Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #35)

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

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

 

EDDIE GRIFFIN’S name actually came about by mistake. I was trying to name him after the lead singer for the Temptations, David Ruffin, but forgot David Ruffin's name, so I named him “Eddie Griffin” instead.

Yeah, that's how way off the mark I was. And you’re probably saying, so what’s this got to do with the price of tea in Tibet?

You’re absolutely right. 

  

The point is I had to come up with a name for this character, who happened to always popped up on any given soup line I frequented. He ain't no way as handsome as the former lead singer of The Temptation, neither can he sing a lick.  It's just that his voice is rough and a bit scraggly, like David Ruffin's.

That's all.

I know I’m stretching it.

 

Look here! I have to give these "Skeks" names, so sometimes I toss a moniker at them that might require a little explanation. Anyway, “Eddie Griffin” loves to diddly-bop around with a faded and not so clean dude-rag on his dome. He kind of has a menacing, bad-assed, look pasted on his face all the time. Perhaps it helped him get through a few tough jail stretches. Other than that “Eddie Griffin” is a complete loser. He's always getting into somebody else's business, with feigned authority, like he's in charge, or someone died and made him boss.

Eddie Griffin's always trying to get over on somebody as well.

The brother's incorrigible.

Sometimes I go for a refreshing while without seeing him, so I figure he might've been doing a quick jail bid for some new violation of his parole.

Whatever.

But for certainty, after a while Eddie Griffin's back like a rash, skipping in front of soup kitchen lines like he's "Skek" royalty, cutting deals with other "Skeksies" for a couple of dollars and generally bullying a few of the timid homeless folks.

 

You see, Eddie Griffin's an older guy. He's about in his late fifties, or so. He ain't no spring chicken, or rooster for that matter. But Eddie Griffin's got to cut his piece of the pie out for himself on the street. And he has. When he comes around all the "Skeks" that are shamming know him right away, and make their way over to him to pay respect. Maybe I need to start learning and give old Eddie his props, before I find out the hard way.

I mean, I would hate for him to take away my sandwich and coffee for not discerning what time it really is.

 

O.k. So I’m going to hurry up and get this part over with, if it's alright with you.  My father always said, if you see a big, bad, mother fucker, there's always another bigger and badder mother fucker than he, who’s got the right antidote for him. Eddie Griffin's an old mother fucker, who doesn't realize his time out in the street is close to being over and done.

It's time to start thinking of a retirement, plan, Eddie, and since you never worked a decent job a day in your life, or have a 401K plan safely tucked away, there ain't no retirement plan out here for you, beside the one six feet under the ground, chump.

 

Moral of the story. If you come out in the street, just because you're trying to pull one over on the world-and fortunately, that doesn't apply to the majority of homeless people-you're going to run into the resilient wall of a rude awakening one day, when you discover that you’re too damn old to extract yourself out of this mess.

 

If you got a hustle, put a few pennies away for the rainy day, partner. 

 

Newsflash!

There are no story book retirement plans out here on the streets. No pension plan or Roth IRAs going to fall into your lap. Open your third-eye and see yourself out of this confusion. Make some kind of plan, like linking up with a decent shelter system-which is hard to find-or get some public assistance (which also is very unreliable), and work your way to landing a SRO or small apartment.

That failing-which wouldn't be surprising-GET A FRIGGIN JOB! Or use your hustle money to procure a roof over your head, no matter how small or modest it might be. That way when it gets cold and the arthritis starts setting in, along with the gout, and the diabetes-you can see where I’m going with this, can’t you?-your tired, old, worn out and rusty, ass won't have to worry, at the last minute, what the hell you're going to do.

 

Hurry “Eddie Griffin!” It's time to gets to stepping.

The hourglass is trickling thin.

(To be continued...)

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #34)

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

By Daniel Canada c.2010

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS

 

ENTREPRENEUR There isn't anything wrong with trying to make a buck or two, when you're out here on your ass. Some homeless people turn to stealing. Those who have a little more ethics simply panhandle. Some hustle, while others turn to more nefarious means to obtain those dead presidents. Entrepreneur’s one of those hustlers who just doesn't quit and never misses a trick, when it comes to trying to make a few greenbacks.

Check this out.

It's the day before Veteran's Day, 2007. And I'm standing on the soup line, listening to the ratings of “Entrepreneur.” He's telling everybody about how much cash he's going to rake in, selling a bunch of miniature hand-held flags in which he obtained for free, at the upcoming parade.

"Don't you all see the dollar signs, in my eyes?" he asked anyone who would listen, as he bats his eyes repeatedly, imitating a cash register ringing up its till.

“Uh…No. I don't get it, dude,” is our reply, as we shuffle along on line.

“Entrepreneur” likes to babble on and on about various money-making schemes, hatched from the nebulous regions of his fertile mind.

No, I’m not hating on the brother!

It's just that sometimes it gets to be a bit much. He just never relinquishes talking! 

As a follow-up on Entrepreneur’s grand design to make a killing at the Veteran's Day Parade; due to the current state of war in Iraq and Afghanistan at the time, the powers-to-be decided to scrap the yearly Veteran's Day Parade, which was usually held before the screaming throngs of tens of thousands of New Yorkers, down Fifth Avenue. Instead, they held little mini-parades, scattered discreetly across the five boroughs. 

For me that was not a problem. I proceeded to do what I normally do on any giving day. Nothing in particular. As for “Entrepreneur,” well, needless to say, the "Skek" was devastated. Not surprisingly, he was the most quiet one on the soup line the next day.

On the downside, sometimes “Entrepreneur” can be seen noiselessly, standing by himself, engaged in a vigorous and unheard conversation in his head. I mean, even though you can see his head moving animatedly as if he was heavily engaged in dialogue, his mouth remains completely shut. He's trying to get some whimsical words out, and to tell us more about those remarkable, money-making, ideas swimming around in his mind. But somehow he can't seem to cut the mustard, and get the words out.

Needless to say, I wasn’t complaining. 

In short, I think he took his meds that day. Whatever medication he's on was too powerful to bother fighting against. Frankly, I don't know if I like him better when he takes his meds or when he's off them. 

The moral of this story is, if you got hot ideas in your head, just do it! Talking to a bunch of homeless person, or “Skeksies," hanging out on a chow line, about it ain’t going to accomplish a goddamned thing.  

Except earn you the reputation of being a bullshit talking, hate to see you walking, mother…

Well, I’m sure you know the rest.

(To be continued...)

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #33)

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

By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

 

 

 

INSPECTOR GADGET Duh duh duh duh duh duh...Well, you know how the rest of the tune goes. Yeah, I’m talking about the tune to the 90’s cartoon "Inspector Gadget." If you'll recall the trench coat Inspector Gadget wore, you'll have a pretty close idea of what the homeless guy I call “Inspector Gadget” looks like. “Inspector Gadget” has developed the particular predilection of storing his personal items in the confines of his trench coat. So much so, that his trench coat is exceedingly bloated to ridiculous proportions. There are pockets protruding out of his sides like mini-shopping bags on all sides. 

It's truly a sight to see, I tell you.

“Inspector Gadget” doesn't like to be around people and crowds too tough. And, unfortunately, the feeling is mutual. Call it agoraphobia or lack of self-esteem, masked in too much bravado, “Inspector Gadget” has it. Somehow he comes off as if he feels he’s above everyone and it all, and brags out loud about how important his father is, that his father is some kind of important diplomat, or something. 

Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Like Brad Pitt in the movie "The Twelve Monkeys?" Huh?

Look, it's hard enough trying to get by, from day-to-day, out here in the concrete jungle. Don't complicate your life, like “Inspector Gadget,” by clasping on needlessly to numerous possessions. Remember, you don't own a goddamn thing out here, save your ass, buddy. So travel lightly, and carry as little as is needed. It's very easy to fall into the snare of stuffing your pockets and carry-along-bags with a bunch of needless accessories, like poor ole "Inspector Gadget."  

And if your father’s a rich and important figure, call him and have him send you a few bucks. No! Believe it or not, the reason I mention this, is because I actually ran into some homeless individuals who come from wealthy families, whose parents have quite a lot of money, in whom they call once and a while to have a few shekels sent to them via Money Gram, and what not.

They had a big fall out with their family and decided to kick it hardcore to the curb and come out here into the tangled wilderness of the streets with the rest of us humps. If you fit this bill, straighten your shit out with your overbearing relatives and get the hell of the street ASAP.

Otherwise, heed this piece of advice: While you're out here, keep a light heart about yourself. Take life one day at a time, like an aspirin.

It'll go a long ways.

 

(To be continued...)