The Homeless Blogger 1/28/18

Out on the street again. That place I had was too good to be true. The renter laws in this town totally favor the landlord. Run a little late, bounce a check or two, and you come home to find all your possessions – in my case, stashed in three grocery bags – out on the sidewalk.

The good news is that I never actually paid the old woman anything. She comes from a time long ago when a man’s word was his bond. My bonds are all of the bail variety.

So I’m sitting in the Bush Street library, the ritziest in town. Except, just one computer. The head librarian does not want his patrons online. He’s another old one.

Now I’m at the Garden Branch library over by the university. Some kid is giving out free weed in front. I came here because the long line for the computer at Bush was getting pushy. Rich folks, don’t want the hoi polloi putting dirty fingers on their keyboard.

That grass is going right to my head. Now that it’s legal, who knows what street scenes will befall us.

The grass wasn’t exactly free, but I didn’t have to pay anything for it.

Now I’m down at the East First Street Branch. The university students at Garden Branch are a lot more fastidious than I remember college students being. Nobody is going to complain about that sort of thing down here. The busiest room in the place is the bathroom,  where the homeless clean up.

Now I’m off to look for the old Dale Carnegie book I used to read while waiting for the soup kitchen to open.

Man thinks men think he is a turtle

Sir, come out of the box, the officer says.

He’s got himself taped to the box in there, the other officer says.

Go in and cut him free, Mark.

How?

With a knife? With scissors? Use your head.

I’ve got my 96A1. No blades.

You’re the only officer on the force with a Beretta. You’re a God-damn showoff, Mark… Sir, is this box your house?

Not my house. My outhouse.

You got some air-freshener on your belt, Mark?

No blades, no fresheners.

Go back to the 12 and get that little tree hanging from the rear view… Sir, are you homeless?

Only when the tape fails.

Walmart Evicts Workers Living In Store Parking Lot

[Headline, Huffington Post, 02/10/12]

All over America, there are husbands temporarily living in their car after a fight with their wife. Where do they wash up, shave, and brush their teeth every day? At work, of course. Many sleep under their desk rather than in the vehicle.

(In which other countries does this occur? There was a vogue in Finland, until a spate of hypothermic incidents led to a dramatic increase in widows; in Romania, husbands woke up sharing their automobile with a family of gypsies; in China, to find an iPad assembly line in the back seat; etc.)

In general, companies are comfortable with this situation. The employee stops asking to “work from home.” Commute time is zero. Employees purchase all their necessaries right there in the store, instead of letting their mate at home go cruising out to Safeway every day. So what went wrong at Walmart? All seemed copacetic. Right next door at Target, a husbands’ support group was meeting in an RV in the parking lot. On the other side, husbands were quietly dumpster-diving at Jack in the Box.

It turns out that Walmart experienced an uptick in husbands living in their cars, not due to domestic discord, but to avoid onerous chores and childcare duties at home. These men were telling their wives that Walmart was making them work around the clock. That to keep their job, they had to “work late.” Then they would party all night long in the lot, in Winnebagos tricked out as huge mancaves.

The bottom 80% of workers at Walmart are moms, many harried. When they found out what was going on, they threatened a Spartacus-like revolt. The parking-lot husbands, including many Walmart executives, were sent home.