This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

I've never been homeless for more than 72 hours at a time. This doesn't qualify me as an actual street person, because I always knew that eventually I had someplace to go.

Whenever I did feel homeless, it was my fault. Either my wife had locked me out of the house, or my parents had kicked me out, for behavior they were tired of trying to correct.

There was also that time after high school when I was in the wind because of an arrest warrant for something really petty but that the state remained adamant was worth $150 or me.

I avoid these situations now because I'm old, easily victimized, and I can't sleep on the ground without serious pain meds. I also prefer waking up to the smell of someone else making waffles.

This means there's a huge gulf between myself and homeless people who gather in the downtown area of Salt Lake City. As per Pamela Atkinson's advice, I try not to give them money because it merely enables them.

Note: A staunch advocate for the disadvantaged, Atkinson is No. 4 on my personal "Top Ten Best People in Utah."

But then came the day when I realized that I could no longer ignore the homeless problem because it decided to no longer ignore me.

Several months ago, while skirting Pioneer Park, I heard someone shout, "Kirby!"

When I turned and looked, there were half a dozen rough-looking sorts lounging in a group surrounded by packs and carts.

The scruffiest one started nudging the others. "Hey, you guys. It's Roger Kirby."

The group waved before returning to rolling cigarettes and dozing. The guy who had pointed me out rummaged beneath him and held up a badly wrinkled copy of The Tribune. He brought it over.

"This is you, right?" he asked, pointing at my picture. "You're Roger — oops — Robert Kirby."

I admitted to "Carl" that it was me. Photo or in the flesh, there's no denying that I look like I just woke up in a holding cell.

Carl, who like me apparently reads before going to sleep every night, expressed his appreciation for my column "even if you was a #$%@ cop before."

Except for the part where he told me that he only needed 75 cents more to get to Ogden, that was the extent of our conversation. I gave him a dollar. I can't afford to lose readers.

That was months ago and Carl is still in Pioneer Park. I sometimes see him when I'm driving along 400 West to The Tribune. Maybe he only needs a few more "75 cents."

There are a lot of reasons people are homeless. Drug addiction, mental issues, poor planning and just really bad luck. I get it. Some people actually do need help reclaiming their lives.

But let's not forget those who choose to be homeless or act like they are.

Yeah, there are some who say they prefer a vagabond life free of societal pressures, an existence in which they are beholden to no one.

Which, of course, is a lie. They're beholden to society for the occasional 75-cent handout. If they really wanted to be free from us, they'd head for the wilderness. They don't because trees never dispense money, and squirrels don't crawl into frying pans of their own accord.

The homeless problem around Pioneer Park has gotten worse. It's attracted enough attention that the church my granddaughter attends has decided to take the congregation's youth down there "to minister unto the homeless."

To which I said, "The hell you are." Seventy-five cents is one thing. My granddaughter is something entirely different. She isn't going anywhere near that place without a police escort.

Since the growing number of homeless people down there make me wary, and Pamela Atkinson has admitted on television that even she's sometimes worried about walking among them now, somebody else can minister unto them until it's safer.

Carl, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.