Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a 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...)

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...) 

 

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...)