Mad Dog had a drinking problem, but this was during a time in the late 1970s when society was more forgiving of self-abuse.

I met Steve Turner on Cape Cod. I was a member of a traveling tribe working the resorts of Colorado in the winter and the East/West beaches for the summer and fall seasons. 

His nickname, Mad Dog, was well-earned. He had long, scraggily hair, a Rasputin-like beard and canine teeth. We both worked at a large resort where he was a prep cook and I was waiter. He hid his booze in a steak sauce bottle and after a long night would offer me a swig with the words, “Go forward Biffy, never go straight.”

Even at that hedonistic time in my life I knew Mad Dog had issues. But I didn’t move him into my house to save him. I did so to punish Keith, my best friend and roommate. There was a window of opportunity when it came to securing rent money from Keith. That window was between the time he cashed his paycheck and the time he spent all his money. Sometimes the window was a few days, sometimes a few hours. Invariably, I would have to pay all the bills and collect a few bucks at a time.

Mad Dog lived in his car, and it was early fall and he was looking for warmer accommodations. My reasoning was being owed money by two folks, I was twice as likely to collect. I told Mad Dog he could sleep with Keith.

If our new lodger’s appearance was odd, his sleeping posture bordered on bizarre. He had asthma, causing him to wheeze, and he slept sitting up and with his eyes slightly open. Sleeping upright helped him breathe, and the open eyes simply added to the package. 

Keith had left for a long weekend without leaving money for rent. When the Dog offered me cash for a month’s lodging, I jumped at the bird in the hand. 

Since there was an extra bed in Keith’s room, and him not being around to protest, I told our new roomie to make himself comfortable. 

Keith returned two days later in the middle of the night. He shook me awake.

“What is that thing in my room? he asked. 
“That’s the Mad Dog,” I answered simply. “He had money.”
“Have you seen how he sleeps?” asked Keith.
“No,” was my response. My friend persisted. “Would you like to?”
“If I say no, will you let me go back to sleep?” I asked hopefully.
 “No.”

I got up and walked to Keith’s room where, sitting up in bed with his back against the headboard, was Mad Dog. His eyes were half-open, with his pupils rolled back so only the whites showed. He issued a slight gurgle on his inhale coupled with a high-pitched, wheeze on his exhale. I had to admit, at first glance, it was absolutely frightening. I was glad he wasn’t sleeping with me. “Why is he in my bedroom?” My best friend inquired. “We only have month left on our lease and like I said, he had money.”

A compromise was reached. Keith would sleep with me that night and the next day we would relocate the Mad Dog to a recliner in the den. When I asked if he would mind using our parlor as his bedroom, he acted like we were doing him a favor. 

Since we had no TV, watching Mad Dog sleep became our occasional entertainment. We would return home after working late to find a wheezing, cadaver-like apparition sitting in our den. It was better than watching “The Twilight Zone.” The Mad Dog could sleep through anything. Occasionally Keith would hang paper clips from his beard like Christmas ornaments.

Several years ago, when they told me the Mad Dog had died, I was not surprised. Almost all of my friends of that era who did not “get healthy” got old fast. The first information I received was sketchy. Keith had heard it from someone who had heard it from someone else. Then a few months later, a mutual friend called with the news — the Mad Dog died of a heart attack, a wealthy man. It turned out that Steve had cleaned up, got married, had kids and sold real estate on Cape Cod. Supposedly the change was dramatic — a burnout hippie had become a workaholic success story. Prescription drugs and sobriety had all but eliminated asthma, but work and stress created weight and heart problems. From what I could gather, Steve had essentially worked himself to death.

It seems that Mad Dog finally overcame his demons. Unfortunately, Steve picked up some new bad habits that killed them both. Rest in peace, Dog. Go forward, never go straight.