I was feeling that burn from a twenty-four hour frump, sitting in my own misery and filth downtown Miami with the rest of the hobosexuals when a wise old thing - ancient Angel of the streets serving that twenty-six year term - popped the idea into my head to play the nut job racket. Since it has become such an impossibility to acquire a bunk at one of these places here in Miami, the old fag suggested that I stay at the local nut ward and let them refer and assure a place once I am released.
Sure, why not? Wouldn't you?
So, reaching for the nearest pay phone I dialed 911 and turned on the water works playing the suicide kick.
911. State your emergency.
I just tried to kill myself...
How?
Throwing myself in front of the train. (I break down in tears.)
Don't cry, sweetie...why would you want to kill yourself?
Why not?
Three squad cars roar up to me - I am interrogated by four brutish cops and then whisked off to the State Mental Institute. Processed and probed by a hot Cuban named Rafael, I am issued a bed and I wait. I wait for two days. Gads, what an ordeal - the place was crawling with the mentally ill - it made me sick! Unfortunately the wind up is they no longer do referrals to shelters any longer. I screamed bloody hatred inside, kept my cool on the out side.
However, met an old bum - drunk really by way of Act of Congress - he gave me the info on a sweet little joint in the Florida Keys. A shelter that sounded like Shangra-la. The man went on for hours - even drawing an intricate map in hyberphrenic pictographs to the location. A place called Peterson Shelter. That is my next destination.
On the second day of drug induced boredom, I was released from that nut house and I made my way downtown. Armed with a full pack of smokes and a fist full of dollars - it seems that Key West is my next Port of Call....
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