I got this email recently:
"SUBJECT- Your poetry: Hey Hobo Bob, I finally read your poetry in a sermon I did for church today. People were really moved. I know that Norwich is a small place, but they really liked your stuff. Thanks for letting me use it. Take care."
It's time to jump up and down boys and girls. Damn that made me feel good. Shit. I want to step outside and punch out a truck. There is nothing that compares to that. Nothing that I know of. Well, maybe a toe curling orgasm, but shit if this shit didn't make my godforsaken day. I'm too high off the ground to keep getting good news.
This is when an airplane part hits me over the head from 40,000 feet. Things just don't go this good without some kind of catastrophe. They just don't. But they are. They really are. I am overjoyed.
I spend the evening by myself in Starbucks. I kinda like it. I can concentrate on my writing without distraction. That's important, when you get a roll going it's a splash of cold water on the face when you are interrupted. When my hourly alarm goes off I pack my gear and head to the Box. Coming in from the Way, while walking down the street, I see this 'hard-rock'. This is an old Brooklyn phrase for a tough looking gentleman, dressed roughly, and menacingly standing, crouching or sitting beside your path. Next to him is Jor-el, standing against the wall next to one of the Box's Fags, and then someone else from my dorm who I don't know at all. The four of them like a line up of ten pins.
The hardrock is the first to pipe up. "Hey, yo brother." This idiot I ignore. He doesn't know me, so to address me is only in order to have me stop. And due to his sitting position on the ground I could just about guess that he wasn't asking for directions. I stroll right by, my headsets in my ears, I firmly ignored him.Next comes Jor-el, who I give a side five to, wishing him a good evening.
The Fag pipes up next, Kendra. I ignore her too because every time she opens her mouth she wants something. She's incredible like that, because I don't know her from a cheerleader's asshole, and yet she believes that I will stop and address her stupid needs.The last bump on the log says nothing.
I head upstairs and enter the Dorm. When I get to my bed I find Roundtree's bed stripped.
I look about, as if he is in the room. I find Igor on his bed. Igor, what happened to Roundtree? "The guy there?" Now, that's just how bright Igor is. The man has been here for several days, and he still doesn't know his name or who sleeps in his bed. Yeah, Igor, the guy that sleeps here. I point to Roundtree's bed. "Oh, yeah. He went upstairs." Well I'll be damned. The man was right. He was actually going upstairs in three days. I had forgotten all about it. Like a Christ, he had risen. How in the fuck is everything going my way today. No more Roundtree. None. I'm amazed. I'm probably going to die in my fucking sleep tonight.I set up my computer, sit down and blog. It is growing late and Wendy the Wicked Witch of the West just went by, meaning she'll put us on lockdown early tonight when lights are out. Most likely no computing after Ten. That's just great.
There is a steady and prolonged poke to my back. I turn around slowly. At first I see Ralphy, but then the image melts to Rob. Yeah, Rob. I spoke about him some time ago. He was a close friend of Murder Mike, and mine too. He also is a mean heroin addict, alcoholic and a fierce PERCOCET and VICODIN mover. With all those strikes against him, it was good to see him again. I had almost forgotten about him. I thought that he had walked off, left, called this place quits. But no, he had disappeared into the bowels of this place. That's how you go to DETOX and REHAB. You are just caught and vanish.
Like me, when I had to leave under the cloak of darkness to Bellevue, he was whisked downstairs to do Seven on One, and then right after that, Twenty Eight Upstate. He sat on Roundtree's bed, facing me. He spent a good twenty minutes, twenty minutes
that I wanted to blog with, complaining about his, and ultimately my future here. Level One housing is the Holy Grail. Everyone wants Level One whether they know it or not. It's the one with the greatest autonomy. Then comes Level Two, where I'm going. Where there is constant ALCOHOL AND DRUG TESTING. It's not over folks when you leave here. I'm wondering if my brother was right about this place. Whether the streets were better. It's been so long since I've been out there I'm beginning to forget the difficulties in sleeping. The exposure, the open and vulnerable state you're in. I've forgotten all of the bad stuff after being here for a year.
Rob is definitely not going to Level Two. There is no way that he can stop drinking to live in someplace like that. And Level Three is even more of a horror story. Where you are locked down and have to go everywhere with a chaperon. I know the ugly bits about Level Two. Remember, just a couple of months back they had Level Two housing in my future. They had an interview at some dive up in the Bronx for me to go to. But because I fucked up with a AWOL they put the kibosh on it, thinking that they were hurting me in some way.Fuck them. I'll do that shit again if they think that they'll shove me into a Level Two.
I'll hurry up and build this fucking resume and get a job as a reporter some- where. Make money writing freelance like so many others. Then get a small side job to make ends meet. Or get on Social Security if I can. If it's worth it. I've got to get out of this MI/CA system and this fucked up shelter shit.I've got to get serious about an escape.
Rob thanks me for allowing him to vent his frustration.
It was no problem.
Hobobob
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