No one had to tell me what they were waiting for:
Me!
So I handed over my recycle voucher to pay for my chicken and bread, got the change (which was almost $15), asked the checker if I could go back through the store to get some napkins at the deli (she said, “Sure”), walked around until I saw an EXIT sign over a door by the meat department, pushed through that, and made a beeline past a bunch of crates and boxes to an open roll-up door.
I looked left and right before stepping outside, then got away from there as quick as I could. I took backstreets and kept a sharp eye out for homeless guys trailing me. The aroma of roasted chicken was driving me crazy, but I didn’t stop for anything until I was safely home.
And now that I’ve been here awhile and have eaten a scrumptious meal of chicken and bread, I’m worried about a lot of things: Are those creeps at the recycle center going to tell that Hog guy about me? (Of course they are. That way he’ll stop shaking them down.) Will all the homeless guys in town be on the lookout for me now? What if they set up some hobo network to find me? (Okay, that sounds really far-fetched. But these guys seemed like a pack of rotten-toothed hyenas, and I’m feeling really nervous.)
I’m also feeling kind of confused. “Conflicted,” if you want to psychobabble. Here I’ve snagged some homeless guy’s sleeping bag, I’m using his mat, eating his food, cashing in his cans…. He’s homeless. How low can you go?
Right now I’m thinking I should put it all back where I found it.
But what kind of guy is named Hog? And the recycle guy said he’d been in jail like it was no big deal. Like it happened a lot.
So if this Hog guy’s a criminal, he probably stole the sleeping bag and stuff from someone else, right? Why would I return it to him when it wasn’t really his in the first place?
Am I rationalizing?
Is this like the swimsuit?
Like my mother stealing lipstick?
Or does this qualify as survival?
Sunday, October 10th
Maybe I am rationalizing, but I can’t seem to bring myself to put the stuff back. I love this sleeping bag.
But I keep worrying about what will happen if Hog catches me.
What then?
I hate feeling this paranoid. I can’t enjoy anything. There’s no school today, kids are everywhere, there’s an amazing arts and crafts fair down by the beach…it’s a perfect day to just cruise around without having to worry about cops questioning me. But with this stupid Hog problem, I’m constantly looking over my shoulder.
I hate living like this. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!
Maybe I should return Hog’s stuff.
Monday, October 11th
Took a shower in that bathroom near the beach (used the hand dryer as a hair dryer—aah!), scored an amazing submarine sandwich (and paid for a quart of milk), and saw Hog.
I’m sure it was him. Long salt-and-cinnamon hair and beard. Ruddy, glowery face. Beefy body. Grimy from head to toe. He was riding a typical homeless-guy bike but with chopper-style handlebars going out to an extended front wheel. He had two black half-full Hefty sacks strapped over the back fender like saddlebags, and a pit bull–rottweiler mix on a rope leash running alongside.
I’m not sure if he got his name from his size, his filth, or his bike, but whichever, I was pretty sure it was him, and then I watched him paw through a trash can and demolish aluminum cans and knew it was him. Twist, crunch! Twist, crunch! Bare-handed. Brutal. Fast.
I’m glad I saw him because it’s good to know what you’re avoiding.
It’s also good to know that his dog is not some sweet, cute, panty thing. I saw him lunge at two joggers in less than five minutes. He’s a brute. Just like his owner, but with drool.
So now I don’t feel as guilty for keeping his stuff, but inside I’ve gone from paranoid to petrified.
Tuesday, late afternoon
I got the bright idea that cashing in the second sack of cans would be a smart thing to do. It would transform big, bulky evidence into compact bills for future survival needs.
So I located another recycle center (in the phone book—it’s about five miles from here), figured out the bus schedule to get me there (there’s a stop two blocks from it—seemed easy), hauled the second sack of cans clear to the bus stop, rode the bus through endless stops clear across town, dragged that sack around until I finally found the recycle center, and…it was closed! Closed. Every Monday and Tuesday they’re closed! What kind of stupid business is that?
And the worst part is, when I got off the bus on the way home, I crossed paths with about five different homeless guys. None of them followed me or even seemed to pay much attention to me, but street people are a lot slyer than you think. If they’re not wasted on drugs or booze, they’re watching people. Sizing them up. Scamming.
It’s easy for them to do.
Nobody wants to look a homeless guy in the eye.
Tuesday night
A sweet-looking little old Mexican lady busted me lifting boiled eggs from her market. She grabbed me by the arm and frisked me until she found them in my pocket. She was strong! I was afraid she was going to call the police, but she just scolded me in Spanish and shoved me out the door.
I’m still embarrassed.
Busted by a little old lady.
Wednesday
Where did my good luck go? I was sitting at the bus stop with the second sack of cans between my feet when guess who came moseying my way, trolling through trash bins for cans?
Hog and his dog.
“Come on, bus, come on,” I whispered because he was getting closer and closer, and bus stops around here are made out of Plexiglas that you can see right through.
When the bus finally pulled up, Hog and his dog were only about 30 feet away, digging through a trash bin on the grass between the street and the beach.
The bus doors opened, so I clanked onboard with my cans and dove into the first open seat. I stared at the doors, hoping, praying, that Hog wouldn’t charge onto the bus.
The doors closed.
We pulled away.
I started breathing again and looked out the window.
Hog was staring right at me.
Two stops later
Okay, it’s stupid that I’ve hauled this out to write in again, but I’m freaking out! What if Hog’s arranging a welcoming committee for me at the other recycle center? He must’ve figured out where I’m going with this fat sack of cans, right?
What if he’s putting the pedal to the metal himself? At the rate this bus is going, he could ride his chopper bike to the recycle center and greet me personally. Then what? I could abandon the cans, but he’s still going to want his sleeping bag. And the money from the other cans (which I only have about half of left). And his sack of food (which is also not exactly all there…).
What am I going to do?
Riding the bus home
I’m rich! No Hog waiting for me…just a really nice retired marine sitting in the trailer reading a magazine, waiting for people to come along with their recyclables.
I cashed in the voucher, no problem, and splurged on a new flashlight and batteries. The store had a camera counter, and on a whim I asked whether they had batteries for watches and they did! The lady was real nice, too. She said they weren’t supposed to install batteries for customers anymore, but when she saw me fumbling with the jeweler’s tools she’d lent me, she said, “Here. Don’t tell anyone,” and did it for me.
I also (ahem) acquired a book. It’s about three single mothers who run a kiddie day care but are secretly a ring of diamond thieves. (Their ex-husbands are diamond dealers, and the women are getting back at them.) It might be really good or really stupid, but I’m dying for something to read, and the only other books they carried were repulsive romances.
I’d start reading now, but I don’t want to miss my stop.
Actually, I do plan to miss my stop. I’m going one stop past the beach stop just in case Hog and his dog
are watching and waiting for me.
1:15 p.m.
I’m freaking out again.
Who says I’m paranoid? We just pulled away from the beach bus stop, and guess who was there?
Hog and his dog and a bunch of homeless hyenas!
The place was teeming with bums!
They weren’t waiting right there at the stop. They were actually pretty inconspicuous, waiting in the distance, camouflaged by trees or trash cans…. But once I spotted Hog, I started seeing the rest of them. They weren’t there because it’s the beach stop and a really cool place to hang out, either.
They were waiting for me.
How do I know?
Well, when the bus pulled up to the stop, Hog whistled between his fingers, and the hyenas who were awake turned and watched the people who got off the bus. The more I think about this, the creepier it gets. Can you imagine being chased down by homeless people? It’s like ghouls from the garbage instead of the grave! All tattered and dirty and staggering around…
This is too weird to believe!
What am I going to do?
I’m living in a freakin’ nightmare!
Saturday the 16th
I’m on the run again. I’m so tired of hiding and lying and stealing. I’m so sick of getting nowhere and feeling like no one.
What’s the use?
Why am I doing this?
I have no plan.
I have no place.
I have no purpose.
I want more than to just survive.
Just surviving gets you nowhere.
11:30 p.m.
GOODBYE
Smoke wafting skyward
Thinning, then disappearing
A flame’s wave goodbye
I think it’s Wednesday, but I’m not sure
I’m glad I had that book to read. It turned out to be really funny. The three women were hilarious but in a real tough-as-nails kind of way. Their ex-husbands never stood a chance. It was a revenge-against-betrayal story. Not deep or allegorical or metaphorical or anything educationorical (ha ha!), but I liked it. I liked it a lot.
So I’m not feeling as bummed as I was, but I definitely need a new plan. A real plan. Starting with a better place to live than under this overpass. I’m far enough away from Hog where I’m not worried about him anymore. (I don’t know what direction I went, but I stowed away in a musty, humid mushroom truck for almost two hours, which seemed plenty long enough.)
There are about six people camping under this overpass, and they’re already working on my nerves. It’s not because they’re drinking or swearing or talking to themselves like drugged-out lunatics. They’re bugging me because they act so superior. Here they sleep on cardboard mats under a bridge, they’re filthy from head to toe, they wear shoes that don’t match (and two of them have only one sock), they smoke cigarettes and pee against the wall…and they act like everyone besides them is stupid. It’s unbelievable.
To be fair, there is one guy who doesn’t act that way, but he’s actually the one who creeps me out the most. His name’s Martin and he doesn’t say much, but I catch him checking me over a lot. He has dozens of snake tattoos coiling around his arms and around his neck and probably around his whole body, which is just nasty. Why would anyone wrap themselves in snakes?
I keep telling myself that being here is better than being hunted down by a pack of homeless hyenas, but I really, really, really miss my little spot among the eucalyptus trees. I didn’t have any choice about leaving, though. I barely got away from Hog in time.
The good news is that I managed to escape with the sleeping bag, so at least I’ve been warm at night. I can actually stuff the sleeping bag inside my backpack. Not much else fits, but carrying a sleeping bag under your arm or even strapping it onto your pack is just too much of a giveaway that you’re living on the road.
I’m in a town that’s a lot like the area where Walt and Valerie live. Lots of fields. Lots of farm workers. Broccoli everywhere. The difference is, there are also big areas with shopping malls and auto malls and condominiums. Imagine miles and miles of land cut into a patchwork of farm fields, and scattered throughout the patchwork are cement squares packed from edge to edge with stores or houses or cars. It’s like, one by one, the farmers in town are getting tired of tilling the earth and are paving it over instead.
The nice thing is that if you get desperate, you can just go out into the fields at night and eat broccoli or Brussels sprouts or whatever you find out there. I mentioned that to Charlene, one of the women who’s living under this overpass, but she snorted and said, “Ferget that. I ain’t eatin’ no pesticides.” She took a deep drag off her cigarette and smirked at me like I was ignorant beyond belief. “If it’ll kill bugs, it’ll kill you.”
I think I’m going to go scout around.
See if I can find a school.
Lift some books.
Something.
A few days later
I left to find a school and I wound up at the movies. It was a spur-of-the-moment backdoor sneak-in, but I’ve been here for days now. It’s one of those big multiplex theaters with an upstairs, a downstairs, bathrooms, a video arcade, and a half-mile snack counter.
I’ve been living off popcorn and soda. At first I scarfed up what people left around after the movie was over, but then I discovered that they give free refills on their “Titanic Tub” and “Colossal Coke,” so I snagged one of each of those off the floor and have been getting refills ever since.
At night I’ve been sleeping behind a screen in one of the downstairs theaters. Most of the theaters in this multiplex have a screen flat against the wall, but two of them have a door behind the screen that leads to an old-fashioned stage area. Maybe they were the original theaters and the rest of this multiplex was built up around them. I don’t know. And really, I don’t care! No one ever comes back here, and it’s easy to sneak in and out when the lights first come down because everyone’s blind for a minute.
It’s also cool because I can leave all my stuff back there and pretend to be an everyday moviegoer with nothing to lug around but popcorn and soda.
So I’m actually having fun. I’ve seen more movies in the last few days than I’ve seen in my whole life. Ditto on the popcorn! And it’s really easy moving around this place. Nobody checks for ticket stubs or says, “Hey, haven’t you gotten a bunch of refills already?” There are different people working the snack counter every few hours, so it’s like, “Refill? Sure!”
This is the life, man.
A few more days later
I got busted by the “manager.” The pimply-faced twerp. I don’t think he’s old enough to realize I’m too young to be living in a movie theater. Which makes him pretty stupid, but I guess that works out fine for me. He even threw my sleeping bag out after me, with the classic, “And don’t you come back!”
Pimply-faced moronic twerp.
Oh, well. I was sick of popcorn, anyway. And stupid movies. And no sunlight.
Now that I’m outside again, there’s sunlight but no sunshine. It’s cloudy. And cold. What happened? You go to the movies and it’s summer, you come out and it’s fall.
I wonder what day it is.
The 25th of October?!?!
No wonder it’s cloudy! No wonder it’s cold! It’s almost NOVEMBER!
Enough fooling around.
I need a plan!
One that’ll get me through the winter.
And I need to come up with it quick!
4:00 p.m.
I found a school today. A junior high. I didn’t go in and lift any books. I’m not ready for that yet. But I did spend a long time hanging around, watching.
Schools here are so weird. There’s not one or two main buildings that you go into and then walk interior halls to get to different classrooms. There’s a whole bunch of buildings, and the halls are sidewalks. Even the lockers are outside! Maybe that’s because they don’t get snow here. Or much rain? (I hope.) But it doesn’t seem very saf
e. Anyone (me or, say, your friendly neighborhood pervert) can just walk right onto the school premises. Sure, there’s a fence, but it’s wide open in front, and there are gaps all around that you can easily squeeze through. And the fence is just chain-link! Anyone can park on the street and watch. I wonder how many kids get abducted around here compared to, say, a place where they can lock kids in.
The flip side of that is that anyone can leave, too. I saw kids sneaking out through the back fence, kids smoking cigarettes behind the gym…. The setup is weird. It’s like an invitation to be bad.
Oh! Something else weird about this school. Their flagpole has three flags: the American flag on top, the California flag in the middle, and underneath that a flag with a giant bullfrog on it. No kidding! This school’s mascot is a bullfrog. Who wants to go to a school where perverts can abduct you and your mascot is a bullfrog?
Not me.
Next day (October 26th)
I went back to the overpass last night, and as I was pulling my sleeping bag out of my backpack, Charlene started giving me the third degree about where I’d been. When I didn’t give much of an answer, she said, “You think you’re better than us, is that it? Shoulda known when I seen your fancy beddin’.” She sneered. “But you’re back again, ain’tcha? Here you are, back again.” She hiked her blanket up over her shoulder and turned away from me, half singing, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave….”
I didn’t like the way that sounded.
I didn’t like it at all.
The rest of them, though, thought it was hilarious.
7:30 p.m. Holed up in a McDonald’s
I wandered back over to that school today. Just sat in the tall grass and watched. I don’t know why I did it. Pretty lame, I guess.
It may only be a junior high, but kids seem a lot older than they did in elementary school. A lot more intimidating. (I wouldn’t have thought that was possible, but it’s true.) They dress a lot tougher, they act a lot tougher. Plus, the school itself looks sort of somber (except for the silly bullfrog flag). There’s no playground equipment. No swings, no slides, no jungle gyms, no four-square courts…They do have basketball hoops and a couple of walls for handball, but I didn’t see anyone using them. I guess kids think it’s cooler to hang with their friends and act tough.