THE HOBO
HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK
By Daniel Canada c.2010
CHAPTER
THREE
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!
Gosh!
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.
Shit happens.
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.
Uuuughah!
(To be continued...)
