Most of the time we don’t question what is holding our lives together. If it works, it works. Sometimes, though, things fall apart. In the last year I’ve talked with some of the 40,000 unhoused people in the city of Los Angeles, and I’ve found that many were basically getting by until grief knocked them off their feet. I had conversations recently with two men living unhoused on the Westside whose lives were disrupted by the loss of a spouse. Steve and Jeffrey had each been married — to women named Lisa, coincidentally — and each man lost his wife to cancer. Marriage had been a steadying force for them, and without their spouses, Steve and Jeffrey were both thrown into spirals of grief that upended their lives in profound ways. Sometimes slipping into homelessness is a result of events over which we have no direct control, events that set off a cascade in our lives. Remembering this seems crucial as our community tries to address this overwhelming issue. Steve and Jeffrey agreed to share their stories with The Times on condition that their last names not be used. Full versions of the interviews are at latimes.com/opinion. — Robert Karron

My name is Steve, and I’m 63 years old. I’m originally from Chicago, and I graduated from high school in the suburbs. This was in the ’70s, before all the nonsense, when they still believed in education. So it was pretty good. My favorite subject? Auto shop. I can still fix cars — old ones, that is. I could take apart a ’65 Chevy and put it in that building — but I couldn’t touch a new car. They’re computers now. At 18, I came out here to try to be an actor. I was an extra for a while, and I met some good people. Then I met a girl. I got her pregnant. That was the end of my acting career. That and the next one were practice marriages, but then I met Lisa. We were married 30 years. I got lucky with her.

Why did it work? Well, every time Lisa would go to the store, she’d come back with cupcakes for me. It was the way she took care of me. That’s why it worked. I wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to take care of, but she never turned her back on me.

For a while Lisa and I lived in Koreatown, in Section 8 housing. When it wasn’t safe for Lisa anymore, we left. Soon after that we got a motor home. We went all over the country, mainly to Arizona. Sedona is the most beautiful place in the world. Lisa got sick about 10 years ago. Her ashes are buried in Sedona.

I was a drug addict for a long time. Lisa — and a judge — saved my life. In rehab, I realized I’d wasted my whole life. I’d wasted my relationships with my children. I’d wasted everything in the world. I got sober; I’ve been sober for 14 years.

So I’m homeless, fine. I sleep in that car. But I have issues with people who don’t clean up after themselves. See, these people, living in their cars, they work for a living. This guy works at a cafe. That one is a waiter someplace else. It’s not like the nonsense with the guys in tents, on Venice Boulevard. There’s no excuse for that. The police say the people on Venice Boulevard have “rights.” You know who also has rights? People who are paying $3,500 a month to rent houses along Venice Boulevard. They have the right to look out their window and not see a bunch of tents.

I drove a cab for 30 years. It was a great education.

I was working for a cab company when I met Lisa. I was dispatching, and Lisa called for a taxi. I talked to her. I liked her voice. We ended up chitchatting, and we clicked. We were inseparable until the day she died.

She used to volunteer at the senior center here, before the city turned it into offices. I want to turn this place back into a senior center and to name it after Lisa. That’s my goal now.

My name is Jeffrey, and I’m 60 years old. I stay here during the day, under this freeway overpass, because it’s cool, and there’s a breeze. I sleep down the street. No one gives me any trouble because I keep it clean. I’ve been living on the streets for about three years, but I’m close to getting Social Security.

I grew up near Tucson. I came out here for a job that didn’t pan out. Then I started having problems with my hip, then my knee. I’ve been through hip replacement surgery, and I need knee replacement surgery. Also, three years ago I lost my wife to cancer. I’d taken care of her for six years. After she died, I went through a lot of money on things like staying in hotels, and eating well. I was missing her. I was grieving. After that, I realized I needed to get away. So I came here for the job, but it didn’t pan out.

I worked in the music industry — security, protecting the bands from the fans. Styx, Journey, Def Leppard. I did one Shania Twain tour. My dad was a cop, and he made extra money working concerts. When I was old enough, he got me into it.

After the knee surgery, I might manage a bar that my cousin owns, near Tucson. I’m not a drinker, so I’d be perfect for that job. That’d give me something to do where I wouldn’t be running up and down stairs.

How did I meet my wife? I was 22, in New York. I was with my high school friend Pete, and we were walking around lower Manhattan. He was living there, showing me around. I saw this girl, and I said to Pete: “Wow, look at her.” She was wearing a white dress, a bit above her knee. Pete said: “You would never stand a chance.” I walked up to her and talked to her. I told her she had the most beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen — because she did. After that we kept in touch. Eventually, I moved to New York. Anyway, after about a year, I asked Lisa to marry me, and she said yes. Then she said: “By the way, we can move to Arizona.” (She hated shoveling snow.) She became a nurse, and we had four daughters.

The twins are in the Air Force now. They’re overseas, so it’s hard to talk to them. But I talk to the other two, two or three times a week. They sort of know where I am, but they don’t know everything. I don’t want their help. I’ve been in touch with my sister, in Arizona, though. I might move in with her, in October, when I get the Social Security money. It’s getting hard for me out here.

When I get to Arizona, the first place I’m going is the cemetery. It’s not just to pay my respects to Lisa. It’s for my parents, and my grandparents too. I have eight graves to visit.

Robert Karron teaches English at Santa Monica College.