6am and the phone on the wall loudly buzzes till it falls crashing to the stained littered carpet. I leap out of bed shivering in the predawn light of night and splash water on my face, brush the pearlies, shake the roaches from my clothes and take the rickety croaking moaning beat hotel elevator five flights down into those sleeping mad streets. The gray mist hangs malevolent through that concrete canyon as some hobo hacks into the filthy wadded napkin lying next to the entrance - dart into a 7-11 and buy a paper cup of hideous overpriced java fom the giggling Hindi. Jump the trolley and clakclakclak over to Vinnies to see about getting a bunk. I am grudging this, you see. I really want to stop this insidious cycle I have been spinning in the last decade - but am flat broke and the first is still five days away and I'll probably hafta pawn my laptop - again.
But I am getting sidetracked - so onward. I bop up to the Niel Goode Center tucked away from rich and snooty eyes of the San Diego well to do and a wave of funk hits my nostrils of unwashed bodies, sour feet and that rancid nicotine residue as the place is wall to wall with crazy hobo action. I walk through the gates of Moloch and am greeted by Bruce - a geriatric hobosexual that has been living on the mean streets since day one, Mary - and pumps my numb noggin with all types of transient information.
8am rolls round and wait in line to see about getting a bed - any professional bum knows all about waiting in line - will wait in line for hours spittin' on the pavement and puffin' them rollies if the shit is free. Anyway, had a stare down with some hard looking black guy that wanted to prove what a badass he was - told the flabby jerk 'shaddap'.
So, no beds which was no surprise seeing that the economy is crap and the recession is swingin' like a boywhores balls and I twiddle my fingers at Bruce and say toodl-loo and stride over to the main building two blocks away amid sidewalks of urine and shit and the rotting cadavers lying in it. Waiting in line again to get a 'homeless ID' I strike up conversation with old friend Raul who I hadn't seen since the Outback Steakhouse incident. He lookin' hella fine in his suit ready to look for a job. It's all a shame though, you see - he just playing good cause they are going to throw his cute ass out on accounta he was written up three times for intoxication.
Well, says my adios to Raul, get my ID and jet over to Lee's Cafe for a good cheap plate of eggs and hash. And some decent coffee.
After resting at the hotel a bit, I dig that new movie Quarrantine and man it will creep the crap outcha. I sat at a cafe basking in the warm sun sucking on that cigarette so nasty wondering what I am going to do the proximity of time. Move into Vinnies and save a few checks or relocate back to Tijuana and live there or rent a room at my current hotel and write that book. I tell you - all these decisions make a faggito crazy....
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