hobo bebop

Who knew a town this small would encompass a waiting list to receive a bunk in a fucking flop house. For a week I meandered around downtown Santa Fe mingling with the resident hobo culture, we sitting in the main plaza, smoking rollies and mocking the flabby, dislocated tourists clogging the streets. Santa Fe is a nice town and I wouldn’t mind staying here, but at the moment it is still fucking cold! A bitter iciness cascading down from the Rockies which chill my very marrow even on the most sunniest of afternoons. The locals are quite bland and overtly vanilla for my tastes. Except for the occasional drunken Indian, there seems to be a vacuum as far as a hip culture is concerned. I do pine for the days when I can take a walk and be accosted by speed induced prostitutes or conning shoe shine boys or the shifty eyed ex-con. It's too clean here.

I did run into a twenty-three year old blond train jumper named Cody. He confided he was taking a break before his straight shot jump to San Francisco to wile lazy afternoons in Haight Ashbury in a hallucinogenic haze. A handsome, learned man with strikingly good Aryan features. His lanky body draped over in sooty jeans, gray turtle-neck sweater, naval jacket and red baseball cap. He carried all he possessed in a ruck sack flung over boney shoulders. We sat in the Railroad Park drinking 40 oz. Coors from a paper bag and smoking weed discussing each other’s cross-country travels. Far after the alcohol kicked in and a little after the sun set over the pine covered mountains, I gave Cody a hand job as he was wrapped warmly in his dingy sleeping bag. His penis was long, thin and circumcised…like him. He sighed and smiled with crimson tinged eyes after he discharged a squirty mess all over his sooty winter outer wear that the release was much needed.

I couldn’t sleep, so I spent the long frigid night aimlessly wondering dark silent Santa Fe streets wishing I had went to Tijuana instead. Wrapped in my thick Dickies coat, smoking cigarette after cigarette, I gazed up into a clear navy sky awash with stars and regretted my dire decision to come here. I feel like a fish out of water, a dislocated alien. This American culture – though born into – is no longer mine. Long days slide by as I sit and listen to the clean white tourists striding past and I cringe…I can’t become like that. Or at least I do not wish to.

Anyhow, back to business: After walking over to the shelter every day at 3pm and signing up for a bunk, I was finally awarded entrance last Friday. A clean establishment with a pleasant staff and unlimited coffee in the canteen. Unfortunately, the place is populated with the most bland and boring citizens I had ever encountered throughout my interval as a hobosexual. A sulky, whiny crew of real ugly. Not one holds promise of any type of friendly association during my stay. Either be Santa Fe or relocate to Tijuana, it will be at least a two months holed up in this shelter before I make my move and I will have to put my tolerance on over drive to deal with these dreary bores….ho-hum.