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Tuesday, August 27, 2013

HOW TO LIVE LIKE A STREET PERSON ------ MEETING FRIENDLY KILLERS





       I always thought - if you really wanted to study a society
civilization, culture, it would be fair and best if
you were five people - each of you living in a different
socio-economic milieu...
        If you could be five people, 
you could live at five different economic  levels at once, then you
could  study society... with some justice, and no worries about prejudice towards certain ways of life.
        Why would you want to do this?
        Freedom is the goal in its many shapes sizes and morphs...  If you experience being rich, you realize it`s not the goal you thought it was - you don`t have to have it. Being loaded financially has it`s disadvantages, believe it or not.
You become dissociated from the other people. It`s goal - big houses with large yards, this ends up in isolation and exclusion - injecting codein into your groin, like Howard Hughes.
              Though, honestly, riches have an up side, too.
DUH!  But we all know wealth is desireable... Being rich
you learn what you are missing....
             Bob Dylan`s line: "Helpless like a rich man`s child."
That line makes the point for me.


        So I decided to live as a street person and see
how that felt... I`ve been fairly broke recently, so
pretending I have no money is not going to be a
stretch.
        Anyway, I got a phone call from a guy called,
"Sideways" Bobby. He said he`d found my notebook.
         "Hey, that`s great, where`d you find it?"
         "Sherbourne Street and Queen.... There`s a park
there.  Do you know the park?"
         "Yes," I said.
         "It was sittin` on a park bench right beside the phone booth."
         "Well, anyway, that`s great.. How can I meet you?"
         "In the book it says reward," Sideways said.
         "For sure! How about twenty bucks?"
         " If it was a normal notebook, that`d be about right.
But there`s stories in it... I read three of them. They`re pretty damn good.  I`m sure you can sell the one about
the woman whipping the guy in the balls as he`s
giving her head...!  Everyone liked that one! It`s gotta be
worth money!  Did you make that up, or is it a true story?
 he asks.
          "It`s a true story," I say.
          "Yeah, it`d be kind of hard to make something like
that up!   I felt like I was right there with ya.  Blew my load
more than once over that scene, I can tell you."
           "Well, that`s the idea," I say. "I want my stories
to inspire someone to do something."
            "Well, you sure inspired me all right... and about
five other fellas in my  extended family were jerking off, too.
... up and down the hall.  The book`s a hit!"
            "I should meet you.  You sound like a good guy...
              "Yeah, come on down."
               What should I bring when I come, booze-wise?"
I ask him.
             "Start with 24 beer, and then we`ll wing it....
              I was about to hang up and he said, "Oh, yeah
  and a bottle of rye."
              "No problem," I said 
               About an hour later I was driving downtown
with a couple of hundred dollars, a case of beer and
a bottle of rye.

              I met Sideways Bobby and he did walk
a little funny... sorta like he has at a prep school dance
and he was avoiding everybody, skirting round the
outside of the room... trying to avoid any grade sixers
girls who might ask him to dance... He seemed like a devoted wallflower...and then  add a little lemon and a  twist of paranoia.
              Bobby skulked into his own doorway, "Landlord
hates me," he mumbled back towards me.... At that moment
I noticed a large shiny knife in his right suit jacket
pocket... which seemed to have been re-inforced
somehow....
              "Ahhh.... Can I ask you something?"
               "Shhhhhh!  Wait until we`re inside!"""

                We went inside... and then there were
three of us - the new guy, a great big indian fella,
who looked as if he`d prefer to cut our throats
with a razor, rather than talk to us... He didn`t say
a word, but he brought us three glasses... set them 
emphatically in front of the couch Sideways Bobby and I were
sitting on.
         The couch was the only item of furniture in the
whole room..... the room wasn`t large,  about twenty by twenty,  but still....
         Bobby jerked his thumb off towards where the
large six foot six,  first nations person was standing.
Clearly he looked homicidal.
          I poured about four inches of whiskey into each
of the e ounce glasses....The Indian topped us up.
so our glasses were full ---- of (oh, oh) ditch-fighting Canadian rye whiskey.

          When I go out on the town these days, which is rare,
I worry more about   creating a horrible scene, playing
a hilarious prank... or scaring the piss out of
a room of diners...
          Sometimes, if I really have drunk too much rye
and I`ve had no water chasers, and I`ve eaten nothing in the
last couple of days ... I have a tendency to
climb church towers and ring the bells
and call out to the town, with my arms outstretched
in an embracing posture ... calling the whole fucking
town forth to WORSHIP!
           Well, I`ve spend some timee in various locked
units....and it wouldn`t happen except for the
sense of humour I have when I drink.... snake-kicking
Canadian Rye Whiskey----- it`ll get you off your reservation even if you ain`t supposed to be on one... ha! ha!

      We all have our own private resevations that we`ll be arrested if we step off...  Mine is rye whiskey.

       Now all three of us are sitting on the couch -  it`s a four seater,  so the three of us can just bearely fit...
       Sideways has wolfed his first six ounces of rye... then he gets up, stumbles across the room... walks   smack into the wall which looks like real plaster and pisses himself....
       Now he`s on the floor and talking to someone who is not
in the room.
       And so at this moment it`s just me and the big Indian on the couch.I notice he has a straight razor about for inches from his wrist on the arm of the couch.
        He`s six feet six insches tall;  he`s bigger around than
an oil drum!  He doesn`t NEED a fucking razor!
       Neither of us should drink another drop of  more rye
Canadian Rye.... There are 10-15 ounces left in the 40 ouncer.
      "You had any breakfast?"  I ask him
      "This is breakfast," he says
      "Me too," I answer.
        We both start to laugh... This guy`s OK.  He`s
just as crazy and paranoid as I am.... And he`s been locked
up, I can tell.... He`s wary, but at the moment he doesn`t
give a fuck  about any cops or insane addicts, crazed mad-jealous husbands ("horn mad" as they used to say in England)... neither do I... No one`s coming at us now,
I`m happy to say.
         I attempt to use my cell.  Shane grabs my wrist
and has the razor to my throat. I could have dodged it
but I`ve accepted Shane as not being a total
loon.  
          He gives his head a shake, says, "Sorry. Thought
you were a parole officer..."
           I laugh...."Not me!"I say, "And I can prove it...
Got my record back where I live... but now... too drunk to drive...Im trying to order more rye.  That OK?"
           "Yes, sir!"  he waves  both his arms at me
in some kind of a back-bush salute.

            We sit back down. I wave him over.  We put our heads together; " Look, we can`t be insane and drink any more rye together.  How we going to do it?
             "I tell you when you`re losing it," he says.
             "And if you are losing it?" I ask.
             "Then you`re fucked!"

             I`m liking this guy more and more....
             "No problem.... only the deal is we put our
weapons in that corner drawer."
             He squints at me... says, "Weapons?"
And he grins.
             This guy is smart.  He`s just playing a role - the big
dumb guy (with very fast hands, I noticed). He`s not
dumb.  He`s bright, bright, bright..."
             "You bugger," I say, looking him in the eye. "When did you know?"
             "Looking at you, I assumed... You were too confident
in a strange situation... nonchalant. I know you`re a writer,
but still... I scare the piss out of most people... Most people leave in a hurry.  Here you are buying me rye... You had to be armed," he says.
             "You first," I say. He stands up and blots out the sun
and puts his gleaming straight razor in the corner drawer.
I stand up and extract a one pound lead sap from under my
left arm. I put it in the drawer.
           "This could crack a skull..." he says.
            "I hope so!" I laugh. Then say,  "Depends how you use it."


    







 

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