Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #39)

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

By Daniel Canada c.2010

CHAPTER THREE PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS(Continued)

SCRUBS is kind of cute, come to think of it. She's not a bad looking Asian chick, except for the fact that she walks around, donning blue, hospital scrub gear, like an emergency room nurse on the loose. Hey! We all got to wear something. When I was homeless I didn't have much say about the type of gear I got to wear, either, you know. I had to sport what I was able to glom from the clothing drives.

The thing with “Scrubs” is she's not homeless. 

Uh oh! You think I made a mistake by including her in my memoir, don't you? I think not. And I can justify my position.

 

See, the deal with “Scrubs” is that she spends the better part of her day hanging out, way pass courtesy time at the local McDonalds on Madison Avenue and Fortieth Street, which happens to be a favorite haunt of the undomiciled. The fact is she's a medical student, working on her medical degree. She's an intellectual of sort, on some kind of sabbatical, working out the kinks in her life. At least that’s what I like to believe.

 

Perhaps “Scrubs” just broke up with her boyfriend and just needs a little time to heal. All the while, she’s keeping up with her studies in biology and organic chemistry, and what have you. You know. The type of things smart students do.

One day I was in MC D's, killing time and there was “Scrubs” with her books, writing her copious, tiny, notes upon a small notebook. Suddenly, “Scrubs” had an epiphany! She shot up from her table, abandoning her notes and paperwork and walked over to me, to tell me how much she loved me!

 

Not really. What happened next was worthy of penning down for prosperity.

She stormed right pass me and let out a loud, primal scream, the kind you use to see Jane do along with Tarzan, in one of those vintage, black and white, jungle movies. It was one of those roars you hear in prehistoric flicks about Neanderthals, who go berserk after just discovering fire for the first time. 

Yeah. I’m sad to say, it was that primeval.

How I figured it is “Scrubs” had some really deep down hurt inside, buried beneath that stoic veneer of fastidiousness and studiousness, which really, really needed to come out.

Go ahead and express yourself, sister!

 

Now, of course, as I pointed out earlier, you're probably wondering why I would include the likes of “Scrubs” in my memoirs in the first place; especially when she's not even homeless. Good question. And it shows the degree in which you’ve been paying close attention. The first answer is because it's my book, and I can goddamn do what the hell I jolly well please. 

Having said that much, the second reason is, even though “Scrubs” has a roof over her blessed head, she's "homeless" in her mind. She spends the better part of her day, like a homeless person, hanging around McDonalds and other public joints, including the Public Library.

 

You can find her on any given day of the week at these locales, scribbling furiously away in her lessons, occasionally rising up to make use of the public restrooms. Most individuals would transfer their work load to the secure confines of their homes. On the contrary, people like “Scrubs” are restless, battling inner demons within their minds and can't find any solace within the walls of their home. Therefore they roam the streets in search of asylum in public places. 

Perhaps family life isn't all that much of a bowl of cherries for people like “Scrubs,” and being outdoors is probably safer.

 

You got family?

Go home. Work that shit out.

If you find your family members, your wife, your husband, or whatever the case may be, too unbearable, move out into your own apartment or SRO. McDonalds and the public libraries or supposed to be for homeless folks, degenerate “Skeksys,” and losers like myself, trying to pass off as ordinary people.

 

You know how things go. Eventually, they're going to catch on to my shenanigans too, and commence hauling my black ass out into the mercy of the climate of the great outdoors.

 

“Scubs,” I love you. So, heed my advice and take life like an aspirin, one day at a time. 

(To be continued...)

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #38)

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

By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

 

 THE FLY. He's chic!

He's fashionably correct! He's cut out straight from the 70's Blaxploitation movies! 

You can see the presence of “The Fly," if you were unfortunate enough to have to hit one of them soup lines in New York City's mid-town areas. I see him all the time and, I tell you, he's one hell of a character.

 

A cerulean French artist tam is placed askance upon his head. He's got Elton John size shades and he walks like Super fly did way back in the days. He's cool, man, and if you can't dig him, then you need to get with the program, because you're obviously the one that's been sleeping in a cave, Daddy O.

 

No, but seriously. “The Fly” is a little bit more than meets the eye. I observed that he seemed to have some kind of mysterious past. Something he must be hiding from the rest of us, because he didn't quite conduct himself like the common, run-of-the-mill homeless and "Skeksys."

But just what could it be?

And then I found out! 

Well, one day I happened to be standing on one of my usual evening soup lines, hiding my face behind the back of my hand from anyone who might’ve passed by and might’ve known me from the by-gone era, when I was gainfully employed and teetering on the precipice of the top of the world.

And there was “The Fly!”

He was doing his usual thing, talking to a few of the cliques he was accustomed to hanging around. All of a sudden, two, impeccably dressed, Wall Street business men came up to him with looks of astonishment pasted on their faces.

 

"Is that really you? I can't believe this. I have all of your albums, man!" The first guy says, then looks over at his friend with unalloyed disbelief.

 

"Yeah, man. I have a collection of your albums too, and have been digging you for a long time," the other one says reverently, all the while gawking at “The Fly” as if he was standing before the presence of Siddhartha Gautama.

 

The two look at each other and then back over to “The Fly.”

 

"Man, what are you doing out here? Is everything alright?" The expressions on their faces are sincere and genuinely confused.

 

"Well, you know...I just fell on some hard times, is all. Got caught out with some habits of mine, but I'll be alright." “The Fly” confesses, trying to make like it ain't all that big of a deal.

A few hushed conversations ensue, the two men reach in their wallets to offer him a couple of bucks that looks like twenty-spots. “The Fly” vehemently refuses the cash, assuring them that he's A-OK and just going through a little phase, and will be back on his feet soon, doing his jazz music thing again. The two fans walk off with respectful salutations.

 

So, that's it. The Fly’s a famous jazz musician! 

 

And apparently he's one of note. I kind of thought he looked familiar. Thought I saw him blowing a horn next to Max Roach, or Coltrane, or something, upon the stage in Avery Fisher Hall in on one of those vintage PBS tributaries to the arts. 

Problem is, I saw “The Fly” about a week or so later and he was looking pretty run down. He'd been "on a mission" with booze and drugs and had the appearance of a man who was truly down and out. He looked as if he was on the ropes and Mike Tyson had caught him with one too many gratuitous shots.

 

“The Fly” never left the streets. At least he was still out there the last time I saw him. Battling the demon of substance abuse can be a Bitch. And not a few talented musicians and artists got caught out on the streets, because they couldn't slay the dragon of "get high" in their life. 

 

If you happened to be pummeled by the "slings and arrows" of outrageous misfortune and the monkey on your back gets to be a bit too much, and starts acting a little out of pocket, a little "get high" can help to alleviate the pressure. However, one has to take great pains to make sure they don't get pulled under by the current of sex, drugs, and, in The Fly's case, Jazz (which, incidentally originally stood for "Just Ass"). I think you know where I’m going with this.

You want to get high, get high.

You want to get your drink on, go ahead and get your drink on.

Nevertheless, save a few shekels for a rainy day, as I've been saying throughout the entire memoir, so you don't wind up like “The Fly.”

If not you might find yourself going from playing Carnegie Hall to playing for a handful of tossed and niggardly coins on the platform of the subway’s Number Six Train.

 

And that would be a low down, dirty, crying, stinking, shame.