THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK
By Daniel Canada c.2010
PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)
ANIMAL is not human. Thus the obvious name. He is the reason why creationist are having such a darn hard time in schools and courtrooms around the country, convincing the public that such a thing as evolution doesn't exist.
Well, I have news for you scholars on both sides of the fence.
I have solid and irrefutable confirmation that evolution is true. Believe it or not, I've found the most sort after "missing link!" And I’m not being overly unsympathetic either. I’m just a writer, reporting on one of the most outstanding piece of news since the fall of the Berlin Wall. What is more, I’m simply giving an account about one of the most pathetic of creatures known to mankind.
“Animal” has a slack jaw, like the Neanderthal, unkempt hair that hasn't been groomed since the nineteen-fifties. The poor bloke hasn't bathed since running water was fetched from an open well. Forget about the stench of his breath! I'll spare you the grisly details. Even though there are ample opportunities for a homeless person to snatch a change of clothing and to wash up, “Animal” refuses to do so.
Perhaps it's a political statement of protest. The world has witnessed even wilder forms of political protest in the past, like the dousing of gasoline and lighting afire a bunch of Buddhist monks, peacefully sitting in lotus positions on the ground.
That kind of stuff.
What's the most baffling aspect of Animal’s hygienic protest has to be his finger nails. Now, I've seen fashion magazines, where women show off the length of their nails, and I’m sure there's got to be a Guinness World record holder for the longest finger nails. Okay, Animal's finger nails couldn't qualify him for any Guinness world record, but you could see they must not have been cut for at least a decade.
And they're just as dirty and cruddy too!
I’m catching a bad fit of the willies just writing about this. To tell you the truth, I’m going to be in need of much therapy after the completion of this memoir.
When “Animal” appears out of nowhere on the soup lines, all heads turn in utter disbelief towards him, except a few of his good cronies, who must have gotten use to the sight of him. A primitive grovel, which must be his speech, is elicited from his slack-jawed mouth when he speaks. The scary thing about it is that some of the "Skeks" actually understand what he's saying.
Talk about reverse evolution.
How in the world did they reached the point where they can understand him is beyond my powers of comprehension. That ought to get the scientist on both side of the evolution camp at it again.
Charles Darwin is turning in his grave.
The thing is “Animal” doesn't give a hoot in fiery hell what you or I think about him. Life as a "Skek”…Correction! As a “Skelsy” on the street is better than life in the caves of the Alps, I imagine. So I’ll cut him some slack. In reality, “Skelsies” like “Animal” probably started off like you and I-I said probably. He might’ve been thinking that his stint on the streets was going to be a temporary one. Things got as little out of hand and a few plans got twisted.
Nonetheless, the deal is when the shit happens out here, if you don't recover fast enough, it will become permanent, my precious.
So, never lose hope if you find yourself in Skekville. I just made that word up this moment. Of course, there's always the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, but that's a long ways down, and if you're at present living out here, chances are you probably already fell a long ways down. Therefore, I’m not going to rub salt in an already festering wound.
So listen up!
These are your options. Get the heck off the streets at your earliest convenience, by any means necessary, or find yourself standing in a soup line, one day, listening to “Animal” speaking Neanderthal. And then suddenly realize you actually understand what the hell he's saying.
(To be continued...)