Under the yellow sun, I would roam for miles. Just pick a direction and go. Leave. There is so much world to see when you are walking and free and leaving. You see the stuff that you miss out on when you're simply driving through a place. Driving insulates you from the very air which gives a place life.
When you see a bum, what do you see? Visually, I mean. His ragged, unkempt beard. The smudges of dirt on his face and clothes. Or do you see the tatters first. Do you smell him at all? Can you hear him? Are you feeling anything? Sadness, perhaps? Pity maybe?
When I see a bum, I see a beautiful human being. The bum is as free an occupation as anybody can ever get. He has no responsibilities in the slightest, and can explore as much as he feels. There is a certain romanticism in being homeless. I always thought that it might leave me after I myself became homeless, but it hasn't.
I've hitchhiked. I've hopped trains. I've robbed and been robbed. Generally, I was an utter fucking scumbag who tried to be on heroin as much as humanly possible. I made most of my money either through the kindness of strangers or by harassing them into buying my garbage art. I really hated money back then. Mostly because I didn't have very much of it. But I did like heroin. Like, a lot. I liked heroin more than I hated money. I liked it more than anything.
Heroin made me okay. I didn't have to worry about where I would sleep that night, because it would all work out. I didn't have to worry about the hunger pains in my stomach, because I would get food eventually. Everything would be okay because I was okay, and I would always be okay.
I remember one night in particular. I was in Reno, and had been for about a week. Absolutely gorgeous little city. The mountains alone are enough to drop jaws. I spent a few days camping on a hill overlooking the city. Not a soul to be found. Everyday I would hitch into where people lived to buy food and water, then hitch my way out. It wasn't a bad existence by any means, despite subsisting on a diet of rice, beans, and Italian seasoning. I was pretty happy, out there away from the city.
Well, on this particular night the city came to me. I woke up to pain, and a shoe coming at my chest. I don't know if anybody here has ever been woken up by being kicked, but I really do not recommend it. These people had seen me in my little hidey hole and, I don't know, assumed I had something good. They were robbing me, much to their disappointment.
That night, I lost thirty dollars and half a 5lb bag of rice that got spilled in the struggle. My ink pens were thrown into the desert shrubs and I cried out after them. My assailants left in a jeep that played soft rap music when the engine ignited. I felt so low.
In the morning I hitched to a library and tried to call my mother, but they wouldn't let me. None of the people I asked would either, though to be fair I wouldn't have let me either. I looked pretty haggard. Had that look about me that screamed either homeless or apocalypse. I ended up dunking my entire being into the Truckee River and went into a gay bar sopping wet. I'm not a bad looking dude when I'm not covered in grime. I thought, maybe, that I could make a friend or two. I wasn't gay (at the time) but they didn't have to know.
I met a man we will call Carl. He bought me drinks and took me back to his place. "I don't want sex, I want a buddy. I just quit my 60/h a week job and I'm fucking done. Fucking DONE."
Fair enough Carl. I'm fucking done too. Let's party. Let's do heroin. I'm afraid of needles, but I don't care. What's the worst that can happen? Death? I welcome the worst.
Injecting drugs in someone's apartment is really odd at first. Everything about it tells you that you shouldn't be doing it. You've seen the TV shows. You've graduated from DARE. You know you are playing with your life. Somehow though, it doesn't seem like a risk at all. It seems nail-bitingly exciting. Fresh, new.
When the red shot up and the brown shot in, I knew there was no turning back. I was in love. Hopelessly in love.
"Is this what normal people feel like?" I asked.
"No," Carl said. "This is what gods feel like."
"Gods..." I pondered the thought. I really, really liked the idea of being a god. An unfeeling, uncaring god. All I had ever done for my entire life was try not to feel. Be it videogames or vandalism or drugs, I only ever wanted to escape. It's really a futile effort. You can't escape yourself. I know that now. But when you're on heroin it really does feel like you can. All you need is some more heroin.
The morning after I told Carl I wanted more.
"Look man, I'm not made of money. You can crash here for a few days until you get your shit figured out, but I can't afford to feed both of our addictions."
Addiction. I had only done heroin once, but addiction seemed like a good word for it. Not that you absolutely, certainly WILL get addicted to heroin on your first go, but I did. I was a poor and sad man who nobody loved. I always had been. So when brown love rears her ugly, pretty head, you know I'm going to dive straight into it. From that very day I decided that I would be an opiate addict. I would live the romantic lifestyle of bumming and hopping that I had been, but I would also do it while on heroin. I'd stolen before and I knew I sure as fuck would do it again if it meant feeling like I did the night before.
I lived this life for about a year before settling into the domestic junkie lifestyle, and eventually getting sober just nine months ago. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this thread to be honest. I have a lot of stories but I don't want to bore you all with a novel of a post. Just wanted to give you an idea of what my life was like back then and I got a bit carried away.
In short, I miss it. I miss being a bum who doesn't have bills or schedules or alarm clocks. I miss not having everything I own in a little back-sack. I miss shooting up under bridges and being free. I know it's a pretty pathetic thing to miss. I don't exactly like being homeless or hitchhiking or jumping trains. I would much rather have money to travel. But this sort of lifestyle is the only one I can afford. It's actually pretty soul crushing. Not getting rides, getting pushed out of your sleeping spot by cops. It wears on you. Makes you feel like utter dog shit for existing.
But maybe I am dog shit, yeah? Maybe I am just a shitty human being. I'm no saint. I'm a bad person who stops just short of rape and murder. So I probably deserve to feel the way I do. I've changed now, but nothing I do will ever make up for the horrendous shit I've done to people. And I know what you will all say. "Oh Tom! It's never too late to change!"
Well fuck you. I stole Christmas toys from a car once so I could return them to Walmart. They were infant's toys. One of them was a piano that played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and it was a nice one too. I made $80 off that bag of would be joy. I am a shitty fucking person, okay? I don't like myself whatsoever and I want to crack my skull and let my brain ooze into the sewers where it belongs.
But I'm a frightened thief who doesn't want to die. And that's where heroin comes in. Sweet, sweet heroin that makes me believe in the fantasy of dreams coming true. Besides heroin, I don't really know what else to do. It is hard for me to believe that people actually live like I've been living for the last 9 months. So yeah. There it is.
Everything I've just written is complete fantasy as part of a writing exercise.
Submitted May 20, 2018 at 09:40AM by TWO_TUNIC_TOM https://ift.tt/2IzFyW5
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