Being homeless is awesome. You don’t have to worry about paying someone rent. You don’t have to worry about bills. You DO have to worry about stray dogs though. They hunt in packs.
I wasn’t always homeless. There was a time when I lived with a sweet young thing who also happened to be a first class whore. I mean that. A high dollar prostitute who was clearing six figures a year. I was working as a clown for children’s parties. My name was Squeaky Ben because I was always squeaking my horn. While I was doing that, unbeknownst to me my girlfriend of 3 years was squeaking the horns of anyone who had enough cash to buy her mouth for an hour. I should have seen the signs but I was in love. I had bought a ring with my clown money and was going to ask her to marry me while still in my clown costume.
I kicked open the door with my huge shoe and a grin on my face and a grin painted on my face only to find her elbow deep in some executive reading the wall street journal with his ankles by his ears. His pants were off but he still had on his coat and tie. He looked up from the paper and as soon as he saw me he said “Whatever the clown cost I’m in.” I was in shock. I was picturing slipping a ring on my fiancés finger and instead I saw that she had slipped past someone else’s ring.
Seeing that kind of thing burns you quite a bit. I turned around and walked out. Then I just kept on walking. When I snapped out of it I was in Chicago. I wasn’t sure how I got there. I was still in full clown costume and I didn’t know what to do next. I took a day to think now that I had my wits about me. She paid the bills. It was her apartment. I really didn’t have much to my name. I actually felt kind of free. I had taken my shoes off and sat down near a fountain in a park and noticed that I was accumulating quite a bit of money from passers by throwing in change. There must be something about a depressed guy in smiling clown make up that looks extra pathetic. I used the money to buy food and a few essentials. I sold most of my clown gear to other homeless people and I started learning the streets. You learn who to rely on, who to avoid. Stay away from the crackheads unless you want head. Don’t bother even trying to talk to the crazies. Most of all never interact with the Punky Brewsters. There were lots of people to avoid but most were normal chaps like me. Either down on their luck or they just chose the simpler life.
I hadn’t shaved since I left and as my beard grew so did my skills on the street. When I needed money I could find a quick job for the day like sweeping in front of stores or taking revenge shits on ex boyfriend or girlfriends cars. It is a huge business for us. I was never a big fan of panhandling. I earn my money. By four months I had a full beard and a full knowledge of how to survive. Then I discovered alcohol. And everything was perfect.
Well, there was one problem. Chicago is a great town. Fantastic town. People throw out so much good food. But the winters suck. So cold. So windy. There is no real escape for the homeless. I was warming my beard by a barrel fire with a few others. Sour Frank, Famous Ed, and Shitty Pete. Out of nowhere Shitty Pete says. “Damn, I wish I was at the beach right now.” It blew my mind.
“Guys, why aren’t we at the beach? What the fuck are we doing in Chicago in the winter?” I said.
“How would we get to a beach? Are you driving us Daddy Warbucks?” Said Sour Frank. Everyone laughed heartily which descended in to whooping coughs.
“We have so many options. We can jump on a train. Save money for a bus. Hitchhike. Hell, I still have the engagement ring I had for my old lady. I am going to sell it and get the shit out of here. For real. Right now. “. I said and started walking away. They just stared.
“I’m in” Said Famous Ed but he died on the spot of tuberculosis. The other two then got into a brutal fight over who got Ed’s girlfriend now that he was gone. His “girlfriend” was an empty toilet paper roll covered in motor oil. That is how I left them, rolling around in an ally trying to have sex with a toilet paper roll.
Now here I am. Venice California. Living the dream. Warm sun, hot women, and an incredible tolerance for the homeless. It is a different crowd here. More laid back, more drugs. Even the money making opportunities are better. Every other college retard thinks he need to go to the beach and play some crap song on his guitar that he wrote. The second he puts it down and looks away people basically throw money at the homeless to shit in it. Hell, I’d do it for free. So now I just sit back, take a swig of this Mexican made vodka and watch some wannabe Jimmy Buffet dump my hot, not well formed, malnourished, shit all over himself. I reach in my pocket and squeak my horn. The one thing I kept of my former life. Now it’s like my calling card. Next time you dump someone’s shit on you out of you guitar because you think that the world wants to hear your terrible music, if you hear a clown horn, you know whose it is.
What a perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky. I close my eyes and tilt my head up towards the sun. The sea breeze rustles through my beard. I take another swig. Chicago can suck my dick.
– Squeaky Ben
June 2008