I’m a former state prison CO who spent 5 years homeless on the streets in Kensington Philadelphia ask me anything.

Hey Reddit, my name’s Budd, and I’ve got a story that’s a wild ride of survival, loss, and resilience. I spent five years living on the streets of Kensington, Philadelphia, facing unimaginable challenges. It was a place where the streets can swallow you whole, and I was lucky to make it out alive.

Fast forward to today: I’m a recent double below-knee amputee, and life is still a struggle, but I’m taking it one day at a time. My girlfriend and I fought through everything together during those rough years, and we’re still finding our way.

I’ve got stories to share about addiction, street life, the people I met, and how the world treated us. But I also want to talk about what comes after: how you rebuild, recover, and what the future looks like when you’ve gone through it all and still have hope.

If you’re wondering what life was like on the streets, how I survived, or what it’s like adjusting to life after a major life change, ask me anything.

I’m an open book—no question is too big or small. Whether you want to know about addiction, recovery, homelessness, amputee life, or the lessons I’ve learned along the way, I’m here to answer.

Ask away!

I’m thinking of writing a book, this is a standalone story from some stuff I have written.

The Story of Shy

On the block, there was a drug dealer named Shy, and he was one of the rare ones who didn’t let his position in the game change the way he treated people. Yeah, he was in the trade, but he understood the life he was living, and he always tried to be a decent person within that life. He wasn’t like the others who acted superior just because they had more money, more drugs, or more power. He treated us like equals, which, in Kensington, was something you didn’t get a lot of.

Shy was the kind of guy who would buy us food when we were hungry, hand out free samples of drugs, buy clothes if we needed them, or get us well if we were sick. More than once, he’d pull me aside and say, “Yo, Budd, come here,” and I’d take a couple of pictures of him—sometimes by a wall, sometimes with his girl by his car—for his Instagram. In exchange, he’d throw me a few bucks or a bag of drugs. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He didn’t need to be generous, but he was. And that made him stand out.

One night, I was sitting about 40 feet away from him, just chilling next to the wall. We were at this game shop, one of those spots with a big open bay door and a counter behind a wall of bulletproof glass. You could hear the clink of the game machines as people played games of chance, hoping to win some money. I’d seen someone win $2,000 once off a $20 bet, and it always felt like you were just one lucky spin away from something big.

Shy was inside, playing the game, having a good time, when all of a sudden, I hear it: boom, boom, boom! Three shots, fast and loud. I knew immediately what had happened—they’d killed him.

Shy had been selling drugs on someone else’s block, and in the drug trade, there are rules. You don’t step on another dealer’s territory, especially if you’re cutting into their profits. They had warned him before, more than once. But Shy was bold, and he didn’t listen. He did his own thing, no matter the consequences.

The details came out later. The security footage showed everything. The shooter had walked in like he was just another guy, buying a drink and playing on the game system. But all the while, he was watching Shy, sizing him up. After a couple of minutes, he walked over, pulled a gun from his waistband, and aimed it at Shy’s face.

Shy put his hands up in a defensive posture, but it was too late. The gun went off. Boom. Shy went down. The shooter shot him two more times, point-blank in the head, before running out of the store, disappearing into the night.

The whole thing was over in seconds. The shooter was wearing a mask, hooded, and just another anonymous kid in Philly. No one knew who he was, and he was never caught.

The aftermath was chaos. There was blood everywhere—staining the floor, leaking out from under the door. It didn’t go away for months. The concrete stayed stained for almost half a year.

It was a brutal reminder of how unforgiving life is down there. Shy didn’t deserve to die, but that’s the reality of the streets. You follow the rules, or you face the consequences. And for Shy, that meant his life.