The Dangerous Mind of Dan Luke

I’ll be honest. Homeless people in Chicago are just awful. I don’t think I could ever be friends with them – even in a societal acceptable setting where their hobo beards aren’t slathered in apple sauce – because they are just so cruel to me. And it’s not even like I’m deserving of it or anything. I am a shy, petite, strapping, young, half-Asian lad. I am well mannered. I am well groomed. And frequently, I tend to keep to myself – except for few, sporadic times where I have these blatantly, long winded outbursts which are neither here nor there.

Also: Between you and me, I find quite a bit of their conduct to be unethical.

For instance, one night – on the filthy streets of Chicago – I walked my ladyfriend Jocelyn to her car. She is a classy and very pretty Mexican girl. But that is neither here, nor there. That night was so hot, humid, sticky, and miserable that I couldn’t even see the city skyline.

Naturally, in this condition, we wished to get to her automobile as quickly as possible. Before the nightskins came out from their underground lairs. There I could bode her a fond farewell, and be on my way back to my cool, well-kept apartment. But alas, it was not to be, as we were interrupted by a rude homeless fellow on the corner of State and Harrison.

“HEY AH GUY WITH THA PRETTY LADY,” he screamed at me, “CAN YA SPARE A DOLLAR?”

I have a proverb memorized for these occasions, which I present to each homeless man, woman, or hobo child. It goes like this: “Sorry man.”

So, “sorry man,” I told him.

“C’MON SON.” He retorted.

I hadn’t encountered anything like this before. My brain went haywire for a moment before I regained my composure.

“Sir, I regret to inform you that I cannot, under these circumstances, present you with a dollar bill. In any manner, be it social, promotional, or for charity as you may very well spend it on what is commonly referred to as a crack rock.”

“BUT I WANNA BURGER.”

“Oh, ho ho!” I retorted, “Is that what they call it these days? Then you’ll have to walk to that homeless shelter over there Sir, again – I am sorry.”

He shook his head at me – scornfully and then wandered off into the middle of the intersection and started doing imaginary hobo math. Which basically consists of a homeless man waving a finger about and counting imaginary things, and then counting his fingers. Sometimes, during a very intense bout of hobo math (commonly dubbed ‘hobo arithmatic’) they may also drool or sweat pure whiskey.

When the walk signal illuminated across the way, we began our journey across the street of Harrison when said homeless man stopped his hobo mathery and ran up to me.

“YOU THINK YOU’RE SO FUCKIN’ TOUGH, DON’T CHA,” he screamed at me.

“No Sir, I consider myself to be an upstanding citizen as well as a fine half-Asian lad.”

He ignored me and began to speak again, this time in a sinister tone, “IF I EVER CATCH YO JACKIE CHAN LOOKIN’ ASS ON MY STREET AGAIN IMMA FUCK YOU UP. YOU HEAR ME? I WILL CUT YOU.”

This exchange was rather unpleasant due to his garbage breath, but still – I was perplexed.

“I am sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused,” I said, before grabbing Jocelyn’s hand and running across the street.

Needless to say, I tend to stay away from State street now, as it is a pretty dangerous place.

But alas, that is just one example of a homeless person. And I wish to be both Fair and Balanced, just like Fox News. So I will offer up a counter-story to that story. This story is about Maureece, the only homeless man I have ever loved.

Maureece always wears a Mickey Mouse shirt with tattered blue sweat pants, but that is neither here nor there. The point is that he has snorted so much cocaine that most of his brain has melted and he believes to have been transported to the Medieval Ages. In fact, he fancies himself to be a descendant of Merlin the Grey.

I like that. I like his style.

With his coked out, dinner plate pupils, he will spout out things such as: “Yea ye noble kind sir!” or “can you spare me a sheckle?!”

I remember the first time I met him. I was in the underground subway on a train. I sat in a plastic chair as he wandered back and forth through the aisles, when there was a great ringing from above.

The conductor of the train came on from a filthy speaker mounted to the side wall, “Attention all Red Line passengers,” it fuzzily screamed, “Washington is closed – FOREVER, please make all of your transfers at Jackson.”

“Yea!” Maurice screamed, “It seems that I have an epic journey ahead of me.”

And even though his thick black beard was covered in apple sauce, and even though he smelled like a divine mix of both garlic and garbage – I fell in love with him.

So, in conclusion, a lot of homeless people are indeed both mean and unethical. But I learned that I was wrong to stereotype them. And you, my good reader, should learn that too. Because you never know when you’re going to meet the homeless person of your dreams.

THE END?

Filed under: Personal Entry, Season 2