Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #32)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

 

COAT AND THE COAT SISTERS It's summer time! It’s August! The heat wave is on with a vengeance, and the temperature's skyrocketed above 100 degrees! And guess what? There's homeless people walking around in full-length, wool, winter coats, some of them two coat's deep. This incredible scene may be mistaken for the filming of a movie with extras, but it's not. 

If you happen to run across this scenario, chances are you've seen “Coat” or “The Coat Sisters,” if not, some other certifiable lunatic of their ilk. It's rather obvious why I gave them such names, but you just got to see this for yourself. During the summer of 2008, at the peak of the season, when it was sweltering hot, I happened to stop by a crowd of tourist and passersby, who were being entertained by one of the many live performers you’ll encounter along the New York City streets.

That's when I spotted "Coat."

By the way, "Coat" is a male. There he was, checking out the scene, with his over-sized, wool, coat partially opened, fanning himself with a magazine! Was he trying to air out his body or what? What puzzled the Be Jesus out of me is why can't he just take his doggone coat off, if he's so damned hot?   

I can only shake my head.

As it turns out, I had a psychologist girlfriend, who was trying to convince me that schizophrenic people reach a point where they can no longer feel changes in temperature. So, they'll walk around in the dead of winter with very little clothing on, or in desert heat with...well, a coat or two wrapped around their bodies. 

Perhaps my psychologist ex-girlfriend was right and I’m just in denial. I just have the dickens of a time wrapping my brain around the theory. Don't know why, maybe because at the time I was homeless and didn't want to wind up being like “Coat?”

Perhaps.

Then there are the “Coat Sisters.” Two older, black women, who are seemingly joined at the hip. They can be readily seen in Bryant Park, every day in fact, sitting down, quietly shooting the breeze together. They’re probably rambling about what used to be the latest hot gossip in their former neighborhood, before they got turned out into the streets.

Like, “Honey child, did you hear who Sadie’s ex-boyfriend was found sleeping in the bed with last summer?” Or they could be discussing stock market quotes and the latest savvy guidelines on which derivatives to purchase.

I’ll never know.

Point of the matter is, they are completely harmless and always mind their own. It's just the abundant coats that get to me. What I'm trying to fathom is how they could just sit there, seemingly as comfortable as two cockroaches in a bowl of cheerios, oblivious to all that oppressive summer heat.

And with two layers of heavy wool coats!

In the middle of August. 

Without complaining!

Yeah. My psychologist ex-girlfriend was right after all, and I am simply in denial.

 
If you've over stayed your welcome in the streets and you begin to lose touch with the changes in climate, that's a good indication that you might be falling into your head. Call it schizophrenia or whatever you want to, you too will be wearing two or three coats very soon. Yep friends, it can get that bad.

So wise up forthwith, and keep a constant vigil on your clothing. Perhaps, one day wearing several coats at a time might become the new Prada, and you’ll be in the vanguard of fashion.

You think?

 

(To be continued...)

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #31)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

 

YODA Before I go any further, I just want to state that I lived a double-life. One half of me was a homeless guy, trying to do his best out here in these mean streets, writing this memoir, and everything. The other half yearned to be a Jedi Master.  Yes, a Jedi. Well O.k... I'll settle for being an apprentice, if there are no more Jedi slots available. I’m glad I finally got that confession out.

Believe it or not, I already met The Master. 

His name is "Yoda."

Of course it isn’t the real Yoda, from the movie “Star Wars.” Remember, this is my memoirs of my time spent on the street. So it has to be a homeless guy, for Pete’s sake. Nevertheless, “Yoda” is a real Jedi that keeps reminding me that no matter how strong I think I am, and no matter how much adversity I endure, I can never withstand what he can. I can’t even hold a candle up to him. I could never make it through all the crap he undergoes, in which life throws at him just for shits and giggles, every dog-gone day.

For starters, the winter of 2007 was just outright brutal, with wind-chill factors dropping the temperature below zero degrees. I still get the chills just thinking about it! Anyway, I was pretty well wrapped-up like an Eskimo when I happened to be briskly walking down Park Avenue and Forty-First Street, on my way to the warmth and safety of Grand Central Terminal. And low and behold! There was "Yoda," clothed in nothing but a mere rag of a thin shirt and a pair of worn-out pants, which were falling half-way down his legs and exposing his bare ass. 

However there he was, lying on the cold pavement atop a vent, braving the kind of freezing weather that sent many to the hospital and claimed four homeless lives that winter. That's why he's the Jedi Master Yoda. Don’t you see? He has supernatural powers and the force is strong with that One. He's been witnessed in the down pouring rain, just the same. No rain, nor snow, nor exhaustive heat' is going drive "Yoda" away. 

"Yoda" doesn't panhandle. I don't think he speaks our-that is the human race-language. In fact, I never heard him speak at all. However, "Yoda" can readily be seen eating a good hot meal and washing it down with a soda, or steamy hot cup of coffee, every day. He's got connections I can't even begin to fathom. 

Let’s just say he’s good like that. 

As I said earlier, I'm just a little-wannabe-Jedi apprentice when compared to the remarkable likeness of "Yoda."

Ah yes! Moral of the story time. The moral of this story is there is no moral of this story. Some people are just better cut out for survival than the rest of us poor humps.

And that's simply the God’s honest truth, chump. 

 

(To be continued...)

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #30)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

 By Daniel Canada c.2010  

 

 CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

STINKY Now, some conditions just plum don’t have to exist. The fact that they do only serves to underscore the apathy, and utter lack of competence on the part of bureaucratic government institutions in their care of the mentally ill. Such is the case with "Stinky." Quite simply, her name is "Stinky" because she stinks from here to high heaven. Trust me, you don’t want to smell her.

 

Of course, she didn't start out this way. When she first was turned out and onto the streets, she parked herself on the side of the New York Public Library, set up a few boxes and just went hardcore. "Stinky" has not moved from that location since the time of my writing this memoir. You know that you've walked past her because you're immediately assailed with a most indescribable odor. Keeping your distance is for your personal protection. Well, "Stinky" hasn't taken a shower in a month of days. She hasn't changed her clothing either, which have turned into virtual rags. 

However, there is hope! 

"Stinky" can be readily seen with a book, reading to her poor heart's content. 

 

She never panhandles, or bothers any passersby, but is always seen eating a fresh plastic container of hot food and drinking an occasional coffee. Ok, so she talks to herself, but wouldn't you if you were "Stinky," and had no one else to dialogue with? The art of being odoriferous leads to being quite alone, as I have warned you about earlier in the memoir. But "Stinky" seems not to mind and is making due the best she can. You know, if you start hearing voices when no one's around, or you start seeing Jesus Christ, or Buddha, for that matter, go seek medical attention. 

No seriously. 

If you don't, there's a good chance you might find yourself sitting in your own cardboard box, alongside "Stinky," reading a paperback novel…upside down. The world can be a cruel place to do a seventy or eighty year stretch and I can only hope that our government could pay a little bit more attention to the medical needs of its citizens, especially those with mental health issues.

 

So, take life one day at a time, and don't get caught out in the rain with your slippers off, Dorothy. 

(To be continued...)