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Yoda doesn't shit and piss on himself. You know the fuck doesn't even smell. As dirty and filthy as he looks he gives off no scent. I bet even his feet smell better than mine. He is a phenomenon. He makes homelessness and street living look easy. Nappy headed, scraggly bearded, dark features. He a man skilled at his art.
A lot of skeks try to imitate him. Even my brother and I. But we fail in comparison. Yoda is the man. There is a woman version of him down a few blocks and around the corner. We call her stinky. She is fat, in fact not fat all around, just swollen hugely from the waist down. The rest of her is of normal girth. Stinky sits on the ground next to the 40th street library, drawing. Yes, she draws pictures all day, every day. She goes non stop. Her clothes are also in layers, no matter how hot it gets during the day. She is haggard looking, spotted with stains and God does she smell. You pick up her scent the minute you step on the block.
She is poor attempt at being Yoda. Yes we all are. He is the Jedi Master, the Lord of the Flies. There is none higher in the skill and persistence that it takes to be homeless. And he will take all of this knowledge with him because he does not speak. He has long lost the ability to do so. He makes no sound as he walks up and down Madison Avenue. You can find him sitting in bus stops, on waiting benches, in the Park. He is ubiquitous. He IS the man.
I think of him as I cosy up to my bed. Mike Murder is hot with me because I have not brought any hooch here for him to drink. Suddenly I'm a hooch mule. Ralphy is calling me to get his MP3 player. To him I'm a walking charger for his musical hardware. I am all things to everyone, even if I produce or not. It is expected of me.
Mr Franklin walks in. "Hobobob, did you go upstairs and get your meds?" Yes, I reply. The first thing that I did when I walked into the Box. "That's my man!" He cheers and walks off. To him, I'm subservient. I wonder what I am to myself. Stupid?
It's been a long day, and I'm tired. I've no more energy to deal with the folks around me in the dorm. They are wearing on me like a tax. I feel nothing. I get behind my laptop and bang away, listening to Internet radio, keeping the crowding world around me at bay.
"Hobobob, do you want to have coffee with me in the morning?" Igor asks. I turn to look at him tiredly. I'll think about it. "I'm not asking for anything you know," he says. Yes, I know, Igor. I know. I return to my writing. The night falls harder, the time ticks on. It moves to Twelve and I'm still writing the conclusion to the screenplay. It is a long conclusion. Maybe it's not a conclusion at all, but the ramping up to the conclusion. Whatever it is, it has a momentum of it's own, and I'm pround of it. "Hobobob, can you help me write an email to my sister. I haven't met her once. This is the first time we've made contact in Thirty years." Another family first. Long lost relatives making contact. I'm glad I talk to my mother weekly. I don't know what this feels like. My heart is a sucker, and I go ahead and take dictation for his email. He is grateful. I decide to take him up on his offer for breakfast in the morning. I'm not using his money though, I have money of my own.It's late now. Time to close up shop.
Goodnight.
Hobobob
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