Hints for THE HOMELESS
by Kenny Kollerer
You need another mouth to feed-get a dog. A dog is a boon
companion and a good icebreaker for panhandling. "Could you spare some
change for a can of Skippy?" And even a little dog gives a big warning
at the crack of a twig in the dead of night. They are also warm and ever
cheerfully optimistic. The down parts of having a dog are two. Most shelters
make it hard or impossible if your friend has a tail. Also you must be very
careful to avoid being arrested, especially during daylight hours. When
you go to the can, so does your pal Tirebiter, and he doesn't hear word
one about Miranda rights either. He's flat out kidnapped for a ransom that
starts beyond your means and mounts skyward. Let's call it what is. The
fascist scum that run this scam are some cold monks. They don't care how
you get the money. Just get it. You pay up or they murder your dog.
The police know this well. And with the remarkable number of genuinely good
human creatures that wear this County's badge, many's the time a drunk or
trespassing homeless was let to walk for his dog's sake.
A word about our Sonoma County Sheriffs. Having spent 30 years on the streets
of America's and Mexico's hippiest happening cities I've studied intently
many a local force and known many a goy in blue-like an Eskimo knows snow.
Wherever you wander thither and yon, they all got cops, most of whom make
you despondent. Darwin proved their kin to you. Bullies and cowards, maladjusted
and subject to routine psychotic episodes.
Don't get me wrong; there's at least one good cop in every jurisdiction.
And the harder the turf, the truer it is. I've nested in many a top gun
ghetto, from the Filmore in 'Frisco to the Bowery, but out here at the river
I'd bet my own money the majority of our officers are actually decent, well
motivated, good human beings. I've seen nothing like it. Deal for deal,
incident by incident, I'm here to tell you this is the only place I've seen
or heard tell of where the average cop has more honor than the average street
person.
Get to know your cops. Don't go the other way when you see one coming. This
kind of behavior begs investigation. Say hi, good morning, or whatever makes
it an easier world for both of you. The more they're used to seeing you,
the less interesting you become. Then when you do take that occasional drink
too many or unlucky trespass that makes you interesting again, the more
likely you'll get a warning instead of an abject lesson.
Of course if you don't have a dog and you're cold and hungry and not afraid
of TB, jail is a mighty nice place to read and watch TV, and you can be
just as interesting as you want. To get there, I would recommend petty theft
for the serious aspirant. If you've any talent for it, your supply of tobacco,
booze and (for a master) the big steaks will win you renown, friends and
places to hole up while you're waiting to get caught.
Once you're in, give yourself a chance to adapt. They'll try to O.R. you
in few days, which means put you back in cold and hungry with the additional
pain of having to come to court on your own. No. NO. Refuse O.R! This way
you won't miss your trial, which is another offense. Jail is nice, but don't
make it your life till you're sure it suits you. Tell them why you're there.
They need to know. When you refuse O.R., they'll believe it. It's three
hots and a cot. No more no less. Maybe get a week for a bottle of wine.
If it's still cold and hungry out when you hit the bricks again, don't steal
another bottle. The system frowns on pattern offenders and hunts eternally
for them. Do something else. By the time you exercise the run of common
misdemeanors, you'll have wintered indoors a couple years and know for sure
if you like it. If so, I'd be sure to commit a federal crime, as federal
accommodations and service are infinitely superior.
Don't be afraid of your local prisoners. About 96 percent of them are drunks
or crankers, people who got too high. They are a dull lot by and large;
the whole sham is a pathetic waste of concrete and iron, having almost nothing
to do with crime. In the whole county farm where I wintered in '84, there
were three real convicts, one amateur bank robber, and maybe one other criminal.
That was it. Every other person had got loaded and messed up.
For those who have doggies or feel phobic about being caged with criminals,
other services can be availed. For the drinker, the garden spot of Sonoma
County is the Orenda Center. You're invited to go in and dry out for at
least three days. The food is much better than jail, and you can walk out
when you want, but there is no TV or radio, and the good books take a long
time to dig out of the crap. They want you to suffer and dwell on it. It's
part of their catechism. Not even an aspirin shall you have. Barbaric. If
you have tranks or whatever, it's easy enough to slip them in your jacket
lining before you go in. More than once I've slipped a miltown to another
fellow sufferer. If you can, do. You must have the stomach for a lot of
Jesus this, and God saved me that, and ritual daily meetings from propagandists
so brainwashed and washable that this mantra actually works for them. This
makes me nuts, but after a few nights of rain, I'm ready again.
Meanwhile they provide good food and shelter for drunks-or people they think
are drunks. Last wintering I hadn't had one drink for two months, but I
had got rained on two nights running. So it was liquor store, bottle of
snaps, 911. The cops will drive you there. Glad to. Each drunk they drop
there doesn't go to jail. It's like giving the County the hundreds of dollars
a day they don't spend because you're not there. Everybody's happy-you,
the County, and Orenda, too, with another soul to save. Just be sure you
have the cop phone first and find out if they have room for you. The County
taxi only goes one way. You have to find your own way back.
They especially like it if you have a bottle to confiscate-even an empty.
Don't know why, but it makes them happy like Tirebiter on a bone. If you
go by cop car, your chauffeur will see they get it. If you go in on your
own, let them see you chug the last of your jug as you come in. This is
convincing. They're certain you're a drunk and not some rip-off posing as
one.
Keep your spirits up. You may not be a genuine vomiting alcoholic but you
deserve to eat sometimes too. Moan a lot and hold your belly. Take little
steps and teeter for them, and they'll take just as much joy from it as
if you were the real thing. You can abide there up to ten days of a given
month. You may like it; the company is of a much higher caliber than in
jail-diverse and experienced in the vicissitudes of life. If so, there is
another such center in Marin. The food is said to be quite good and they've
got television. Go there. Find a local address for a cover, so you can say
you live there, and you know the rest: liquor store, bottle of schnapps,
911. Marin cops like saving the County money, too. There's another center
up north. There's probably one every 45 miles. Go to any one and you hear
the addresses of others and how they're rated from your fellow travelers.
You could wait out the whole depression giving 3 or 4 of them turns at your
soul. Hell, stay warm and rest till every one you know has a good job. They
won't get tired of seeing you back again. They expect a lot of recidivism.
It affirms their belief system.
One last tip, this time about the cold. An old hobo surely saved my young
ass going back east jumping freights. We wound up riding out on a car carrier
with no cars on it. There were no boxcars open. It was a 3-day non-stop
from Oakland to Chicago. It was majestic till we hit the blizzard highballing
at seventy. The old hobo and I got down on the lowest platform but that
helped not a bit. We hunkered close and he yelled over the clatter of the
tracks that he'd rather jump than freeze. He'd known men caught like that,
and some had done the one and some the other. I must not have looked like
a leaper.
"Yeah, you can do it, kid. All you need is luck. You just hope there's
a fat girl with a bottle a wine, and jump. People have done it," he
assured me, "but then, people are some dumb sons of bitches."
He laughed. He pulled a newspaper up out of his jacket and handed me half
and started balling it up a sheet at a time and pushing them into his legs
and sleeves and down his back and anywhere he could find some room. Me too.
It works, boys and girls-and better than many a sleeping bag. Then he produced
a flask of rye from his big coat.
"Have some, son, I got plenty."
"So some jump and make it, huh?"
"Yeah some. But that fat girl with the wine is never gonna be there."
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