Then the LORD said to Cain, "Where is your brother Abel?" "I don't know," he replied. "Am I my brother's keeper?" — Genesis 4:9

The square cinder block building is reached after bumping down a muddy, pothole-filled lane. It has three small windows and a door on the front that looks like it has been salvaged from the local landfill. Except for the light green paint applied sloppily to the exterior, the structure looks like any one of a million storage buildings across American. Only it's not. It's a man's home.

Any person knocking on the front door will be greeted, after a few moments, by the occupant offering a warm handshake and genuinely, welcoming smile. Both gestures, however, are a bit marred. The handshake, involuntarily shaky, is connected to a white-haired, slightly stooped, definitely paunched, sallow-cheeked, 65-year-old man. The smile, at one time compelling, is as distracting as a white picket fence that has had a car go through it. What “pickets” are left, are dingy and rotting out. Unabashedly, the man — let's call him Joe — always invites a stranger in.

The first room in the building — about 3 feet by  4 feet — is stacked with cardboard boxes and plastic totes. Judging from the amount of dust, most of the containers haven't been opened for some time. They contain, however, the fading memories and personal belongings of Joe. Down a narrow hallway is a tiny kitchen consisting of a sink and a dubiously functioning refrigerator. To the left is a doorway cordoned off by an old purple curtain hanging from a sagging rod. Inside that door is Joe's bed, bathroom and two cats.

The house inside is about 20 degrees because it is 20 degrees outside. Only the “bedroom” is warmer because it has a small electric heater. It's, also, the only room Joe can afford to heat. He and his cats spend most of their time huddled here — under a blanket together. Joe has a cell phone, paid for by a relative, that he uses to call a couple of old friends and family.

Engage in a conversation with Joe and he'll be the first to admit that he made bad choices in his life. An adolescent product of the late ’60s and early ’70s, he has smoked since he was a teenager. And not just cigarettes. Even at the age of 65 when he can afford it, he still rolls a mean dooby.

He was a dreamer who was always working on his first big million dollar deal. He never held a regular job for long. He had developed no particular skills; except one. When he was younger and had wavy dark hair, an athletic build and the charm of Ben Feldman, he achieved success as a master lothario. Susceptible women had provided his shelter and sustenance most of his adult life. That all ended, though, after his first heart attack.

The only reason Joe lived through the first heart attack and the next two that followed was because, miraculously, each time he was with other people and within blocks of a hospital. But by the time his relatives found him, he was living in his car behind a warehouse and in a very debilitated condition.

Although Joe had several offers for living arrangements, he declined them all. The offers came with too many confinements and restrictions. He tried, unsuccessfully, for a couple of years to get on SSI (disability). Determined and by any and all means available to a flimflam man, Joe made it to 65 and started to receive regular Social Security. Fortuitously and almost simultaneously, he found his current home in Pocatello. Somehow, he manages to live on his $921 per month Social Security check.

Anyone making a casual reflection would assume that Michael Bloomberg, the New York billionaire who just spent $550 million trying to become the Democrat Presidential nominee, and Jeff Bezos, the billionaire founder of Amazon who just spent $165 million on a mansion in California for his girlfriend, had nothing in common with Joe. But they do. They have humanity in common.

And that humanity could have been so strengthened if Bloomberg had only spent, say $300 million, on his vanity tour and Bezos had talked his girlfriend into accepting a smaller, say $80 million, mansion. Then, if they would have used all that surplus money to help thousands of “Joes” across America, so many lives in so many little ways — like a new set of teeth — would have been improved. Indeed, if the two billionaires had been moved to give others help from the kindness of their heart and the sincere charity in their soul, they would have found themselves richer than money and, accidentally, their brothers' keepers.

Larry Burden grew up in Boise and has done business management and financial consulting all over America for the past 35 years. Larry now lives in Downey with his wife of 40 years, Dianna, where they have a small accounting practice.