Friday, November 5, 2010

The hobo Chronicles

A common misconception is that to become homeless you have to suffer some horrible tragedy; war, mental illness, or financial ruin. That’s not true: it turns out that all it takes is accidentally tipping this month’s rent while trying to pick up the waitress at a hoagie place. In my defense, she was pretty hot, a period and a comma look exactly the same after 2 margaritas, and no I didn’t get her number.

But as they always say, when god closes a door he opens a window. I don’t really know what god opens when he takes your fucking apartment, but I’m hoping it’s nicer than an overpass. I’ve decided to make lemonade (don’t ask what kind) and record my exploits as a recent member of the homeless people so that future generations can…. Learn from it I guess.

Day 1:

Okay, I kinda meant for this to start couple weeks from now when I actually got evicted, or at least after I told my landlord. But none of my douchebag friends will give me a ride home, I guess this “Tony Luke’s Cheese steaks” parking lot is my home now.

But you know what? I’m going to remain annoyingly optimistic about all this. This’ll just help my report. I’m not gonna be the pussy hipster kinda homeless guy that lives in his car and couch surfs. I’m gonna be the all American hobo. Knapsacks tied to sticks, beans eaten out of cans, and a series of secret codes to tell other ho-folks which houses don’t lock their doors at night. I’ve got an overpass to sleep under, a dumpster that is either full of or barely contains food depending on my standards that day, and a hooker that may or may not be alive. I’m feeling good about this.

Day 2:

Okay, being homeless has a bit of a learning curve. And I mean in the sense where the school is really competitive and one of the honors students stabs you in the shoulder while guarding a half eaten ham.

Turns out life isn’t a Norman Rockwell painting, and the hobo code doesn’t actually exist. I guess there’s no honor among people tripping on meth who think that you’re the ghost of their dead grandmother. Who’da thunk it.

On a slightly brighter note, I’m really starting to get used to my new living situation. I shimmied up one of the overpass support beams to escape a pack of surly prostitutes, and found a rich buffet of unsuspecting pigeons, fat, happy, and unsuspecting, like some kind of mystical sky Wisconsin. They were delicious. I’m really starting to like my new place. I stole a dog bed to sleep in, and wrote “stay away” all over the parking lot in some of my knife blood. The bathroom, or lack thereof, was kind of an issue at first, but I solved that eventually. It turns out people are actually pretty okay with you using their cars, if you use a very loose definition of “okay”. Also, the excitement of a car alarm going off actually helps get things moving.

Lets chalk it up: I’ve got shelter, a steady food, a place to shit, and a makeshift security system. It’s what, day two? And I’ve already got a better living situation than most people in New York. Suck it.

Day 4:

Today I declared war on a small fleet of stray cats. For too long, they have encroached on my territory and stolen my women. Emboldened by their fierce leader, who I have named “Snowball”, their attacks have grown increasingly vicious. Also he smelled my anus and reacted poorly when I returned the favor. The time for negotiations has ended. Blood has been drawn (cat blood, though some of mine was in there too) and I the time has come to unleash the cats of war.

I have gathered a military composed of family, co-workers, and people who used to be okay with being referred to as my friends. Their loyalty was bought by a bag of salvaged donuts and a few well placed abductions. Tommorow, we attack their encampment behind the Denny’s on Oregon st. To War!

Day 5:

The attack was a disaster. We suffered massive casualties. Side note: I do not know how to work a Molotov cocktail; Don was totally right about that. God, I’m going to miss the half of him that I didn’t burn off.

But life goes on. Kinda. I have discovered two friends that will remain with me for the rest of my life. The first is a family of raccoons that was attracted by the fish smell emanating from my knife wound. It’s a modest family, but they have adopted me into it almost immediately after I suckled at the mothers’ teat. The father is like the one I never had, his son is like the brother I had but he stopped returning my calls. Their friendship has melted my cold heart and taught me the meaning of love. The second is crack cocaine. I think I like that friend better.

Also Day 5:

Hihowyadoin? I- what? Hey! HEY! That’s not yours Franky! FRANKY! I SWEAR TO- huh? Oh yeah, I ate the raccoons. Why?

Day 6:

Fucking…. Cracks gone. There’s…. none left. Also, Franky took my jeans. I don’t…. I don’t want to do this anymore…… I don’t want to not do crack anymore.

Day 8:

Dan Ludwig! Bouncing back! Technically off drugs! Still homeless! Yeah!

Okay, status update; I had to burn down my hobo cave. Which I guess means I burned down an overpass, bus who’s keeping track. The point is, I’m free! Wind at my back! Testicles blatantly hanging out!

Snowball and his gang had finally moved into my parking lot, forming some sort of biker gang. They’d been getting in my face a little bit, especially after I started moving in on Snowballs woman. So now it’s time to move on. I’m going to wander the streets of Philadelphia! Drink in the culture! This is the city of brotherly love- I shouldn’t be cowering in a overpass; I should be out among the people enjoying the shared human experience. I think I’m gonna swing by the middle school and try to use my rugged hobo charm to get some action.

Day 9:

What did I say? City of brotherly love! At first, yeah I’ll admit it, things weren’t looking so hot. The women (if you squint a little) of the middle school were somewhat off put by my knife would, which had scabbed over and festered into a horrific shoulder vagina, and the school’s health services promptly opened fire on me.

Luckily, in my flight, I encountered a large black man who I can only assume was a doctor because he gave me a fistful of pills. Or not so much a fistful as a clump, or even more accurately, a wad. He was wearing this awesome fuzzy tophat, and had this really sick cane with the handle carved into the shape of a tit. I can only assume that this is how doctors dress when they are also black people. God, that race gets all the fun. He assured me that the pills would help with my wound, and I didn’t question him because he was giving me free pills. He didn’t say what they were called, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that its 3 milligrams of fucking magic.

13 pages of illegible handwriting, most of which seems to be doodles of giraffes and penisis.

Day 15:

All in all, mediocre day. My new friend Otis told me to show people on the subway my penis, but they did not react as favorably as he’d led me to believe. I wouldn’t listen to him, but he is extremely persuasive, as least as far as talking dogs go. Also new development: My grandpas apparently decided to visit Philly. My enthusiasm for his visit somewhat declined when I realized that he now had the face of a clown and insistently masturbated wherever we went. Also, I’m fair certain my grampas been dead for like, seven years. I’m fairly certain he is a Nazi.

Still possessed by the devil by the way. Not sure how many more of these pills I have to take before that crap stops.

Day Infinity:

They say home is where the heart is. Does that count if you stole the heart from a hospital?