradox of their sincerity and his façade as he accepted their “blessings,” overwhelmed him. For the first time in twenty years he began to rid himself of his drugs. “I could find no peace until I did,” he said.  

Johnny’s life was literally saved by his customers. Those simple hellos, those heartfelt inquiries to his day, propelled him to a healthy life. He has since been lecturing in classes on the stereotypes of homelessness, transforming a seemingly tragic life into one of inspiration. He has lectured for five different professors in over twenty classrooms. He was also highlighted in a 9 News story, an Internet radio show, a documentary film and will soon be auditing classes in public speaking. For nearly a year, he has paid for an apartment using earnings from vending.  

Not all vendors who do well will ultimately succeed. The streets are harsh and unforgiving. But, Johnny’s access to a better life has been side-by-side with the small tether offered by the VOICE.  In a testament to his strength, Johnny was able to grab on and pull himself to a venerable platform—as a leader for students, professors, friends and especially me. 

Thomas Chavez

Text and Photography by Gretchen Crowe

How do you describe someone when clichés don’t even apply, when someone is so unique their narrative lives outside standard interview questions? Well, with Thomas Chavez, we must untie ourselves from the confines of that proverbial box and take our path where he goes. Just like every individual, there is no one quite like Thomas; but in his case, it seems especially so. Since December 1, 2008, Thomas has been a regular fixture at the VOICE, and this is where our storyline begins.

Ask any of the other vendors about Thomas Chavez, and we get a straight answer. “He’s honest.” And as another vendor recalled, “You know, he’s a funny and honest guy, just because he makes us laugh at the obvious, but in such a new way.” Thomas is the type of guy that when it’s really cold, he’ll just keep adding coats. He sees nothing wrong with six coats for warmth, or pumping his two pound weights as he vends, asking his iconic, “Care to make a donation?!” Thomas is straight-forward, aware and very purely himself. He is unique and uncomplicated—such a breath of fresh air in a world of manipulation and spun stories.

Thomas is a Denver native, born on November 22, 1956 at Presbyterian Hospital—“Number One,” as he says. He had one sibling, a sister two years older, Tina Marie Tapoya, who died of pneumonia when Thomas was one-year-old. Tina had red hair and green eyes, which he quixotically said he didn’t know where they came from, but leaving no assumption or emotional hue on the statement. He talks as if he misses her everyday, although the memories must be completely hazy. His parents had no other children, and ultimately divorced when he was nine. His mom, Helen Carmelita DeFouyer-Chavez, worked at local hospitals in housekeeping.

Thomas spoke Spanish as a child, and had to learn English in school, although he says he doesn’t know how to speak Spanish at all now. He very endearingly said he was a mean little kid because he was scared due to being so little in stature. He claimed he changed as he grew up, and said it helped when people were nice to him first. “I love people, but I don’t like it when they’re all jacked-up; it kind of bums me out,” Thomas said of people when they’re mean.

Thomas went through 11th grade at North High School, stating the curriculum wouldn’t absorb between his ears. He immediately went to work for day labor companies and found his one and only love around the same time. At 17, he began to date his love, Maria, and moved in with their family. At 19, he walked into to a bloody room where she had died from 17 bullet wounds—he has never dated again. It sounded like the crime was never solved. “I saw her in red and I didn’t like it,” he said.

He moved back in with his mom and didn’t move out until she died when he was 48. When asked to tell his life story for the vendor profile, Thomas simply said, “I’ve worked day labor and lived with my mom my whole life. I became homeless when she died, and two years ago I started with the VOICE.” To many of my questions, he responded with a simple, “I don’t know.” And so to paint a full picture of this worthy vendor, some interpretations of his unpretentious world were needed.

When asked about his dreams, Thomas answered, “I’m going to be a big time someday, and I’ll be able to walk with pride.” After pulling at how it specifically drilled down, Thomas said he wants to have an apartment and the freedom to go to Blackhawk for occasional visits—a very honorable goal.

He likes vending the VOICE because, “you get to meet people and make a few bucks, and that’s about it. Oh, and it keeps you out of trouble.” But the untold story is Thomas uses vending money to survive. Fridays are his favorite time to vend—because it’s the last day of the week (simple, but honest). 

Brian Dibley

Brian Dibley is simple. His Vendor badge number is simple. It’s #15—that means he’s been around for a long time. His smile is simple; and that’s because it’s honest. This is a true compliment. Like a few people we all know, Brian’s presence slows the world to a manageable place. His conversations keep the subjects grounded and his wit and intelligence shine in an otherwise chaotic world. He’s one of those people who reminds us to appreciate, when we often think we’re lacking.

 
Brian signed up in the vendor program in October 2007, but is only now debuting regularly as a vendor on the 16th Street Mall and Court St. He was born to an Irish Catholic family in Lockport, NY, thirty miles from the Canadian border. He was the eighth of nine children. Brian was born with a heart defect, and was kept indoors to stay “healthy” until the age of ten. “I had a lot of catching up to do! I rode a bike to get healthy!” His father, a career fifth grade school teacher, supported the family until the children got older, when his mom began to work at the local hospital, Lockport Memorial, in house keeping. At age thirteen, Brian became an avid track and field runner specializing in the, “Hop, Skip, Jump.”

In high school, Brian found a little trouble, like so many kids of that age, and left high school early. He began working installing carpeting and flooring, and at eighteen, he left New York for St. Petersburg, Florida, craving warmer weather. Of course there was a girl involved, but again, with kids that age, it’s nearly always fleeting. Brian stayed a year, working the whole time, and at 19, he returned to New York. He got a job in the same hospital with his mom. His brother Dave also worked in that department and Brian took his position when Dave became the manager.

At age 20, Brian joined the Air Force. He was a specialist in air crew life support systems, building and maintaining all the pilot safety mechanisms on a plane: parachutes, helmets, oxygen masks, etc. When asked if his work ever helped save a pilot, he smiled and said, “thank goodness, none of them ever had to try them! Those were some really good people I worked with!” He was stationed in Upstate New York, and then signed on for an extended service to be served in Okinawa, Japan. He was able to see all of the Orient, claiming Korea was his favorite because of local food.

When he returned, he moved to Denver to be close to his sister, Karen. For the first few years, he worked in construction, delivering materials. He then worked as a painter for three years, and followed that with a job at an upholstery company. They trained him from the bottom up in every aspect. Becoming a master, he worked there for fourteen years until 2006 when he had a seizure and possible heart attack. He could no longer deliver or work some of the machinery safely, and he was forced to change work.

He went back to day labor, just trying to keep above water. It was scary. “Some days, I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it or not,” he said. Working with two temp agencies, Brian plowed through until 2007 when he went into full heart failure. He was hospitalized for over a month and he began the process of applying for disability. In 2008 he received aid and a pace maker, but most importantly, he got back together after a short break with his love, Manuela Shaw.

You might know Manuela from 16th Street and Tremont; she’s Vendor #12. They began dating in 2000—a storyline we can’t leave out! Introduced by Bruce Wright, Vendor #1 and VOICE Board Member, Brian has found his love. Through working at the VOICE together and saving their money, they’re working on getting married. Brian’s goals include getting into the 300 Club and furthering his life with Manuela. “The VOICE gives some people who can’t go out and do other jobs a way to make money. It gives them, and me, a sense of purpose,” he said. And Brian’s purpose is Manuela. •

Dave Atencio

Text & Photograph by Gretchen Crowe

We all know the phrase that we’re all about a month or two away from being homeless, but how many of us know someone where that has become a reality?

Dave Atencio knows this concept very well. “I never thought it could ever happen to me, but it did,” he says. For a quiet man who never expected this path, he has become quite the icon and public face of homelessness. He has been interviewed by 9 News twice, both on dealing with the extreme cold in February and on his experience as a vendor for the Denver VOICE in an upcoming story. Ironically, he never uses the word, “homeless,” in his pitch as he vends the paper.

Dave, a Denver native, was laid off in August and became homeless at the end of September. He has been staying at the Rescue Mission since. When asked if he had ever had to sleep outside, he said he was thankful that he hadn’t. Every morning he gets in the lottery for a bed, and his luck has prevailed. Dave is currently looking for full-time employment, and looks forward to reclaiming his previous life, working and living in his own place. He vends six days per week at 16th and California from around 7:30 A.M. to 3:30 P.M. “I don’t care what anybody says, vending the VOICE is hard work,” he says “I’m out doing, and I just meet fantastic people.”

He was raised by his beloved mother, Vina Atencio, who cleaned houses in (what he remembers as) Wash Park for a living. His father passed away from an auto accident when Dave was a toddler; Dave was an only child. He attended Swansea Elementary, right by the Purina factory off Highway 70. He got his GED at the beginning of his junior year at North High School, and left because he was eager to begin working. He joined the Marines and was trained as a tunnel rat; however, the Vietnam war had ended and he served his four years in San Diego. “I was a Hollywood Marine. People always ask me about the military, but I don’t like to say much about it. I’m just Dave,” he says.

In fact, Dave’s work history reads like a perfect resume. When Dave returned to Denver, he was a “suit” and worked downtown at United Bank Servicing, a company that processed checks. He worked for ten years, consistently being promoted. During that time Dave had started a family. When Norwest bought the company, he was one of the many layoffs. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for him to get another job; he found a position at Dataplex as the microfilm darkroom processor. Dave stayed in that position for nine-and-a-half years, and laughed as he recalled one funny day at work. His shirt had gotten caught in the processor and pulled him tight into it, the alarms and lights began to go off and his fellow employees rushed in to cut him free. He wasn’t hurt, but it served as a good laugh.

When Dave left Dataplex, he temped for a bit, and then began working at the front desk at the Royal Host Motel at Ogden and Colfax. It seemed an uneventful job—aside from the daily Colfax shenanigans—and he worked there for five years, until it burned down. Dave was very quick to say that no one was hurt. After the hotel shutdown, Dave ran the maintenance and grounds keeping at an apartment building in Englewood. Dave stayed there until August of 2010, when he was laid off and was unable to find another job in time to avoid losing his home, bringing us to now.

“The VOICE has put me in a great situation. I was able to save money and give something during the holiday to the kids,” Dave said, “I would really like a full-time position as a groundskeeper or maintenance-man again. I don’t want to have to ask, ‘now what do I do?’ anymore. All I can say is thank you to the VOICE. It’s been great to me. It’s a job, and I get to smile, always greet people and be courteous, just like my mom…she was strict and hard-working, but always smiling.” •

Larry Blanton

By Gretchen Crowe

Larry Blanton is using his feet to get himself healthy. Sounds fairly straight-forward, but in Larry’s story, it’s multi-surfaced.

Larry was born the oldest of four children in Orange City, Calif. on August 1, 1965. He has always known mobility issues and has always conquered them. He was born with an inverted pelvis, and after the doctors broke the pelvic bones, he was put into polio casts around his legs until around age four. He doesn’t recall too many specific memories from the casts, but he distinctly remembers getting them off. “I just kept running around like crazy. My mom says she hasn’t even caught me since.”

Again, using his feet, Larry transcended any hardships and in high school was MVP in baseball and basketball; he excelled academically as well, and he was second in his class. After graduating high school in 1984, he joined the National Guard and began managing restaurants. He moved around restaurants until his son was born in 1989, and he was a shift manager at a casino in Laughlin, Nevada. One month before his son’s first birthday, the boy’s mother disappeared, leaving Larry a single parent for four years.

Keeping steady work was difficult raising a young child, but when the mother contacted Larry and let him know she was in Denver, Larry and his son soon moved. He began low-level management jobs in warehouses, organizing fork-lift crews, inventory control, and continued to raise his son, but bringing in his mom to be a part of his life.

Around four years ago Larry had his last warehouse job in Norcross, Georgia working for the BMW plant there. He was in a traumatic car accident that again was the catalyst for future mobility problems. Despite setbacks, he also completed his Associate’s degree class work for both Psychology and Business Administration. As soon as he pays his remaining owed fees, around $1000, his diplomas will be granted.

He moved back to Las Vegas, Nevada where his mobility problems began to resurface, but without diagnosis his doctors in Nevada said he would be fine in about a year. Not surprisingly, his issues didn’t clear up. After seven months managing a law firm’s call center, Larry was laid off.

He tried for employment in Las Vegas, but he could come by nothing. To be homeless in Vegas, it’s “too wild, like a zoo,” he said. To stay safe, Larry would go out to the suburbs, find a group of foreclosed homes and break in to stay in the middle one. That way, he wouldn’t be seen or heard. “I never left a trace in case I had to come back.” During that time, he saved his money to get a Greyhound ticket back to Denver.

When he arrived in Denver, he stayed at the Samaritan House shelter. At first, he applied for jobs, interviewing on average three times per week. He walked into the Denver VOICE’s Vendor office on September 9, 2010. He thought he would use the VOICE simply to make bus fair to get to job interviews, possibly even getting a bus pass.

As he vended, standing at 18th Street and Champa, his legs were in so much pain that he went to the Stout Street Clinic at Saint Francis Center and was told he needed both knees replaced, alongside having a broken vertebrae. This came three days after starting the VOICE. It was the first he had heard of these diagnoses, and the VOICE subsequently became much more important in his daily role, seeing that interviewing for jobs was futile while waiting for such an expensive and employer-unfriendly surgery. Larry currently believes he is around six to seven months out from his surgery.

“Without the VOICE, I don’t get better. I don’t make my medical co-pay’s. It’s saving me from a life of pain. It’s saving me from a wheelchair. It’s saving me from a life of disability. And it’s saving me from falling further down, and for me, the VOICE is a step up.”

Everyday, you’ll see Larry at 18th and Champa, standing on his feet, something that so painfully affects him. But, in the long run, it will help shed those figurative polio casts again, and let him run around like crazy. •