The Work of Tired Hands

The story continues.

I had escaped New Jersey. I was glad to be putting that state behind me forever and ever. I don't ever see myself setting foot in the god forsaken state for the rest of my life. I may pass through it going somewhere, but I have no inclination to ever live there again. Or spend more than twelve hours on the surface of the ground there. That's just how much I've grown to detest that entire place. From top to bottom, side to side.

Fuck New Jersey.

But now, there comes my first lover. New York City. The City of dreams. Harsh, mean, brutal. She has teeth and a kick to the groin that's sharp as nails. She's a brutal bitch, and to live with her is to understand her. But my first days on the streets were not that hard. I had a bus pass, and could sleep in the bus waiting area of the Port Authority. During the day, my brother and I would eat at McDonalds, and I would buy hooch galore, to keep us well oiled throughout the day. My money had a terrific burn rate, and it was dwindling faster than I had thought it would. But that was no problem. I applied for unemployment and was calling them daily to see if I was approved or not.

In my mind there was always that salvation around the corner. That would be my proverbial 'ship coming in'. But in time, the money did run out, and my options dwindled. Time was running out on my shit in storage. I was already behind on the payments. The month was coming up on renewal, and I still hadn't paid them. Unemployment would help me out of that mess too. I was to get a large sum of money because of my many years of working.

When the food money ran out, I was terrified again. How would I survive until unemployment kicked in. I started calling my parents for a little money here and there to keep me afloat until my check arrived. They did, begrudgingly. It kept me with food and hooch as I waited.

Weeks became two months. Finally my parents would send me no more money, and my brother and I started going to soup kitchens. We began to build a network of soup kitchens to make certain that we had enough food for the week, three times a day. The soup kitchens were lifesavers.

FINALLY, I had had enough!! I called unemployment and would not take no for an answer. I wanted to speak to someone in charge. I went all the way up to the top, demanding answers, and I finally got it. I was declined, a month ago. I should have gotten something in the mail. My appeal time had expired. No one knew over the phone to give me the proper information.

I was fucked.

All of my dreams, my hopes, my last, best chance of leaving the streets just went south. You can just imagine the fall of my spirit. It landed to the ground with a dull thud as if poleaxed. My car would be towed away as abandoned, my goods would be sold out of storage, everything would end.

I believe it was at this time my bag was stolen with all my shit in it. And all I had left were the clothes on my back. Even my wallet was stolen shortly after that, so that my identity was lost. I was stripped of everything save my pride. That and ten cents will get you a penny candy. I had reached as low as I could go. I was completely erased. There was nothing left of the man.

That was when Hobobob was born. My brother offered to take me to a poetry reading and I went and enjoyed myself. I enjoyed listening to my brother read his work. I was a writer. I was one all my life. I loved to write. In fact, my brother and I just finished writing an epic novel. I felt I could write poetry if I gave it a chance. But I needed a pen name. My brother would like to claim that he gave me the name, but I remember thinking to myself, that I wanted to be a hobo. A hobo something. I wanted it a name, like charles. Or Larry. HobobFrank. But all of those names were not plain enough. It wasn't generic enough. Then came three. Chuck, Rod and Bob. HoboChuck was too close to woodchuck. HoboRod...naaah. thap gump. Now that had a distinct ring to it. It was the nature of my life, paired with the erasure of my identity. A roving nothing.

I learned to survive on the streets. I got along. Every day I had to use my wits, to eat, clean myself, get clothes. Everything. And with a loan from a close friend, I was able to buy my baby, my laptop. And that's when I began to blog. That's when I began to experiment with writing down my sordid life on the streets, and now in the shelter. That's when everything seemed better because I could look at them retrospectively and laugh at them. It was my life, and it wasn't all that bad.

I have a great debt that I owe my brother. This journey would have been harder, lonelier without him. I have a debt to my friends that still have anything to do with me. Many of them I was hard on, and I thank them for their forgiveness and patience. I thank those whose merciful hands aided me in whatever fashion. I'm certain, that with my pride, I didn't need their help until I was at the end of my rope. I thank them for hearing my cry in my desperation.

I'm a fortunate man, to be able to take the journey of a lifetime and to profit from it. I grew up a lot in the streets. I see that my life would have been a lot different, a lot more staid, more boring. Every day there is excitement. Every day there is adventure. Pulse pounding, soul stirring, eye opening...every day. Even on the days that I do nothing.

With that being said, I end this long tome. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/11/work-of-tired-hands.html
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