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I blog until late in the evening. Until near morning. I rose this morning late. It was eight fifteen when I welcomed the world.
"Hobobob, do you want to go to the coffee house with me today?" No Igor, but thanks. I sit up, yawn, scratch my ass. Yes, it is another day. I get up and head to the bathroom, passing Mike Murder's bed. "Hey, Hobobob," he calls. "I left something for you." He hands me up the bottle of hooch from last night. "I didn't touch it. I bought it for you." He is sober now, the drugs that they pump him with here are long out of his system. He is normal now. Not the petulant child of last night. I take the bottle because it's floating there in the air for all to see, and stash it into my back pocket. Gee, thanks Mike.
I walk into the bathroom with every intention of standing in the stall for a few minutes and then walking out without taking a draw. I had every intention. But as I stood there, after taking a leak, I found myself wasting time. Why stand here and then go outside and lie that I took a sip? Why not just take a sip and tell the truth? What the fuck would a sip do to me anyway?
This is how the twisted mind thinks. This is how the my mind works. I have no inhibition to drinking, even this early in the morning. I reach into my back pocket for the brown bag sheathed bottle, unscrew its cap and turn it up to my mouth, taking two heavy swallows. The vodka is lemon flavored and burns my mouth and throat like Hellfire. I wait for the inevitable burning grenade. The swallow that burns down the esophagus and explodes in the stomach like a bomb. There is a rush of blood to the brain. I know it's not the alcohol, but the precursor to its arrival. My skin tightens and electrifies. This is what it feels like to be a vampire of the bottle. I know it now, and it feels good.
I return to Mike Murder and pass him the bottle back. He screws it open and takes a sip, his face grimacing. I go to my bed and begin to pack up for the day. I'm ready to hit the road. Just before slinging my gear, Mike Murder tosses the bottle on my bed. "I got it for you dude." He no doubt thinking that my handing it back to him was for him to take a courtesy drink. I look at the bottle. Well, fuck it then. I stash that shit right in my bag and give Mike Murder a good day before heading on my way. Wendy, the Wicked Witch of the Box walks through the hall, shouting "Morning Meeting" as if I would go and waste my time with such shit. I hit the stairs running.
Believe it or not, that fucking bottle is on my mind no matter what it is that I do. Just as if it was tied over my head by a rope, no matter how hard I smack it away it comes swinging back. I ride through the subway to the library with it on my mind. I'm just wondering to myself, where is it that I can stop and take another draw from the little bastard. It's only a half a pint, and shouldn't last longer than five, ten minutes. But it's already been fourty five. This is the shit that my mind goes through. I shake my head, trying to dispel the voices, and finding them quieting for a moment. I read the morning paper to shut them the fuck up.Now I sit in Starbucks, blogging away.
As an aside, I would like to digress to another person who has problems. This person is called. 'IT'. Not after the Stephen King novel, no. We, meaning my brother and I, and Electra, named this person, the dyed in the wool skeksie IT because we don't know what the fuck it is. From all outward appearances it looks like a very haggard, ugly, mean and wrinkled old woman. She looks like the years have rode her down hard, like beating a buried horse. But we've seen it blow it's stack on several occasions. It's voice is harsh, and demeanor very masculine. IT takes on the appearance of a male in silly looking drag, not fooling anyone. You'll stare at IT in shock, thinking that you were addressing one sex, but now facing another.
Well, IT is sitting against the side of the Business Library atop her/his luggage with a condemn- able cup in its hand. I've seen it in Starbucks many a time, buying cup after cup of tea and this is no doubt how IT gets its cash, so I know that IT isn't using it for drugs or anything like that. And IT is making a decent penny panhandling on a well trafficked sidewalk. Probably makes what I make in a day of work in a week of grubbing.
IT has also had a little run in with me in the very same Starbucks that I'm talking about. One day IT believes that I'm staring at it and flies off at the handle. I wasn't actually staring at it, I was staring past IT. But IT wants to know what I'm looking at. I diffuse the situation by explaining what it was that I was looking at, and it works somewhat. Now IT gives me a dirty look every time I walk past it.
Now, I don't want this blog to be a compendium of the homeless in New York. That's not my aim in telling you about IT, or Yoda or Stinky for that matter. I would just like you to know that the world is small, and New York City is smaller, and the community of the Homeless is smallest. We end up knowing each other quite well in this city. You end up on their radar like they end up on yours. That's when you know you've been homeless too long in the city. When you are recognized by its population. When they point at you and say: "Hey, I know you."Like I recognize that there is a bottle of hooch still in my bag.
Hmmmm, where AM I going to take another snoot at?
Hobobob
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