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...) 

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #29)

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

 By Daniel Canada c.2010 

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

COCONUT Sometimes a name doesn't fit a person to a tee. However, when I say "Coconut," I’m implying that one has said their last parting remarks to their sanity and proceeded to make peace with the darkness of the mental void that follows afterward. Well, "Coconut" hasn't really gone completely off her rockers yet. She's just, how does one say, a little maladjusted when she takes too many hits off her crack pipe. That's right, folks, I said her crack pipe. "Coconut" goes nuts-no pun intended-when she wakes up the next morning after a big night out. Ranting and raving, she looks around to make eye contact with any poor passerby, who might be caught up by her crazy frolicking. 

Look at her once, which isn’t hard to do with all her blustering, and you have an enemy for the day, if not for life. That's of course if you don't just keep on walking. "Coconut" will throw a hissy fit, cursing and hollering at the top of her lungs at the unfortunate chap that dared to look her way. Let’s just say she has a few adjustment issues, which come to the fore after a night of partying.

“Coconut” sets up her camp underneath convenient construction scaffolding, along Thirty-Second Street and Broadway. In the daytime you can witness the remains of her personal effects. There are raggedy and torn blankets and other discarded accessories, along with a confusing amount of debris that comprised her campground the previous night.

On one occasion, when I happened to be walking by her "camp" in the wee hours of the morning, I saw her, plain as day, with her pants and underwear down around her ankles, in a low squat, taking a piss down the sidewalk storm drain. Believe me it was not a pretty sight and is a true measurement of the degree of her Skeksiness.

 

The moral of this story is, look! If you do have a substance abuse situation, like crack and what not, try not to let it get to the point where you have to become like "Coconut." Keep it on the low, and reserve it for the weekends. If your wonderful habits do cause you to lose your home and to land you on the street, you’re shit out of luck, and no one’s going to really give a damn about it or put themselves out to salvage you. At this point in life you’re a grown-ass-adult, and as the saying goes, “if you make your bed hard, you got to lay on it.”

So don't lose the reigns of control over some “get high.”

Better yet: Leave the damned crack alone!

Remember this maxim: If finding a friend for the day, or an enemy for the day, like “Coconut” attempts to do, can be a difficult and lonely preoccupation on Main Street of your hometown, it’s going to be a bitch to pull off in a city as vast as New York.

And yes. I did just make the adage up, off the cuff, myself.

I never claimed to be a sage.

(To be continued...)

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #28)

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

 By Daniel Canada c.2010  

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

SWINGS AT THE FENCES is a gentleman. What else can I say? But he has a peculiar predilection for swinging punches in the air out in public, at an unseen adversary. So, to us unfortunate souls, who are not privy to the goings on of the spirit world, he's "swinging at the fences."

Notwithstanding the fact that he's a Vietnam Vet, who has gone through hell in the service of his country, "Swings at the Fences" is a few French fries shy of a Happy Meal. He probably came home from war as damaged goods.

 

Other than that, “Swings at the Fences” is relatively harmless and when he's not wishing to be confined on the thirteenth floor of the VA Hospital, in a one-size-fits-all jacket, you will see him milling around on the streets talking to his invisible battle buddies. But when he's not visiting the local VA and taking his meds, once more he's back into the fray, swinging away at the air. 

So, if you have mental issues and find yourself homeless, make sure you get yourself squared-away with a good medication management. If your insurance policy ran out or dropped you, you can apply for Public Assistance which will provide you with Medicare or Medicaid, if you qualify. That way you can keep your prescriptions current.  

Otherwise, there's the real possibility you might wind up…swinging at the fences too. 

FREAKS COME OUT AT NIGHT Way back in the days, there was a Rap group called "Whodini," who came out with a hit song, "The Freaks Come out at Night."

Remember that?

Well, I’m probably just succeeded in dating myself. Anyway, guess what? In my travels in the world of the disenfranchised I ran across-actually I use to sleep around him in the former "Hotel"-a Rastafarian dude, who liked to get his drink on. Being that he hailed from the Island of Jamaica, he also liked to "blaze a tree," if you’ll pardon my parlance. For those of you who are not familiar with the jargon, that is smoke a joint of marijuana. 

 

This combination of "get-high" would elevate the poor chap to Biblical proportions. And once he got there, he liked to perch himself upon a folding chair, right in the foyer outside the New York Public Library, and sing aloud his favorite tune, "The Freaks Come out at Night." This he would do with abandon, unencumbered by any modicum of bashfulness; notwithstanding the fact that he could've used a few singing lessons along the way.

Having said this much, there's not much more to say about "Freaks Come Out," other than it would probably be a good idea to get a job, that way he could support his weed habit and the beckoning urge to feed his head. 

Ok, so let me sum this up. If you're homeless and know how to scare up enough money to buy your own "get-high," it's not too far of a stretch of the imagination that you can probably scrap up enough cash to eventually GET THE FUCK OF THE STREETS!

Or maybe I'm just barnstorming.

Nah.

(To be continued...) 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #27)

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

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

SITH LORD is not only one of the most peculiar kind of individual you're going to meet on the streets, but also one of the most comical. The reason he's called "Sith Lord" is because he resembles the character, Sith Lord, from the movie "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace."

Everybody can’t be Denzel Washington or Brad Pitt.

Now, "Sith Lord" carries two laptop computers in his shoulder bag, and spends the entire day on the internet, playing internet games and the like. He rides around on a decent sports bike and works part-time as a bike messenger to pay for his computer gadgetry.

 

He likes to hangout in Starbucks all day, after purchasing only one cup of coffee, and hopes he goes unnoticed by the staff. Sometimes, he gets a little bolder and simply stays all day in Starbucks, without the perfunctory gesture of buying at least one obligatory cup of Joe. This is always to the ire of the managers and employees. Unfortunately, after a while they gather enough gumption to notify him that he's no longer wanted in their establishment. 

 

But this doesn't leave “Sith Lord” daunted!

For there is always the convenient Bryant Park, which happened at the time of writing this memoir to have only one handy power socket to plug his laptops into. Never mind the fact that those pesky park security guards kept coming by and complaining to him about unlawfully stealing the park's electricity. Eventually, and not surprisingly, he is driven away from Bryant Park as well.  

Now, he's really down and out. 

However, it is easy to see that all of this could have been adroitly avoided. All of this sounds even more absurd when you consider that he still has a home, with his mother in Queens, which he periodically disappears to when the going gets too tough on the street.

What we have here, is what I and Hobobob called a "Shelt," a person who has a place provided by another, even though most of the time it's by the State. This type of person is semi-homeless. They have one foot at home, or in a shelter, and the other foot in the street. It is probably more advantageous for him to either make peace with Mother and return to his cozy place of dwelling permanently, or to shake off the baby fat and go hard-core, and out in the street completely. 

 

If you become homeless and dwell in such a twilight condition as “Sith Lord,” then this is what I propose. That’s right! Grab yourself by the seat of your pants, and jump with all fours into the street. At least you won't have to suffer the back and forth meandering of co-existing between two disparate worlds. 

And for Christ's sakes! If you're going to go hardcore and really rough it in the streets, don't burn your bridges by overextended your visit to fast food haunts, like Starbucks, and McDonalds. And have a little couth when spending time in public places, like Bryant Park. It'll go a long ways, and you never know when you're going to need to seek asylum at these locations again.

Enough said.

(To be continued...)

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #26)

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

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

 CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS (Continued)

FRANK AND BEANS is an example of a man who managed to pull himself up by his own bootstraps. The reason I call him "Frank and Beans" is because his name is Frank. That's all. I wish I could provide you with some more clever reason, or profound history associated with his name, but I can’t. So, there it is. 

Anyway, when I first met "Frank and Beans" he was an ex-convict, who found himself homeless. But "Frank and Beans" was determined to make something out of his life. He enrolled into a technical school after getting public assistance, studied computer networking, and actually graduated. He rolled his sleeves up, and went out searching for and landed a decent job in a respectable company. He even got himself a modest apartment, for he and his wife, through section 8.

 

What "Frank and Beans" demonstrates, is that anyone can change their circumstance, regardless of what their life is like, if they put forth their best effort. 

Good luck "Frank and Beans." You’re a true inspiration and I salute you!

 

NINJA is a perfect example of a person who's lost all sense of corporeality. This kind of rodeo clown judges the world by his own selfish set of rules, and attempts to punish the world with the same. "Ninja" is the kind of homeless person that is so full of self-vituperation that he manages to shoot himself in the foot, to spite his sneakers. "Ninja” gets thrown out of almost every soup kitchen he shows up to. Now, this is not a prudent thing, when you consider that one needs to have access to as many soup kitchens as possible, so one doesn't starve to death.

 

But No!

"Ninja" insists on stirring a tempest in a teapot at every soup kitchen and church his dark shadow falls upon. So, in response to this kind of habitual behavior, the homeless have formed cliques to oust him from their eating establishments. Some have even gone as far as making plans to catch him outside unawares, and throw him a good beating. You see where all this is going, don't you? As a result, I see "Ninja" less and less each week. Maybe it's for the better, for us all. Now, the rest of the homeless and “Skeksies” can eat in relative peace, without having to result to clobbering somebody on an empty stomach. 

 

To avoid falling into the trap of becoming a "Ninja," try to be as amicable as possible, with the fellow homeless people you're going to share a meal table. As the saying goes, “You can catch more bees with honey.” 

"Ninja,” may the road rise to meet you.

 

When you fall on your face.

(To be continued...)

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt # 25)

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

   

                                                By Daniel Canada c.2010

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONALITIES OF THE HOMELESS

“Never hold discussions with the monkey when the organ grinder is in the room.”

-Sir Winston Churchill

British politician (1874 - 1965)

　

　

A personality is a behavior that makes up who and what we are. Arrogant people get one label, and humble people get another. This is a truism in life as in the homeless world, as well. I’ve seen pretty much of it all, from the certifiable nut, the outlandish freak, to the downright hapless fool. There exists the whole gamut of individuals out here.

It’s too easy for you to become like one of them, or a melding of two or three of these motley characters, if you don’t keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel, trooper. Here, following, is a category of the people that I have encountered. Some of them you might find hilarious, some you might view to be downright tragic. It definitely served as a warning to me to keep a constant vigil on myself, so I wouldn’t emulate any one of these characters. If you find yourself homeless, you ought to do the same. Because if you don’t snap out of it right quick, you might find yourself traveling down that long, slippery, slide into madness, precious.

SCURVY This kind of nincompoop is living in two diametrically opposed worlds; the world of a working-class citizen and the absurd world of the homeless. Taken from an actual homeless man, "Scurvy" earned his name because of the way he speaks, and the crazy, drunken antics he performs in public while under the influence of alcohol.

You’ll find “Scurvy” singing out loud, and cavorting himself around as a craze, out of control, sailor, ranting and raving in front of the rush-hour crowd at Penn Station. This type of homeless person is an attention seeker, and will go to any lengths to get it. Sometimes he will act up just for someone to simply look his way and to recognize that he exists. Being thrust out of the wheel of life, and into the streets can offer a great challenge to one's self-esteem and mental tenacity. 

The remedy for this kind of melancholy drift into the abyss of insanity is to find a "friend," anyone you can talk to, to bounce yourself and your ideas off. Cavorting with a companion can aide in keeping one’s mental veracity sharp, and help in keeping you grounded in reality. This is a sure way to verify that you don’t go over the deep end, and wind up like "Scurvy."

(To be continued...)

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #24)

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

By Daniel Canada c.2010 

THE BEGGARS (Continued)

Now, after I've finished lambasting the homeless sham artist, I am burdened at last with the overwhelming need to vent a personal vituperation against a small group of the homeless that I've ran into along my travails...I meant travels. These guys and gals are not as insidious as the ones I've taken pain to "out," as the saying goes, to expose for the frauds they are. This next group is simply, how does one say? An eclectic lot among the undomiciled.

  

These are the homeless vegetarians.

HOMELESS VEGETARIANS

Yes. I had to go there. But I'll make it brief and as painless as possible. The reason I had to touch on this topic is that I was astonished to find such a thing actually existed out here.

Here's the scenario. I'm in a church, on a soup line. Everyone steps up to get a hot plate of whatever they're serving. The line suddenly comes to an abrupt halt.  Some homeless person is fussing with one of the volunteer servers over the contents of his plate.

“I said I don't eat meat. I'm a vegetarian!” he complains, as if there was some hidden conspiracy to sneak meat onto his plate.

“Well then, you're going to have to step aside, so we can prepare a special vegetarian plate for you.”

The homeless vegetarian finally steps aside to allow the rest of the waiting, hungry folks to move forward on the line. “And make sure they don't mix any scraps of meat into my food. You know I can't eat any meat!” he sternly warns the patient volunteer server, while waiting on the side of the line.

The server takes a good look at him. “You know all we have is some white rice and string beans. But I can give you an extra helping of that, if you want.”

The homeless vegetarian frowns, as if he's being giving the short stick out of a draw on Gilligan's Island.

What?

Wait a minute! Something's out of place with this entire business here!

This is the streets, and you're in a bloody-excuse the French-church soup kitchen.  Special orders are for five-star restaurants, like Tavern on the Green, buddy.  When you're out here, you have to eat what you're given.

Besides, what's up with the lack of gratitude?

Being on a vegetarian diet is difficult for working-class people to afford. For a homeless person to expect to be served steamy dishes of vegetable delight everyday on a church soup line is all together unreasonable.

The local Hare Krishna temple serves vegetarian diners on Wednesday nights, sunshine.

So be there.

Homeless vegetarians, on your mark...Get set...Go!

(To be continued...) 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #23)

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

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

THE COLLEGE KIDS (Continued)

 

 

 

 

 

Enough said.

All of us has had the occasion to be confronted with the decision to give up a portion of our hard-earned money to the street beggar. And many a sympathetic person has had to wrestle with their consciences, as whether to appropriate a few shekels to the outstretched hands of these most pitiable souls. However, I'm going to peel the veneer away from this type of individual, and expose the truth about the common beggar.

I might have to watch my back on the streets after this.

 

THE BEGGARS

 

After demonstrating how impossible it is for a homeless person to go hungry in any giving city, with all the abundant soup kitchens, courtesy of the selfless churches, synagogues, along with the begrudged run-of-the-mill, government grub establishments, all I have to say about the beggars is it's now obvious they are all full of shit. I like the beggars who post signs requesting money to purchase more beer. They're true to the game and are shooting from the hip. And believe it or not they have regular customers who give them donations anyway.

I reckon fellow drinkers, heading on their merry way to their favorite watering holes after work, understand what it's like to be thirty and need a drink or two, once in a while. As well-wishers, who have a few extra bucks to throw away at their favorite bars, they can afford to drop a couple of lettuce into this type of beggar's cup.

The rest of the hockey-pucks out there, hoisting cardboard signs about being hungry, stranded out of town, and what not, ought to get Tony Awards simply for mastering the art of bullshitting, or MBAs for selling the biggest hoax ever perpetrated upon hard-working Americans.

Next time you see a homeless beggar, give him a ham sandwich or a bagel instead, and see what he does with it.

Be sure to check the nearest garbage can later in the day.

 

(To be continued...)

 

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #22)

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

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

THE COLLEGE KIDS (Continued)

 

 

O.k. So here's how I suppose it went down. After making the formal request to be initiated into Alfred E. Neuman Phi Fraternal House in F. U., they are told to meet up at a certain place and time. They are sternly warned not to reveal this information to anyone else, or they'll be hung upside down by their toenails. 

They show up. A van with dark windows pulls to the curb, and out charges three hooded, overly zealous, pubescent, fraternal brothers or sisters, who grab a halt of them, shove them into the van, make them change their school clothes for a pair of worn-out, homeless, "Skeksy"-looking gear. They tell them that if they want to enjoy the rights and privileges of the fraternity, then they must submit to the harsh ritual of "slumming it" as homeless people, all day for several days, and that they will be promptly picked up by the same van and in the same location at mid-night.

So, there you have it! If you take the time to notice you too will see their kind, squatting around with cardboard boxes, all throughout the Midtown areas. To the average person, all homeless people are the same.

But not to us! 

We have eyes that can truly see.

One night I'm going to drum up the nerve to case these kids out, and I bet you-say a quarter, since that's something I can afford to lose-that at midnight a dark, mysterious van's going to pull up. Several hooded adolescent kids will pour out of the partially opened door, and whisk the other kids away, back to the warmth and safety of the college dorms.

I wonder what happened to the days, when fraternities use to parade their candidates down the street with ropes around their necks, hazing them along the way, like making them pick up cigarette butts from the sidewalk, and what not? 

Ah! The good old days!

If you ain't homeless and on your ass out in the street, stop shamming! It's hard enough getting the average working-class person to comprehend the complexities that brought millions of once productive citizens to their knees, and out in a world sans the comfort of a home. It's tough enough to get others to understand how difficult it is to survive out in this wild concrete jungle, without a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of. 

Don't complicate matters, in the name of a science project, or university sponsored study. On the other hand, if you guys really belong to a college fraternity, I submit that you speak to the Grand Poobah, or whoever's in charge, and suggest going back to the old rope and collecting cigarette butts, hazing ritual. 

That way people can separate the homeless from the student.

 

(To be continued...)