"Dumpster Don" seeks a home
Sandusky Register
06.20.2010
Sandusky's 'Dumpster Don' seeks home as health worsens
By Jason Singer
SANDUSKY
He's looking awfully skinny these days.
The blue-gray golf shirt hangs loosely from his sinewy skin. Orange-brown stains discolor the fabric of his shirt.
His legs look like pencils in his jeans, and he admits he hasn't been eating much.
"I'm not taking care of myself like I should be," says Don Dezanett, better known as "Dumpster Don."
Don's still living in the woods. It's June 1. The hardened snow that lined the path to his plywood shanty among the trees has long since melted. He's erected a green tent behind the shanty.
Instead of white snowflakes fluttering, thick clouds of black mosquitos buzz about, thriving in the humid woods.
He reaches into his tent and snatches a bottle of "Off!" bug repellent. He shakes up the bottle and sprays some onto his arms and neck. Not much comes out.
"I'm going to have to buy more," he says. "These mosquitos will eat you alive."
Don doesn't seem particularly talkative. He's usually engaging and telling jokes. He doesn't appear healthy, physically or emotionally. He says he hasn't seen Smokey, his cat, for several weeks, and it's taking a toll.
Earlier this year, the state placed Don on disability, giving him about $600 per month. He suffers from inflammatory arthritis in his knees, ankles and wrists.
Because it's the first of the month, when Don gets paid, he heads off to the bank on his purple Huffy bicycle.
"I've got to get my funds and buy some groceries," he says. "And some more bug spray. I guess I'm gonna need that."
Declining health
A few weeks earlier, Ruth Wagner, 63, saw a man crossing the street near Perkins and Hayes avenues.
She recognized his picture from the Register. It was "Dumpster Don."
As Don crossed the street, the traffic light turned green. Don still had halfway to go. Someone honked his car horn at him.
"(Expletive) you!" Don said to the person who honked. He mule-kicked the man's car and made an unflattering sexual gesture, witnesses said.
Wagner, who was in her beige Toyota Corolla a few cars back, said she could feel the power of the kick from where she sat.
"He kicked it hard," she said. "Really hard."
Bob McCormick, a local firefighter who also witnessed the incident, worried about Don's health after that morning. He thought Don's temper signaled a man in distress.
"Living in the woods, he's getting older, it can take a toll on your mind," said McCormick, who suffers from post-traumatic stress syndrome and sympathizes with Don. "I'd just like to see him get help, so he doesn't hurt himself or anyone else."
One problem might be alcohol. On a recent morning, Don prepares again to leave the woods on his bike. It's 9 a.m. An open, silver can of Busch beer sits atop the bicycle seat.
"I know it's early," he says. "I don't usually drink this early."
He takes a sip and pours the rest onto the ground. Creamy-white suds bubble up before disappearing into the dirt.
Don says he drinks as many as six beers per day. He says it helps him numb the pain from inflammatory arthritis.
Don's sister, Patricia Below, who lives in Hartford, Ark., says drinking has long plagued Don.
Below says Don was once a great auto mechanic in Ohio and made a good living, but alcohol ruined his career.
"Our daddy was an alcoholic, too," she says.
Below says they once let Don and his two kids, April and Alex, stay with her family in Arkansas. Don spent several years in Arkansas working as an industrial maintenance worker for Tyson Foods.
But Below says he gets mean when he's drunk, and her family couldn't take it anymore.
"I love him," she says. "We all do. But he can be difficult to deal with. He's really smart and really engaging when he's not drinking. But when he's drunk ..."
Don still calls her a few times each month. He'd like to go visit her soon, but still has several court fines to pay off before he can.
"I love her dearly," he says. "She's my only sister."
Asked if it's true he's mean when he's drunk, Don doesn't hesitate.
"Yes," he says. "I know that. I gave up anything harder than beer long ago, because I knew I couldn't handle it. Sometimes I still drink too much. But when that happens, I know I have to come back to the woods and sleep it off, so I don't get in trouble."
Getting out
On a recent morning, Don laces up a pair of brown hiking boots with navy blue shoelaces. He found them in the dumpster behind Nan & Paps on Venice Road.
Although they have a few scuff marks, they look relatively new.
"Nice find, huh?" Don says, flashing a wide grin that's missing some teeth. He seems a little more chipper today than the unusually quiet Don from June 1.
Don sprinkles some cat food into two silver bowls near his tent, and two little kittens scamper toward the food.
They are Smokey's kittens, Don says. He still hasn't seen Smokey, but the kittens turned up a few days ago.
One looks like Smokey, with a gray coat that matches the overcast sky. The other is white with gray spots. Neither exceeds 7 pounds.
"I love 'em," Don says, as the kittens lap up food and water. "This means Smokey must still be alive. I hope she comes back, but either way, I'm going to take care of these little ladies."
Don prepares his bicycle for another trek. He's going to get a money order to pay off court fines for a voluntary intoxication charge from earlier this year.
Don says sometime later this summer, once he's paid off his fines -- which exceed $400 -- he will begin looking for one-bedroom apartments.
Through Crossroads, a local organization dedicated to homelessness issues, he thinks he can find a cheap apartment.
"I'm hoping it's by July or August," he says. "I can't wait to get out of the woods. I think it's about time."