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Lost for 12 years, a prodigal father is found

来源：网络发布时间：2009-07-29

　　Loving friends and family embrace Eddie Dotson, who lived on an L.A. sidewalk
　　The e-mails arrived in March, within an hour of one another -- one from New York City, the other from Austin, Texas.
　　"My name is Ericka Dotson. I just received word of your story published in the LA Times about my father. My brother and I have been looking for him for over 12 years. This is the happiest day of my life!"
　　The other was from her brother, Tre:
　　"Eddie Dotson is my father. . . . Thank you very much for speaking so kindly about him; he's a great man!"
　　I had written a column two weeks earlier about Eddie Dotson -- a 67-year-old man living in an elaborate shelter under a freeway overpass near USC.
　　His sidewalk home had no electricity or running water. But he had matching curtains, artwork on the walls and a bowl of fresh fruit on a counter. His creation lent an air of elegance to the gritty street corner.
　　Failed business ventures and a broken marriage had sent him hitchhiking from Austin to Los Angeles in 1990. But his story didn't explain his homeless status. He was an Air Force veteran with a college degree who spoke proudly of his son and daughter, now 34 and 38. He hadn't left Texas, he told me, until "they didn't need me anymore."
　　His daughter's e-mail suggested otherwise: "PLEASE call me as soon as you receive this," Ericka wrote me. "I will book a ticket to LA right away to see him."
　　I printed out the e-mails and showed them to Eddie. His posture softened and eyes grew moist. I dialed Ericka's number and handed him my phone.
　　And when I heard the tremble in his voice, I wondered if the bonds between a father and his children were strong enough to draw him home.
　　Tre overnighted a cellphone for his father. I taught Eddie to use it, then snapped a photo of him and texted it to his son and daughter.
　　I visited him every few days and his children called just as often. But Eddie wasn't ready for them to come out. He planned to host them in his sidewalk shelter. He stepped up his scavenging, adding a desk, a plush chair and another bed.

　　Then a sign went up on a nearby wall. A city maintenance crew was coming to clear "trash and personal belongings" from the sidewalk. Four days later, Eddie's home was dismantled and hauled off.
　　When I arrived, Eddie was chatting amiably with a police officer. All that he had managed to salvage was piled on a rusty shopping cart.
　　I offered to get him a room at a nearby motel. Or take him and his little dog King home to the San Fernando Valley with me. He demurred, and for the first time since we'd met, I felt entitled to chastise him:
　　His daughter had already booked a flight to Los Angeles. "It's time to be accountable to the people who love you," I told him.
　　He promised to meet me later near the Sports Arena. But I was late and couldn't find him. I gave up, got back in my car and sobbed.
　　Ericka and Tre were counting on me to deliver their father. And I had lost him.
　　Then, heading for the freeway, I spotted Eddie. In the shadows under his overpass, he had already started building a new shelter.
　　Ericka began planning their reunion. She desperately wanted her dad back in Austin, but knew better than to count on that happening.
　　The last time he'd come home -- for a high school reunion in 1997 -- he had stayed a week, then returned to Los Angeles and vanished. His family hadn't heard from him since.
　　Tre couldn't leave Austin; he had just started a new job, running a restaurant owned by Carlos Santana. So Ericka asked her dad's best friend to come to Los Angeles with her.
　　Eddie was waiting for them on the sidewalk, shoes shined, shirt pressed and smelling fresh. I walked back to my car to get my camera -- and missed the moment of reconnection. By the time I got back, Eddie was yakking it up with his buddy and Ericka was fussing over his puppy.
　　She had booked a room at the Wilshire Grand Hotel, but presented it casually to her father: "You can stay there with me if you want," she said, "or I'll drop my bags off and come stay here." Eddie agreed to a night in the downtown hotel, and sneaked King in under his jacket.
　　Two days later, on Sunday, Ericka called me. "We're at my dad's place," she said. "Packing."
　　They planned to leave that afternoon for Austin. Eddie had no ID and couldn't fly; the trash crew had pitched his wallet. The train trip would take them 40 hours; no dogs allowed.
　　"I wonder if you could, maybe, keep King for a while?" Ericka asked, her voice straining for a breezy note. An hour later, we were loading their gear into my trunk.
　　In the back seat with King, Eddie was snoring. In the front next to me, Ericka shared her story.
　　Her father had disappeared after her parents divorced and she headed off to Washington, D.C., for college. Until then, she said, "I thought we had the perfect life."