Part One: Too much Time on my Hands
One frigid winter evening, I was chilling out in a parking lot at a small convenience store in Richmond, Virginia, specifically for the dual purpose of warmth and personal entertainment. Realistically, I was loitering around. A personal specialty of mine, loitering, and I had refined it to a fine art form. However, I was actually there because I had no particular place to go, and nothing in particular to do. Being homeless for a very long period I had a vast surfeit of time to waste.
Every once in a while, I’d enter the well-lit store to warm up, spending a paltry quarter on an arcade machine to avoid being actually accused of loitering, though that’s exactly what I was doing. Yes, I was certainly guilty, but paying my measly quarter once in a while seemed to somewhat justify my presence, and I was therefore tolerated. Even a quarter is profit after all, right? Every time I entered for some temporary warming relief I caught an annoyed look from the cashier, but no actual complaint arrived because I was still spending that damned coin. This is the sad nature of our human world. Only the coin of the realm matters, and human welfare sadly doesn't seem to. Some poor sod could freeze and starve on a sidewalk in front of a warm restaurant, and no patrons would deign to ever care.
By this time, I had already been wandering homeless for several years across multiple states, and none of the programs set up for the unfortunate applied to someone of my unusual demeanor. These programs for the destitute are entirely designed to help addicts of one sort or another. Having no interest in alcohol personally, I had always avoided it. Watching drunks seemed far more entertaining to me than actually being one.
I wouldn’t even drink a single beer. As far as drugs were concerned, the very concept of getting high bothered me so much that I perpetually avoided them.
Another curse of the majority of these programs was religion. Enforced religion and sermons disgusted me. who needs such dogmatic beliefs forced upon them with the shallow excuse of "helping" the unfortunate? So all of the poverty-oriented programs that enforced religious services were completely out of the picture for me as well. Is a grubby pauper's meal worth an hour’s tired pontification about a non-interfering and purposely unhelpful God?
Who wants to be directly preached to as a sort of ransom for such a miserable meal fit only for lowly paupers? Aka the "unworthy" ones of America. That’s not my scene friends.
Tragically in most American cities both large and not so large, no doubt by a vast insidious design against the poor, these types of highly restrictive programs are the only help that’s generally available for the homeless to utilize. The desperate have little choice in the matter really.
Participate or starve. A simple choice no? It’s all perfectly intentional as I’ve discovered throughout my strange wanderings.
If one’s own nature is not subject to such addictions such as drugs or alcohol, and loathes religious beliefs being forced down their throats, too damned bad right? Why should the poor deserve better more reasonable options than the ones already available? Better options with more actual usefulness and less forced dogma and too-perfect ideals being forcefully pushed upon the poor.
In short, even among the homeless I was considered highly unusual because of my lack of vices and clear sight of things others preferred to ignore.
I had no legitimate place to live because I was alone without a support system and poorer than that legendary church-mouse, and the very idea of wage-slavery utterly revolts me down to my freedom-lovin' rebellious soul. I believe the idea should offend any thoughtful being that considers themselves a free spirit. Doubly so with rent being so utterly outrageous and beyond reason itself upon lands that by all natural rights should be shared freely. Most wage-slave away to ransom the pitifully scant fruits of our hard labor to landlords, it seems quite unnatural to me and borders on the edge of evil in my personal view.
Even if I were somehow suddenly eagerly inclined to join this depressing and oppressing joke of a soulless joyless financial system, my disadvantages and handicaps were legion. I had no verifiable employment history, no credit, possessed no references and no employable or useful skills beyond existing as a generic human body only capable of mindless labor. I possessed no official education past the 5th grade, and no degrees or certificates. Any employment I would have barely qualified for would never pay enough to manage rent, as well as all the extra costs associated, so why bother with such a worthless endeavor? Why not just live for the moment and wander, to see as much as I could during my limited time here on Earth? Life being short enough already, why waste it choosing soul-draining wage-slavery?
So I was always completely on my own. I have fashioned my own home deep within myself, and have always found a way to adapt thus far. My home was potentially everywhere, or nowhere, depending upon one’s perspective.
Many of my days were spent frittered away in fast food places like Burger King, where they had bottomless cheap coffee and wonderfully sugary soda with refills allowed, and always self-serve, so also technically endless. I’d often curl up at a quiet back table with a fun paperback to pass my time and defy tedium. Since few seemed to read, free tattered paperbacks were everywhere, and at least they found a home with me, until finished, and like a spurned lover, haphazardly flung away in favor of yet another.
Usually sitting alone, and often joined by fellow homeless loiterers that also had no particular place to go. We all had that much in common at the very least. Were we a tribe? Only in the most liberal definition of the word. Were we friendly? Usually, but not always. It often depended upon our level of irritation at that particular moment. Cantankerous and crotchety attitudes can be quite common among the misfits of society. Doubly true when living outside in the unforgiving elements.
Loitering seemed as good a way to pass the endless hours as any other. Considering the restaurant manager had a kind soul, my fellow homeless and I were never bothered or asked to leave unless our presence bothered other more ‘legitimate’ customers (meaning those regular folks that spent more money at once, which we never did, being poverty-stricken).
So it became a major hangout for the drifters, misfits and wanderers such as myself. We weren’t obnoxious like the young hoodlums having drag races in the streets, or dangerous such as the criminals and addicts prowling the alleys looking for their eternal fix.
Burger King wasn’t exactly nightclub-level excitement, but it worked for us because we were far more mellow-natured than ever suspected by a dismissive society that hadn’t a clue about the true nature of our independent-minded tribe.
We were non-conformists in our uniquely different ways. Where there is no home, we were resilient enough to make our own, growing accustomed to each other’s company, often begrudgingly but surely. Sharing a common bond of unfortunate circumstances helped us get along with each other at least.
