God and Linebackers

I'm back in the Dorm,

listening to Robert snore and then cough violently, from the lungs. Amazingly he gets up and goes into the bathroom to smoke a cigarette, then returns to his bed, crawling in, rolling over and going back to sleep.

I'm having a Slim Jim fit, as I went to Duane Reade and bought out their entire stock. I'm sitting behind my laptop, chewing them like air, pushing them into my face with the celerity of a pencil in an electric sharpener. Jor-el walks in, and for the first time, did not say hello. I said hello to him first tonight and he confesses that a cold is working him terribly, and that he is miserable. I feel sorry for him and want him to GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!

A client appears standing over me. He is big and broad and looks like a bruiser. Yeah, his face is battered as if at one time hammered by fists, his nose broken once and not set right, one eye larger than the other, acne scars on his cheeks, drying scabs on the bridge of his nose and upper lip. I could barely look him in the face. "Do you know where John is?" he asks me. I shake my head. He's not here. "Thanks," he replies and lumbers off. GAWDDAMN!! That was the scariest shit that I've ever been through. I can't keep my hands from shaking. I go back to typing when he returns, his face like the full moon over me. "Could you tell John that his wife called?" Sure. "Thanks Hobobob." Holy shit! He even knows my name, and I don't know the first thing about him. Have I been here for so long that I'm a legend here? He leaves me again to my relief. I don't want to be a little shit about this, but this guy was a moveable feast. No shit. I'm amazed.

John shortly arrives and walks over to his bed. Hey John, your wife called. "Oh shit, really? Thanks, Hobobob." Don't thank me, it was this guy over there. I gesture to the other side of the walled partition. "Oh, you mean, Carl?" Yeah, AKA Scary Motherfucker. Well at least not only do I know his name but I got a name for him.

The Earth shakes then, and God walks by, moving slowly and deliber- ately. A very, very tall mass of fat. A lot of fat. I watched God get dressed one day, and he put on a tee shirt. He pulled the shit over his head and upon his shoulders, stuck his arms through the holes, and could do no more. He really couldn't reach behind himself, neither up into his armpits to reach the fabric of his shirt. The funniest thing about this story is not that this poor fellow could not reach his body parts, no, that is not funny. What WAS funny was that he went to John, possibly the shortest one among us, to climb up on his bed and pull down the shirt over the rest of his body. Little John first tried jumping...wait! Little John. What a great name for John! For now on his name is Little John.

Little John jumped up and down at first, trying to reach the shirt, like a little dog jumping up and down on its hind legs for a treat suspended over its head. He then used his bed to attain the desired height. God is just that tall.

And then the inevitable happened. One of the Techs walked in with a male walking behind her. In his arms, held to his chest, was a sheet, blanket, towel and pillow with pillowcase. He was led over to bed ten, six beds from mine and behind a divider. He places his things down on the bed, and then leaves the dorm, only to return with his personal effects. Clothes and stuff in a bag no doubt. He appears to be young, in his thirties, a full head of hair, and mischievous features. He looks like he is instantly comfortable here. He will rule this place in a few weeks. That was when God entered. He looked up at him and blanched. I could see the blood drain from his face. God is just THAT BIG and by his slow lumbering, equally menacing. His bed is across the aisle from God's. Next came Andre, equally as big but not half as tall as God. Andre is more the linebacker type. Whereas God is a cross between a basketball player and a sumo wrestler. Andre's bed is next to the newcomer.

Both men bracket the Fucking New Guy (FNG) and don't say a word. I call this here wanton intim- idation. To know these guys is to know what sweethearts they are. But to not know them, and you'd swear this would be your last day on Earth. All FNG needs is for Scary Motherfucker to just appear out of nowhere to ask where his anus is. That would be all she wrote.

It's strange to me then, as FNG withered in his bed area he looks at me. I mean, stares directly at me. His face betraying his consternation. I looked back at him, and my heart both went out to him, and laughed at him. In a week he will realize that these two men are harmless and quite jovial, but for now, he'll just have to live with a little fear. I was the same way, although I had the advantage of being here first and knowing the rules and the people here in the Box. It made me somewhat of a commodity. Or maybe an oddity.

I write my antics for tonight. I have nothing else really to write. I've gone as far as I would like to with everything, even writing another article for the online magazine. My brother came up to me recently, talking about writing a handbook about being homeless. Put our experience in dealing with homelessness in words as a handbook or manual for the millions of people who will be joining us due to the sagging economy. Part humorous, part instructional, it will cover the experience of our lives. It sounds like a reasonable idea. I have the time and ability for another iron in the fire. But this time I ask him to draw up an outline first that we could build upon to write this tome. We have been going back and forth with it for a few days now. It seems to be shaping up into something.

I hope it turns out to be something.

I look at the FNG. He is a bunch of swells underneath his dark covers. That's one way of shutting out this place. Go to sleep.

I'm going to surf until the late hours, and then I'm going to sleep. Hopefully I'll wake up early in the morning and get a shower in.

Goodnight.

Hobobob