The Fundamentals of Politiks

And I look at a plain sheet of paper.

And it happens like magic. Words from and my thoughts become fluid. They flow with a sudden ease, no matter how tired I am. I don't have to have anything on my mind, I just come out with what my mind is thinking. Right now I've been in the Box for about six hours, and it's been a pretty good experience so far. First it's hot. Very warm, and smells like arpit, locker room, musty smell. I came in earlier from the freezing Starbucks to the real Mecca, the real Holy Land for any laptop freak. My bed. It's comfortable, warm surroundings, WIFI, an electrical outlet in easy reach. It has everything that I need to sink hours and hours down the shitter. Surfing, reading, writing. I have a bottomless pit of things to do and I do them with zeal.

Earlier, I brought dinner with the little funds that I had left over from Saturday. A small tray of chicken and rice from the local Halal vendor and an Iced tea. I brought it up to the Box and went into the dining room, that was being cleaned by clients. They moved about woodenly, almost roboticaly mopping the floor, wiping off and stacking tables. Some other clients were in the room, watching them, looking feeble and lost. One of them was Mike Murder. He sat in the near middle, staring down at the floor, his face long and sad. He looked absolutely miserable sitting in the middle of all the lifeless activity.

He didn't even notice me when I walked past him at first, and when he did he could only stare and gape at me. "Hobobob, what are you doing here so early?" Yes, indeed this was early for me. I usually come in around Nine Thirty. It was only fifteen after Six. I got tired of staying in Starbucks freezing my ass off, I told him. Then I started eating my Halal food, standing.

Mike Murder came at me with a long story about opening another checking account for a hundred dollars, but because he didn't have any checks or a checking card as of yet, he could not get to it. Would I be so nice as to go out and buy a pint of hooch? He would gladly pay me back later. I didn't have the money, but one thing I do know about checking accounts. You can ask for a temporary card to use ATMs to get your money out, or you can just go to the back and get a deposit slip and get the money out. Unless you fucked up and didn't do anything and the day is a Sunday. Which is what today was.

Alcohol deprivation is a bitch. That's why I like to have some when I want some. He was indeed a miserable man. But with Mike Murder, you can only feel but so sorry for him, because soon, he will be able to go to the nurses' station and they will give him enough quality painkillers and knock outs that would make a junkie jealous. I know I am. He reminds me of my old VICOTIN, PERCOCET, PROZAC days under the Marijuana tree. So doped up I didn't know up from down, and drinking on top of it. Those were the hard days out on the streets, those rough days of nothing but pain and misery. The little helpers worked wonders. Mike Murder gets an amazing dose of a cocktail of brain pounders EVERY night. What is the point of drinking so hard when you have such a wonderful evening to look forward to?

But that's Mike Murder. I love the boy, but he's taking it rough on the chin.

Be that as it may, there are times when I envy him. I say that, only when I am sober. Only when I am up and have nothing in my system. But then again, I don't always feel that I want to, or need to, be drunk. Sometimes I'm just fine. Maybe that's from the NALTRAXONE. I notice that the need for alcohol is not as strong when I'm on it. I can do without alcohol entirely.

Something that I ponder over.

Igor is pretty animated tonight. He is up and down, showing me all of his new gear. For a homeless person he splurges an amazing amount of money. He claims that his parents are rich and that he has tons of money in CDs. It appears that way. Today he bought an entire hockey jersey, ice skates, and a hockey helmet. The only thing he was missing was the stick. He was up and down playing with his gear and then he produces his SECOND laptop and proceeds to connect his new IPOD up to it. I shake my head. He is E on steroids. Whereas E bought things and returned them, Igor just buys expensive things and plays with them.

Funny passtime if you ask me. He lives in a shelter. Not that I should talk. I have my baby and now my printer. Two things that are incongruous with living sparsely and on the road of hard knocks, but I have them. It's just that to multiply these things here, since there is no real protection for your things, is just adding to your suffering. But then again, I guess if you want these things and can afford them, then why not?

Dante walks in...dark, silent and brooding. He is angry and lands on his bed across from me, staring me down. But I don't notice him, or pretend that I don't, as I stare into the great eye of my laptop screen. Whatever the fuck is eating him has nothing to do with me. He shortly stands and lopes off, his long limbs swaying. I do not look up, neither pay him any attention. I try not to pay anyone here any attention, because, like children, they'll only feed on it and expect more.

BK arrives and he takes off all of his clothes, walking about in his boxers. His ass is out over the top of the elastic. Here is another one that is starving for attention. Here! Here! Look at me! He walks about, shouting silently. He comes and stands near to me, but I don't look up from my screen. He shortly moves away.

This is what I hate the most about the Box, the overbearing childishness. These are grown men that act and behave like children. This is the reason why I come here around bedtime when the kiddies are all tired and ready for sleep.

Paul the Stooge stops over my shoulder and stares at my computer screen. Unabash- edly. Just standing there and staring over my shoulder. He soon tires, figuring out that I'm not going to play porn, and climbs into his bed and goes to sleep.

It's late. I'm about to do the same too.
I'm just wondering how I do it. Just a few moments ago I stared at an empty page and didn't know what was going to be on it. Now I have to make myself stop from filling it.

I'm a writer.

Hobobob