I recently read somewhere here that a member ‘lived on the street’
Me too
Too many places to give effort to recall
But
South of the US border ain’t too comfy in places
Mainland China too
In Kowloon too long
Ran outa funds
Moved deeper into China
Where folks didn’t mind staring atcha
Learned to eat dog
Got a fever for it…
Hell, even Oregon
St Johns district, topside of Portland
Back in the early to mid ‘60s
No place to be at night, no matter what color you were
Day was bad enough
Wrote some about survival on the mean streets;
piddling stuff
Jacob’s Lot
The familiar stench of pine sol, tobacco, and long ago spilt beer permeated my senses, as I traded a bright southern day for the dank refuge of Tony’s Bar and grill.
Marguerite, the well past middle age but still a bit fetching bar maid was deftly applying yet another coating of pine sol with her bar towel.
Old Charley, a sixteen hour fixture, sitting at the bar, half way through his day shift of diluting the mourning of the loss of his two timing woman from previous decades, turned to focus on who just walked in.
The dirge of a refrain from ‘I Walk Alone’ twanged from the juke box.
It was Charlie’s favorite song.
It was Charlie’s only song.
It was Tony’s favorite song, as Marguerite yarded out a bag of quarters every four hours or so from the gaudy chest.
Big John was jacking his jaws toward a poor soul, gettin’ too close as usual, talking loud enough to make one think he had a miniature mega phone tucked inhis mouth. And he wasn’t as big as he thought he was…just tall, and loud…I called him loud John, just to get a rise outta him.
And there was Tony, at his post, way in the back, sitting at his round table, heavy black sun glasses, thick plaid shirt, Panama hat, eternal two day beard, accounting ledger under his pudgy hands…never could tell if he was studying his ledger or staring a hole through you. He was not animated. The odds were infavor of a bet that he was actually deceased.
His two cronies flanked his sides…never knew their names, but the one was always quite verbal, high pitched, gravelly voiced troll of a human. An unlit cigar perpetually toyed by his lips and teeth. Racetrack bookie type.
Barmaid legend has it that Tony had hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden upstairs where he resided, and a revolver in his lap at the table, where he spent all his waking hours.
Yeah, happy hour.
I settled into a dark wooden booth.
Marguerite brought me my beer.
I tried to lose myself in thought.
Had I become one of these predictable fixtures?
If so, was that so bad?
Can I just drift through the rest of my life?
Up to now, it had all been pretty traumatic, and hectic.
Now, living hand to mouth was quite liberating.
Yeah, long range planning was non-existent, but again, a relief…….
Esmeralda came hustling in from the back. She was the self-appointed darling of a gaggle of mongrels that frequented this fine establishment.
A bit chubby in the middle, like most thirty some year old senoritas.
Did have a good smile.
Thought about one day yielding to her come on, or even Marguerite, but I heard Marguerite would cut ya if things turned sour. Loud John talked about how she was such a tiger. I didn’t feel up to tiger standard.
And Mel, as I called the smiling enchantress, would require major expense in the antibiotic department.
And there’s all that paraphernalia of a possible relationship..
People that had actually worked today started filling the joint, so I settled up with Mel and sashayed out into the sun.
A couple doors down was the Sally, or Salvation Army mission. There were rules there.
Had to be in at a certain time.
Had to check yer bag behind the counter.
Had to sit through a sermon to eat.
Had to go to bed at lights out.
Couldn’t keep your clothes on in bed, even though it was a good chance someone else would be wearing them in the morning.
Had to be out at a certain time.
But it was a step up from the under the bridge hotel.
Around the corner was the Bayou Theater….fifty cents and you can watch five old run movies…and stay out of the cold or heat when pushed out of the mission. You did have to put up with the clientele however, and a commentary throughout the show, ‘Hey that’s Robert Taylor!’…..’No s***’…..’shut the hell up!’
Then across the square was home sweet home.
The Standard Hotel.
$1.25 a night or $5 a week…a five day week.
It was a converted warehouse of a thousand partitioned ‘rooms’, 6 x 4 rooms. The cots had some sort of linen and thin blanket. Not sure what color anything was, because they all had their very own 20 watt light strung to the middle, hanging from god knows where. It was enough to scatter a few hundred exoskeletal friends. I remember my first night, thought I had a brown comforter.
The end of each hall had a wash tub with sometimes warm water, along with a toilet..usually flushable…sometimes clogged…but always caressing a brown flaky crust.
But hey, you could stash your belongings.
I pulled my duffel bag from under my cot and tossed myself atop.
Staring at the ghost of a ceiling, I let my mind drift through the past.....
Then
quit writing
Got busy with the woman of my dreams (almost fifty years ago)
That’ll change ya
Yessir
I still write, but hope it's more entertaining
At least it is for me
Anyway, enough about me (I sicken myself...from writing...about... myself)
I’d like to read what y’all have experienced 'on the street'
Your turn;
Me too
Too many places to give effort to recall
But
South of the US border ain’t too comfy in places
Mainland China too
In Kowloon too long
Ran outa funds
Moved deeper into China
Where folks didn’t mind staring atcha
Learned to eat dog
Got a fever for it…
Hell, even Oregon
St Johns district, topside of Portland
Back in the early to mid ‘60s
No place to be at night, no matter what color you were
Day was bad enough
Wrote some about survival on the mean streets;
piddling stuff
Jacob’s Lot
The familiar stench of pine sol, tobacco, and long ago spilt beer permeated my senses, as I traded a bright southern day for the dank refuge of Tony’s Bar and grill.
Marguerite, the well past middle age but still a bit fetching bar maid was deftly applying yet another coating of pine sol with her bar towel.
Old Charley, a sixteen hour fixture, sitting at the bar, half way through his day shift of diluting the mourning of the loss of his two timing woman from previous decades, turned to focus on who just walked in.
The dirge of a refrain from ‘I Walk Alone’ twanged from the juke box.
It was Charlie’s favorite song.
It was Charlie’s only song.
It was Tony’s favorite song, as Marguerite yarded out a bag of quarters every four hours or so from the gaudy chest.
Big John was jacking his jaws toward a poor soul, gettin’ too close as usual, talking loud enough to make one think he had a miniature mega phone tucked inhis mouth. And he wasn’t as big as he thought he was…just tall, and loud…I called him loud John, just to get a rise outta him.
And there was Tony, at his post, way in the back, sitting at his round table, heavy black sun glasses, thick plaid shirt, Panama hat, eternal two day beard, accounting ledger under his pudgy hands…never could tell if he was studying his ledger or staring a hole through you. He was not animated. The odds were infavor of a bet that he was actually deceased.
His two cronies flanked his sides…never knew their names, but the one was always quite verbal, high pitched, gravelly voiced troll of a human. An unlit cigar perpetually toyed by his lips and teeth. Racetrack bookie type.
Barmaid legend has it that Tony had hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden upstairs where he resided, and a revolver in his lap at the table, where he spent all his waking hours.
Yeah, happy hour.
I settled into a dark wooden booth.
Marguerite brought me my beer.
I tried to lose myself in thought.
Had I become one of these predictable fixtures?
If so, was that so bad?
Can I just drift through the rest of my life?
Up to now, it had all been pretty traumatic, and hectic.
Now, living hand to mouth was quite liberating.
Yeah, long range planning was non-existent, but again, a relief…….
Esmeralda came hustling in from the back. She was the self-appointed darling of a gaggle of mongrels that frequented this fine establishment.
A bit chubby in the middle, like most thirty some year old senoritas.
Did have a good smile.
Thought about one day yielding to her come on, or even Marguerite, but I heard Marguerite would cut ya if things turned sour. Loud John talked about how she was such a tiger. I didn’t feel up to tiger standard.
And Mel, as I called the smiling enchantress, would require major expense in the antibiotic department.
And there’s all that paraphernalia of a possible relationship..
People that had actually worked today started filling the joint, so I settled up with Mel and sashayed out into the sun.
A couple doors down was the Sally, or Salvation Army mission. There were rules there.
Had to be in at a certain time.
Had to check yer bag behind the counter.
Had to sit through a sermon to eat.
Had to go to bed at lights out.
Couldn’t keep your clothes on in bed, even though it was a good chance someone else would be wearing them in the morning.
Had to be out at a certain time.
But it was a step up from the under the bridge hotel.
Around the corner was the Bayou Theater….fifty cents and you can watch five old run movies…and stay out of the cold or heat when pushed out of the mission. You did have to put up with the clientele however, and a commentary throughout the show, ‘Hey that’s Robert Taylor!’…..’No s***’…..’shut the hell up!’
Then across the square was home sweet home.
The Standard Hotel.
$1.25 a night or $5 a week…a five day week.
It was a converted warehouse of a thousand partitioned ‘rooms’, 6 x 4 rooms. The cots had some sort of linen and thin blanket. Not sure what color anything was, because they all had their very own 20 watt light strung to the middle, hanging from god knows where. It was enough to scatter a few hundred exoskeletal friends. I remember my first night, thought I had a brown comforter.
The end of each hall had a wash tub with sometimes warm water, along with a toilet..usually flushable…sometimes clogged…but always caressing a brown flaky crust.
But hey, you could stash your belongings.
I pulled my duffel bag from under my cot and tossed myself atop.
Staring at the ghost of a ceiling, I let my mind drift through the past.....
Then
quit writing
Got busy with the woman of my dreams (almost fifty years ago)
That’ll change ya
Yessir
I still write, but hope it's more entertaining
At least it is for me
Anyway, enough about me (I sicken myself...from writing...about... myself)
I’d like to read what y’all have experienced 'on the street'
Your turn;
