How to Become Homeless

I'm actually writing this without an internet connection. I spent my paycheck today, pretty much. I bought about $60 worth of bike parts that I needed (since it's the only transportation I have). I am spending my one night a week at La Quinta: had a shower when I checked in, and I'll have another before I check out. Bought some deodorant, some insect repellent (de rigeur at the Possum Hilton), some shave cream,and AAA batteries. I was riding last night and my front blinky light was fading fast. I wondered about that until I remembered that I had used the batteries a few times in my little portable vibrator (okay: I don't get any sex these days ... and I don't think, in my current circumstances, that I would want to have sex with anybody desperate enough to have sex with me. Give me a fucking break!), so I got enough for blinky light and happy-toy. Oh, and it's not an anal vibrator, okay: just one of those massage things, for relieving tension. It blinks colored lights, too. Neat-o.

I had lunch at Zippy's, which is this cool taco/burrito place on Perkins Rd. Had a couple of happy hour margaritas (you might think I like margaritas) and tamales. Their prices (especially lunch) are great, and everything is fresh. Hung out with the owner for a while. He is a really nice guy. Then, I rode to La Quinta and checked in. Nice and cool here, but WiFi wouldn't let me connect to the internet. The front desk gave me a number to call, so I called it. The woman on the other end had a foreign accent, and I could hear Russian spoken in the background, so I asked her, in Russian, if she spoke Russian, and where in Russia she was. Turns out she is Polish, and she was speaking to me from Warsova (her Russian was flawless). We spent almost two hours on the phone, while I reconfigured every fucking thing I could reconfigure on my machine. I had this happen at La Quinta before: there is a physical cable problem with the goddamned access point. You can't fix that from Poland. Outsourcing has limitations.

Went to work and worked 6-12, then came back here. It is cool and there are two beds. I wish I could sleep in both of them at the same time. I wish I could drag one back to the Possum Hilton, where I will be spending the next week, until I get payed again. This rut is getting deeper.

Oh, yeah: last night, when I got back to the PH, I found my sleeping bag on top of one of the washers. I had stashed it in the dryer because I was tired of carrying it around. The dryer was full of clothes, so they must have actually fixed the damned things. Wow. So, I plugged my laptop in and worked on my novel for a while. About an hour later, this twenty-something dude came in, and jumped when he saw me.

“Sorry, dude,” he said. “You kind of startled me.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn't mean to.” He got his stuff out of the dryer and said have a good one and I said you too and that was it. Didn't seem like the type to turn me in. I'm sure he realized I was sleeping there, with my bike, backpack and stuff all there. Anyway, nobody bothered me in the morning, even the possum, who usually gets home about 6:30 or so, and doesn't even glance at me any more.
I'll be back there again tomorrow night, I guess. The place stinks bad, but it isn't from me: it's the possum (and / or possums: they all look the same to me)! I always bring a bottle of water back to the PH, so I'll have water at night. When it's empty, and I wake up and have to pee, I pee in the bottle. I don't just piss all over the place. I'm not a fucking bum or a derelict. I toss the bottle in a trash can somewhere. This one guy, when I told him I was homeless (I make sure that I tell a lot of people: It's like “coming out”) said, “You don't look that dilapidated.” That pissed me off. Like, I have to fit your ignorant ideal? He was fat, rich, and (God willing) on his last fucking triple bypass.

“XCUSE ME ... where do my THUNDERBIRD be at??????”

I do change names in my blog to protect the innocent, but I don't change anything to protect the guilty. My so-called friend, Bridget, and her roommate, Christie, are good examples of the latter. They owe me $480, and have owed me money since May. This is the story of how I wound up homeless:

Back around April of this year, I was living with my father, who has Alzheimer's and rectal cancer. I was working at Albertson's (where I work now) and saving money so I could have my own place to live, since it was only a matter of time before he would have to have a “higher level of care”, which means “more expensive level of care”. Bridget had just bought a new car when she lost her job (and so did Christie) and had an accident, which was a hit-and-run. Her insurance had a $500 deductible, and she couldn't afford it, so I loaned her $500 to cover that, and a further $60 to cover some other bills. I had about $1300 saved, at the time, so I figured I could do it.

Well, right after that, my family (of which I am not a voting member, being a no-good, homeless faggot), informed me that it was time to move Dad into the “higher level of care” (q.v.), and it would be that weekend. They love surprising me. I hate surprises. Don't ever give me a surprise birthday party: I will run away very fast. Anyway, at the same, exact time (go figure), my friend, Bridget, told me that they could not afford to pay their rent, and that they would probably have to move somewhere, and God knows what would happen to them, boo-hoo. Their rent was $500.

Well, dumb-ass Carl came up with a solution: “Hey, I'll give you guys $100 a week to stay at your place, and you can pay me back the loan, and then you'll be covered, and I'll get an apartment, and everything will be way kewl!” It was such a perfect plan. I was so happy that I'd thought of it. Everything seemed so rosy.

But, it was not to be ...

I was at their place for not quite five weeks (more about this later) and was informed that I would have to leave, because Bridget was going to move her sick aunt in, to take care of her (of course, this never happened). I said, okay, just give me the money you owe me, and I'll get an apartment, and like, no harm, no foul. What I got was $40 in an envelope, laid on the inflatable bed I was sleeping on . It had “Carl” written on it.. I didn't have enough money to get a place to live, and I was on the streets, where I have been, ever since.

Since then, I have received another $40. Yay. The last time, Christie brought it to me at work. She acted as if she were offended, because she had to give me money (once again, in an envelope).

“Here,” she whined. “We're going to pay you back. Why are you disrespecting us?”

What a joke. In five months, I have gotten $80 from my so-called friends. I kept them from being homeless, and my reward is to be homeless. I payed their fucking rent and paid to fix Bridget's new car. I sleep with mosquitoes and possums and get one night a week in a bed: WHO THE FUCK IS DISRESPECTING WHOM?????

Anyway, I am supposed to get $100 on Friday. Wanna bet on if I get it or not? Right now, I have $20 left, from my check, until I get payed again, in a week. Every penny I earn, I spend just to stay alive. Every day I live, my anger grows. The only thing keeping me alive now is anger. I have a new respect for this emotion.

Well, I'm watching Robot Chicken now, and I'm about to go to sleep. It's so fucking nice here, in room 233, even if the WiFi is down. The sheets are clean and the bed is a hell of a lot softer than plywood. There are no mosquitoes, and I really don't miss the possum. Oh, yeah: I did buy a bottle of Chardonnay: $6.99, plus tax. This is my nirvana: too bad I only get 12 hours of heaven a week.