Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #37)

          

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

By Daniel Canada c.2010

(Excerpt #37)

                                                              

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

BUZZARD is a complete conundrum. Ever see a nature show on television, and the camera pans slowly toward a buzzard, in the wild? You see the buzzard, perched precariously upon a tree branch, starring off at nothing, his neck doing that funny buzzard thing every so often. That's “Buzzard!”

O.k., his neck doesn't do that funny buzzard thing, but “Buzzard” sits around, perched on a park bench, starring off into nowhere and nothing. All day long.

All…day…long.

It takes one a long time to master the Zen art of motionlessness and nothingness. This, the art of motionlessness and nothingness, to be sure, is quite an accomplishment, if you consider it. “Buzzard” is a master of the two.

You see what you can accomplish, if you only had the extra time on your hands?

If you frequent the right parks during the day, you can see “Buzzard” practicing his skill, sitting motionlessly and doing nothing at all, starring off into the vastness of the void forever.

I don't know, but perhaps he's had a prefrontal lobotomy already, and there's simply nothing there to work with, or even to bother contemplating. This fickle reasoning would've been the doom of me, if I didn't happen to stumble upon “Buzzard,” one day and catch him mob deep, reading several highly technical books.

This is how it went down.

I needed to get out of the cold one day and perhaps catch up on the latest publications available in the Seventeenth Street Barnes and Nobles. As I arrived upstairs, the busy milling throngs of shoppers parted to reveal the lone figure of “Buzzard.” There he was, sitting quietly at a table, with a scary looking stack of technical books in front of him. “Buzzard” could care a less about the world swarming around him. He was in his secret element.

So, Buzzard's a techy!

Wow!

But, but, wait! There's more!

I also have to confess that I do spend a good deal of time in Starbucks, draining down dangerous levels of caffeine and plotting the takeover of the world, myself. Nevertheless, there I was entering into another Starbucks on Astor Place, in the Lower East-side. And Lo! And behold! There's “Buzzard,” sitting attentively at the table with several electronic gadgets before him.

There were Ipods and android cell phones, Blackberries, tablets and the like. A web of power cords crisscrossed the table in front of him, plugged into the power sockets, provided for customers with laptops or electronic equipment. Of course, once again, “Buzzard” didn't see me. He was busy doing his thing, safely ensconced in electronic heaven.

It was then that I had a terrible epiphany.

“Buzzard” wasn't an idiot after all. To the contrary, he might even be a silent genius. You can never tell what's going on inside the head of a quiet genius. For all I know, “Buzzard” could've been quietly working on the solution to the Grand Unification Theory, the holy grail of theoretical physics, or working on the solution to global warming, re-mapping the entire DNA, or unraveling the Kennedy murders.

How can you tell?

All those motionless hour spent starring off into nowhere, could have been Buzzard's way of falling deep into that brilliant mind of his, reaching far-off inside for the elusive answers to these perplexing, but important questions.

You got M.I.T. brains? Go to M.I.T.

Do something construction with your life, for God's sake! You might be the next Stephen Hawkings, or Gandhi, for all that matters. The world needs more of these types. However, if you have a serious drug problem and just lost your natural mind, after taking that last great hit off the crack pipe, public assistance isn't worth a dam, but they do offer a comprehensive Medicaid program. And guess what? They have competent doctors who can help you along with recovery from severe substance abuse, as well.

If I catch you homeless and out in the streets, sitting idly on a bench or milk crate, starring off into space, you better whip out some electronic equipment and make like you're “Buzzard.”

If not, well, not only are you just wasting your life, but I also will refuse to write a piece about you, in my memoirs.

How's that for size?

(To be continued...)

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #36)

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

By Daniel Canada c.2010

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS(continued)

CHRIS TUCKER is a strange motherfucker. You can hear his high-pitched voice rising over the crowded den of "Skeksies," at the Bowery Mission church almost every dog-gone day. He likes to hang out at this haunt for some reason that's his own. Of course, you can guess the reason I call Chris Tucker, "Chris Tucker" is because he not only looks like the actor, Chris Tucker, but even sounds like him when he's speaking.

Can you believe that?

He's a natural comedian and doesn't even know it. And I’m not going to let him on to the secret either. That way I won't have to lose him to the greedy clutches of the producers and directors of Hollywood.

Yeah right.

“Chris Tucker” likes to walk around with a huge, wooden, hand-carved staff in his hand, like a displaced Moses, looking for the lost tribes of "Skeksies." Perhaps he wants to deliver us to the "Promised Land" of an SRO. I don't even want to try to figure out what's the deal with that damn staff and why he really carries it around.

“Chris Tucker” also likes to keep his afro large, and 70s looking.

The brother likes to keep it real.

During the fall and winter months he could be seen donning a long, full-length, leather coat like Shaft, a recipient of the Coat Drive for the homeless, held every winter throughout New York City. I have to admit, for a homeless guy he does have class.

Sometimes at the Bowery Mission he gets caught up in the holy spirit of his own origin, and started arguing with himself and moralizing out loud about the philosophies of life, and the injustices of society. He always has a slight chip on his shoulders, and easily gives way to venting vituperations at the soup kitchen. 

You see, in the soup kitchen you're stuck, because you’re hungry and have to go there to get some grub. You can't exactly afford to leave, simply because someone next to you suddenly has an epiphany and wants to share it with everyone. 

There's no escape, my friend.

One day I was leaving Starbucks on Astor Place and accidently ran into "Chris Tucker." He was standing at the entrance of the Number Six subway station, and greeting the crowds of commuters with the most boisterous pronouncements of judgment and condemnation heard since Abraham Lincoln castigated the White Southerners for the institution of slavery. Funny thing was he didn't have his usual “Chris Tucker” voice this time around.

Hhhhmmm!

What startled me was that he sounded more like Mr. T. Perhaps his “Chris Tucker” voice had gotten tired, or maybe it was being reserved only for the company of the homeless and “Skeks" at the Bowery Mission church.

I’ll never know.

“Chris Tucker” could probably land a decent gig as a performer, if he ever thought of pursuing it as a career. He could either fill in for the real Chris Tucker on a movie set, if he'd only cut his enormous afro. Somehow I don’t think he’s ever going to pursue an acting career or anything worth writing about, other than what I have already taken the pains to apply my pen to.

So, listen up folks!

If you have enough guts to stand in front of a rush-hour crowd of tired commuters and show your ass, chances are you have enough gonads, or mammary glands, to go out and audition for a big gig on the real stage or big screen. Some people just don't know what they have, and that's a crying shame. Fifteen minutes of fame, or infamy, in front of a rush-hour mob, who more than likely really don't give a hoot in hell what you have to say, is not the path to The Emerald City, Tin Man.

What is more, it is certainly not the road to becoming a well-known and nationally celebrated motivational speaker.

It might be the fastest route to landing you in the psyche ward at Bellevue Hospital.

Or Creedmoor.

Or worst.

(To be continued...)