Trashcan Lives

Once, when I was in high school, I spent the weekend down in Laguna Beach pretending to be homeless.

Now don’t get me wrong. This wasn’t some kind of game to me. I didn’t walk around in dirty clothes, begging for money only to go home and sleep in my nice, warm bed. I genuinely felt that I needed to know what it was like, if only for a night or two. So, I told my parents that I was spending the weekend with my best friend Doug (sorry guys), packed a few extra layers of clothes in my backpack and away I went. Days were spent watching tourists while eating the tortillas kept in the pocket of my jeans. I’d watch the surfers, tourists and basketball players and say hello to anyone passing by as I sat on my bench or against a wall.

It didn’t take long for me to see just how invisible you feel being on the street. People will walk past you, almost through you, as if you were a phantom. You don’t have to smell bad or look dangerous. You only have to appear in need. In need of food, money, courtesy… it doesn’t matter. If people feel you want or need something they have, you’re done for. Written off and ignored. Of course… they aren’t really ignoring you. They don’t trust you enough to ignore you. They just try their hardest to avoid looking at you or hearing you. It's like dealing with children at bedtime.

The nights were better. Walking along the street, peering through the windows of stores I wasn’t welcome in… the sound of the occasional passerby. Sleeping in the shrubs that face the ocean. Looking down the cliff at the waves crashing under the moonlight. Of course it was just as lonely, but at least it was peaceful.

I was reading a collection of poetry today by Charles Bukowski (one of my favorite writers) when I remembered this experience. It was this poem in particular:


Trashcan Lives by Charles Bukowski

the wind blows hard tonight
and it's a cold wind
and I think about
the boys on the row.

I hope some of them have a bottle of
red.

it's when you're on the row
that you notice that
everything
is owned
and that there are locks on
everything.

this is the way a democracy
works:
you get what you can,
try to keep that
and add to it
if possible.

this is the way a dictatorship
works too
only they either enslave or
destroy their
derelicts.

we just forgot ours.

in either case
it's a hard
cold
wind.