All The Friends In the World

It's great outside.

Something like 54 degrees. Nice, cool, slightly overcast, the sun is setting. I'm outside now. It's the night that I move better in. I'm more attuned to the rhythms of the evening than I am during the day. I always have, until, that is until I went homeless. Then there was the 'homeless clock' that I had to kowtow to, to knuckle under. You know the homeless clock...the one that beats out the tune of when you can eat, when this or that soup kitchen is serving, or when this or that place is closing, so that you'll have to move on for the night.

The homeless clock, that ticks relentlessly to keep you in motion. I lost a lot of weight on that clock. I was a whole lot lighter than I am now. It's hard to keep on weight when you have to move as much as I did just to get a bite to eat.

But now I move for different reasons, now I make my way to the Associated supermarket to go shopping. That is something I never thought I would do again. Become master of my own diet. Choosing what I will eat and what I won't. I thought those days were over, but as I walk through the narrow aisles of the supermarket I realize that that's exactly what I'm doing. Picking and choosing the food that I will eat. I stoll past the frozen meat section and to the frozen dinners. I would have spent a fortune in buying these already made dinners, but I realize that when you have a diet keeping your calories under 1700 a day will quickly find that food goes slower. You take in 1700 calories faster so you have to supply your dietary needs with less.

I'm sure that that's very fucking exciting to you. I finish going shopping and getting my fresh air and head upstairs, grousing over everything. I get to my floor and walk down its long hall to my door, passing the bathroom where I hear the toilet flush and the door snap open. It's Paula. "Oh hello, Hobobob." I look over my shoulder. Hello Paula, I didn't see you back there. No. I didn't see her, I FELT her. "I'm fine," she chimes, falling into lockstep behind me. That's good to hear, Paula. I didn't see you back there in my Six O'clock. I'm surprised that she knew what that meant. "I have a friend of yours here," she moves to her door, right across from mine. I stop, my blood runs cold. Igor. She swings her door open, showing a face that's familiar from The Box, but certainly not a friend of mine. "It's Artie!!" She sings in exclamation. Oh, hi. I say, peeking in. How are you? He looks over his shoulder at me, "I'm fine, you?" Just going shopping. Alright, take care you two. I turn and open my door as Paula slips inside of her room. I make haste just in case someone else appears down at the end of the hall, shouting my name.

Hell, I know I'm anti-social, but I don't want these idiots thinking I'm a close friend just because they know my name. The IRS know my name too, but that doesn't make them friends of mine. I don't know Artie from Pamela Anderson's asshole. I don't think I ever even spoken to him in all of my days in The Box. And here she's labeling him a friend of mine.

If Paula wasn't a full head and shoulders taller than me and slightly wider than me...I would....I really would...tussle with her only if necessary. That's a big fucking woman. She used to be a basketball player, and has the same loping stride as one. Crazy chick might put me through a wall. Force me to find a weapon, like a frying pan or something heavy. Mop the floor with my ass.

Hey, I'm not ashamed of getting my ass whipped by a woman, especially if she's bigger than me. But don't let me get the drop on her. I always make my first shot count. What in the world am I going on about here? Fighting a woman? I'd rather not. I have better things to do, like stuff food into the refrigerator and cupboards.

I'm tired and make dinner in the microwave. I jump behind my computer, enjoying myself on the web. I recently received my bill for my Internet service. I can afford it. It's reasonable. I get to my emails before the night. I want to be free enough to blog right after.

Who knows? After tomorrow I might feel up to working on this screenplay again.

Who knows? If I can leave all of my friends from The Box alone.

Hobobob