Vendor Profiles

John Alexander

2011-08-07T22:46:08Z

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

2011-06-02T19:31:18Z

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

2011-05-30T03:15:53Z

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.

Dave Atencio

2011-04-01T18:08:42Z

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.

Larry Blanton

2011-03-08T20:23:09Z

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. •

Dennis Fee

2011-02-01T16:33:13Z

By Gretchen Crowe

We often see the statistics of homeless veterans, and aside from an initial emotional cringe, it’s hard to really grasp what being a homeless vet means day-to-day for these individuals. But by narrowing our focus to one individual, Dennis Fee, we begin to unpeel the multi-faceted impact, especially how the lack of housing and isolation can affect them.

Dennis Fee has been vending the VOICE for six months in Boulder, CO. He represents approximately twenty active vendors in the Boulder metro area, including Longmont. “Being a Vendor and the opportunity to represent the VOICE, because of what it stands for, is a blessing to stand together for the homeless.”

Dennis is originally from White Bear Lake, Minn, not far from St. Paul. Having one older brother, and four younger sisters, his parents, Joe and Evelyn, happily raised their two adopted sons and their biological daughters. Born on December 12, 1954, Dennis was adopted at ten months. During high school, he noticed he wasn’t like other students, but his behaviors still remained a mystery to him until later in his life.

At 22, in the winter of 1977, he enlisted in the Navy, attending boot camp in San Diego, and having a seldom-visited home station of Alameda, Calif. He worked on the USS Wichita as a store keeper and janitor. He visited Japan, Hawaii and many Western seaboard cities, including Vancouver. During his three years in the Navy, Dennis was married for the first time, and after his enlistment, they moved back to Minnesota. In 1981, they parted ways. He worked odd jobs for several years—the worst being a shoe salesman—until September of 1984 when he began a twenty-seven year career in private security. He started by working in a bank lobby in a downtown St. Paul Skyway.

In 1987, he moved to Boulder County, continuing his career in private security, and met his second wife. However, this marriage was taxed and ended shortly thereafter in 1991 by what he called his mysterious behaviors—soon to have a name. For the first time he was diagnosed with OCD that was affecting his daily life. In high school, it manifested as contamination compulsions—widely recognized through movie stars—and these rituals continued. On and off they would affect his employment, depending on their severity. Most of his behaviors have manifested around checking door knobs, water faucets and sometimes light switches. Dennis began to battle depression, because of the “melancholy of knowing what I suffered from.” He tried various medications that never treated the OCD, just the depression. “Having a recent renewed faith in God has helped me immensely,” he said.

Dennis continued to work private security—occasionally changing employers for better money, and met another woman he was with for thirteen years. In July 2009, he lost his job due to his OCD and began the long process of applying for Social Security Disability, which still has not been accepted. The stress of these transitions led to the end of his relationship, and he became homeless in Boulder County—where he had lived and worked for almost three decades.

In his first few days homeless, he went into the Carriage House, Boulder’s amazing day shelter that also serves as a satellite distribution center for the VOICE. He saw a sign on the bulletin board, “Want To Be Your Own Boss?” and came into orientation. Dennis joined the prestigious 300 Club by selling over three-hundred papers in December alone. He wants to continue to develop his clientele and maintain this status in 300 Club. His long term goal is to work to get permanent housing and be in a place to healthily deal with his OCD.

“Some days it feels the whole world is against you, but I know I can survive anywhere now,” Dennis said. “I’ve met some special people in my six months being homeless. And I’ve had two miracles through it—one is my connection to God, and the other is actually positive, knowing better who I am.”•

Brian Augustine

2011-01-14T20:30:42Z

By Gretchen Crowe
On July 8, 1961, two extraordinary happenings occurred in Colorado. The first was that it was snowing in the mountains in July. The second, Lorene Arnoldy gave birth to her fifth child, Brian Augustine, at Denver General Hospital. Brian’s mother raised her four boys and her daughter, and as Brian said, “She raised five hellions; she really did her best.” The family moved all over the state, sometimes hopping between jobs, but often with Lorene as a stay-at-home, single mom.

Brian claims allegiance to Columbine Grade School in Boulder, Shaw Heights Junior High in Westminster and Central High in Aurora, where he finished ninth grade. Brian then began work as a dishwasher at Furr’s. “Funny thing when I left high school, I couldn’t read. I was illiterate,” he said. “Well, my family was dysfunctional; it wasn’t the best environment to learn.” In fact, a lot of Brian’s upbringing was dysfunctional. None of this can be detected from his soft demeanor and sense of awareness, all wrapped into his helpful nature. He has certainly overcome a lot.

Right at his eighteenth birthday, Brian enlisted in the Army, shipping off to Germany after boot camp. “After getting to Germany, I bought a dictionary and a copy of ‘War and Peace,’” he said. “A great read, by the way… I would read until I couldn’t understand a word. Then I would look it up, copy it and the definition down ten times in a notebook, and just keep going that way. It took me six months to get through the first third of the book, and then during the next six months, I finished the rest of it. See, my goal was to read Shakespeare and understand it. And I am proud I can read and understand it now.” He smirked as he said it. In fact, last time he was tested, Brian has a grade sixteen reading level.

While in Germany, Brian had a daughter, Hiki, who still lives in Germany and works as a translator. Brian was discharged for not being able to adapt to military life and moved back to Denver after nearly two years away. He was offered a job as a bouncer and moved up to bartender. He worked the circuit of popular clubs in the 80’s, until one day he quit to enjoy his own time. He worked various jobs at a temp agency, then got a job as a “maid” in Vail. That’s where he found Christianity, which he says has “changed and shaped my life so positively.”

About the same time, Brian went to prison for a couple of years. “I have no doubt that I deserved to be in prison at that time, but that’s where I learned to control my anger. In prison,” he says. When he got out, he went back to temp work until he hurt his back at his home in May 2007. Without being able to work and without workman’s comp, Brian has been trying to get approved for Social Security and other assistance since, which is not an easy undertaking.

Brian became “homeless” in August. It’s a vague term in his case, because August was only the point at which he couldn’t live with his other family, not actually when he lost his own place. Brian also lost his mom on November 1. He has seen a lot of pain this year.

But one positive is that he walked through the doors of the Denver VOICE. As Brian says, “I now know the meaning of my life. My mission is to make someone else’s life better. If we all did it, everyone would live much better lives.” Brian loves it that he gets to greet people everyday while vending—especially the mornings, his favorite time of the day.

Brian also says of the VOICE, “it gives us the opportunity to share. It’s a little community, if someone is hurting, we all come to together to make it better—even the most selfish of us vendors.” Brian has tapped into the immeasurable community of the VOICE Vendor Program. He hopes to someday go back to college and become a counselor. He wants to help ease the pain in this world, and with an ear like his, counseling is an appropriate and admirable goal.

Ken Barber

2010-12-01T18:30:00Z

By Gretchen Crowe

If you visit the corner of 18th and California in the early weekday mornings, you might see a well-worn Broncos coat shielding a kind, thoughtful vendor, Ken Barber. A Denver native born April 30, 1961, Ken grew up in a happy family with two sisters and one brother. Ken was the oldest. His father worked manufacturing carpet cleaning machines, and his mother waitressed a bit, but was primarily a stay-at-home mom. His family moved around Denver and back to Toledo, Ohio, for a short time, but Ken was an average kid, going to Lowell Elementary, Flood Middle School, and then onto Arapahoe High School, where he graduated in 1980.

He played football during his sophomore year, but opted out of all but pick-up games, since he wasn’t played on the field that much. Like most young men, he had a passion for cars and he proudly talked of his first car, a 1965 Mustang 3-speed Coupe that he bought working as a dishwasher in a Mexican food restaurant, La Bolla, along with help from his dad. But Ken’s real passion is bowling. He was on several leagues. “I had a pretty good childhood—it was really easy for me then. I got in trouble a lot, but nothing bad, just like any normal kid.”

In 1982, Ken began working at King Soopers as a grocery clerk, and although he had a few jobs over the years, he remained in retail, aside from a short stint in manufacturing. Between King Soopers and Home Depot, Ken worked hard for fifteen years. He struggled with alcohol during that time, getting three DUI’s. It was a long road, but he talked with candor about his struggles and successes in his ongoing road to recovery. He still visits that road regularly, especially since Ken became homeless for the first time in July 2010.

In 1998, Ken bought his first home, a condo in Highlands Ranch, and it became a family project to help update it. Ken’s parents offered immeasurable help. Ken never married nor had children. “I just, well, I was too shy to talk to women. Still am. I guess I just didn’t want to get rejected. I have never been on a date.” Subsequently, his parents and his sister played much larger roles in Ken’s life, creating that needed safety net. He lived there for five years.

Around 2000, Ken’s safety net began to unravel when his father passed away on Halloween. Ken maintained working, but in 2002, he lost both his mother and his sister in three months. “Everything started going downhill and I got really depressed. It was the darkest time in my life. My bills fell behind and I lost the townhome in 2003.”

But in these dark times, Ken not only can tell the story of foreclosure and isolation, he can tell the story of reinvention. He has continued that struggle to earn a living, and walked into our doors having lost his job at 7/11. “[The Denver VOICE] gives me a little self esteem. It helps me make money, and the people I have met really support what I do. And that makes me feel so good.” Ken would also like to say thank you to vendor Richard Wolfe. Richard moved to Seattle, opening up his corner for Ken to become the steward of 18th and California. •

Steve Szloboda

2010-11-03T16:22:06Z

Profile by Gretchen Crowe

It’s hard to convince a shy, hard-working and self-sufficient person to be interviewed and withstand the spotlight for the vendor profile. But after much convincing and cajoling, Steve Szloboda agreed to share his story with us.

Steve is a Denver native—born and raised here, though his parents emigrated from Hungary shortly before he was born. They fled the violence of the Hungarian Revolution in 1956 in search of peace and a better life for their nine-year-old daughter and soon-to-be-born son. Then, at three months old, Steve’s father was killed by a drunk driver.

Steve talks so lovingly and appreciatively of his mother, Vilma Filkom, who all alone in Littleton worked and raised her children in this foreign country. She worked for years doing custodial work for First National Bank until she began soldering sewing needles, and then ultimately became a professional nurse’s aid, or caregiver. Steve was able to give back and was her caregiver until she passed about a year and a half ago.

Steve attended Horace Middle School and North High School, leaving early to work. Like most youngsters, Steve had a few wild days, but he has always remained sober and anti-alcohol. Steve wears a well-weathered scar on his right eye from another drunk driver hitting his mother’s car when he was five years old; the accident injured the entire family, including his pregnant sister.

After high school, Steve trained and had his own sub-contracting drywall business, which he ran for fifteen years until 1986. “That’s when the economy bottomed out. I’m not sure if it’s as bad now, but I can only imagine,” he says.

Mike Martin

2010-09-01T19:50:26Z

By Gretchen Crowe

We often interview vendors that hail from different cities around the country, but this month we are talking to a Denver native, Mike Martin. Born in August 1950 at Rose Medical, Mike’s father worked for Burlington Northern railroad and his mother worked in a bar. Her mother worked for Jonas Brothers Furs. He was an only child. His mom passed away from uterine cancer in her 30’s when Mike was young.

Mike attended East High School, graduating in 1968, and despite the times, never got into the burgeoning hippie movement. “I didn’t want any part of that at all!,” he said, “I was pretty quiet—no hippies, no drugs—just an average kid, I guess.” Mike is still soft spoken and unassuming, always throwing out, “Thank you dear” when he feels obliged. He is sincerely nice.

When Mike was a kid, he sold the Rocky Mountain News because, as he says, “all my family worked.” Most of Mike’s life has seen the ins and outs of Denver. Although he slyly claims the Minnesota Vikings as his football team, he says he has only traveled outside Denver on trips twice. He and a group that won a sales contest for the Rocky were sent to Anaheim, California for ten days. He said it rained the whole time, but the trip was still fun. He’s also traveled to Salt Lake City with his parents.