'Wolf' talks of being homeless, living on the street

His name is Eric Estes, but if you want to find him on the streets of Morganton – which double as his home – you have to ask for Wolf.

Wolf and his constant companion, a beautiful, healthy, blue-gray pit bull named Hollifield (Holly for short), are members of the city’s homeless community.

Wolf is 41 and a Morganton native. He used to own a game shop on Main Street in Marion, but he was late on a payment and lost his lease. Now, he and his dog survive on the streets.

Sitting on the back steps of the History Museum of Burke County, while he eats a meal of spaghetti and salad he picked up at Burke United Christian Ministry’s soup kitchen, Wolf speaks passionately about how the homeless are treated by certain segments of society.

His voice rises sharply as he battles to keep his emotions bridled. He says the walls are closing in on Morganton’s unsheltered residents. No trespassing signs are popping up in what were once safe enclaves for the homeless.

He laments the fact water fountains have been turned off, benches downtown have been removed, and public bathrooms have been locked – responses from the city to acts of vandalism and indecency they ascribe to the homeless.

“They’ve criminalized us just for being here,” Wolf says. “The same places we were six months ago, now it’s a crime just to be there. They’ve subjugated us into third-class citizens. We’ve become untouchables.”

Wolf is surprisingly frank about the demons that have conspired to put him here. He battles mental illness, an addiction to methamphetamine, and, more recently, an opioid addiction that has led him to intravenous drugs.

“I have an incurable mental illness,” he admits. “I go to counseling. I take medication. You’ve got to walk a mile in my shoes, you know what I mean? You spend three days in the rain and cold, and for 10 bucks, you can get away from it all for eight hours.”

Wolf has been shooting drugs for about eight months. It’s an easy way to escape the pain he feels.

“I was unlawfully arrested and falsely accused of a crime, and I spent three months in jail before I was found not guilty, and my dog died,” he says. “I haven’t been able to cope with that. She was the center of my universe. That’s when I started shooting it.”

Make no mistake: Wolf hates where his life has led him and said the same is true for everyone else on the street.

“It’s not fun,” he said. “We’re cold. We stand in line for food. Our clothes are dirty. Some of us don’t bathe for weeks. Some of us can’t put it together to bathe for weeks.”

He wonders why the city won’t work toward making things better for the unsheltered. “Why can’t Morganton be a city that provides the best services for the homeless in the whole country?” Wolf asks. “Why isn’t that something we strive towards?”

He pauses to pat Holly on the head.

“My dog is always a priority for me,” he says. “I take care of her before I take care of myself. I put my dog first, even before drugs. There’s people that help me out, good Samaritans that bring me dog food. She’s never missed a meal.”

Finished with his lunch, Wolf dumps the empty plate into a trashcan. He leaves with a somber reminder: “Your average American is only two missed paychecks from being where we are.”

Marty Queen is the senior reporter at The Paper. He may be reached at 828-445-8595 or marty@thepaper.media.