Back to the subject: vagrants, tramps, hoboes, drifters and transients. Without using a dictionary (which in many cases is no help at all), here are the distinctions I picked up in years past by listening to how people used these words. The sense I got was: Vagrants simply had no money; tramps and hoboes had no money, but they moved around; drifters moved around, but occasionally worked for a while and then drifted on, whereas tramps and hoboes didn’t work at all. We’ll get to transients in a moment.
There’s one other distinction between tramps and hoboes that’s worth mentioning. The word tramp might also have been used to describe the young woman your son brought home. Rarely did anyone’s son bring home a hobo. Unless, of course, he was into the gay hobo lifestyle. Actually, there weren’t too many gay hoboes. That’s because if a hobo didn’t have a home, he certainly didn’t have a closet either to be in or to come out of. (Sudden thought: hobo rhymes with homo. Sorry.)
Another way to categorize this class of people was to call them transients. Sometimes, on skid row, where they had a lot of bums and winos (we’ll get to them in a minute), you’d see a cheap hotel with a sign that said TRANSIENTS WELCOME.
Transients were like drifters, except transients seemed to stay in cities, whereas drifters moved through small towns and rural areas. You had to move through those places, because they weren’t as tolerant as cities; they didn’t have signs that said DRIFTERS WELCOME. It was usually just the opposite. Ask Clint Eastwood. By the way, isn’t a hotel that says it welcomes transients a little like a restaurant that says it prefers people with stomachs? Just asking.
First cousin to a transient hotel was a flophouse, a magnificently descriptive piece of language that has all but disappeared. (Just for the record, these days transient hotels are called limited service lodgings.) Several cuts above all these places were furnished rooms, these days known by the phrase SROs, short for single room occupancy.
So, staying on track here, we began this section with people who have no place to live, which brings us to today’s hot designation, the homeless, also known as street people. When I was a boy, we never heard those words; a dirty, drunk man on the street who wanted money was normally called a bum. Simple word, three letters, one syllable: bum. And a bum was usually also a wino. You know, a substance abuser. He had a chemical dependency. Little did we know.
By the way, it should be pointed out that bum might also have been used to describe the young man your daughter brought home. Many’s the bum who didn’t pass muster with Dad. I wonder how many of those bums the daughters brought home wound up marrying the tramps the sons brought home? That might explain all those homeless children.
But the word homeless is useless. It’s messy, it’s inaccurate, it’s not descriptive. It attempts to cover too many things: poverty, alcoholism, drug addiction, schizophrenia, no place to live and begging on the street.
Homeless should mean only one thing: no home. No place to live. Many of these people who beg on the street actually have places to live. I had one guy tell me he needed money to buy tires for his van. I gave him a dollar; I considered him both honest and enterprising.
The first word I remember for these people was bag ladies. I don’t know why men were left out of this; I never heard anyone say bag men. I guess that’s because a bag man is a different thing. A bag man is someone who delivers bribes or illegal gambling money. Probably, in today’s evasive, dishonest, politically correct language, they’d be called bag persons. In my opinion, the closest we’re ever going to get to a good descriptive name for these lovable grimy folks is street people.
And by the way, isn’t it ironic that shopping bags (and shopping carts)—symbols of plenty—should be the objects most preferred by people who have nothing at all? I guess if you have nothing, you need something to carry it around in. Especially if you’re crazy.
WILD AND CRAZY GUYS
That’s what a lot of these street people are, you know. They’re crazy. I avoid terms like mentally disturbed and emotionally impaired. You can’t let the politically correct language police dictate the way you express yourself. I prefer plain language: crazy, insane, nuts. “The whole world is crazy, and many of its inhabitants are insane. Or am I just nuts?” And for the most part, we humans do enjoy being colorful and creative when describing the condition of someone who’s crazy. Here are a few descriptions of craziness that I enjoy:
• One wheel in the sand.
• Seat back not in the full, upright position.
• Not playing with a full bag of jacks.
• Doesn’t have both feet in the end zone.
• Lives out where the buses don’t run.
• The cheese fell off his cracker a long time ago.
• His factory’s still open, but it’s makin’ something else.
Here’s an odd one: His squeegee doesn’t go all the way to the bottom of the pail. I think you have to have some serious time-management problems to be sitting around thinking up stuff like that. But there you are. This next one sounds really good, but I confess I don’t quite understand it: He belongs in a cotton box. For some reason it sounds exactly right, though, doesn’t it?
And if you’re going to be irreverent about describing crazy people, you can’t get soft when it comes to describing the places we keep them. Or used to keep them. In the 1980s, Ronald Reagan decided the best place to keep them was on the streets, which actually makes a lot of sense, because the streets are nothing more than a slightly larger, open-air asylum, anyway.
But around the turn of the nineteenth century, many states had places called institutions for the feebleminded. That name seemed too long for some people, so instead they referred to them as madhouses. “They took him to the madhouse. Boy, was he mad.” Then these places became insane asylums, mental homes, mental institutions and, finally, psychiatric facilities.
I have three personal favorites. I always liked the hoo-hoo hotel. To me, that says it all. Here’s another one that’s not bad: the puzzle factory. It has a certain class to it, doesn’t it? But if you prefer a gentler approach, you really can’t beat the enchanted kingdom. “They took him away to the enchanted kingdom.” And guess how they took him there? The twinkymobile. Now that’s descriptive language.
A TOAST TO THE CLASSICS
When I see a symphony orchestra, a hundred or so people playing some incredibly difficult piece of music in complete and perfect unison as if they were a single organism, I remind myself that each one of them started the day in a different kitchen. A hundred different musicians in a hundred different kitchens, scattered across the city. And sometimes I find myself wondering how many of them had eggs that morning and how many chose cereal. I try to guess whether the percentage of muffin eaters is greater among the strings or the brass section. I ponder whether or not the percussionists drink a lot of coffee, whereas, perhaps, the piccolo players lean more toward flavored teas. I don’t know why these thoughts come to me. But they sure fill the time between scherzos.
FUCK YOU, FATHER, FOR YOU HAVE SINNED
Catholic kids are stupid; they don’t know how to handle a pedophile priest. Here’s what you do: First of all, you don’t get all scared and do whatever he tells you. Who wants to get sucked off by a forty-three-year-old clergyman with beard stubble? Not me. Instead, what you do is kick him in the nuts. You kick him squarely in the nuts, and you get the fuck out of there as fast as you can, and you go tell somebody right away; you tell as many grown-up people as you can—one of them is bound to believe you.
That’s what you do. You don’t wait thirty years. You kick the priest in the nuts and say, “Fuck you, Father, I don’t do that shit. Try Jimmy Fogarty, I heard he blew the choirmaster.” And you’re out the door. And don’t forget to take your rosary. On second thought, leave the rosary. A lot of good it did you in the first place.
THREE SHORT STORIES
THE VELVET HAT
She wore a velvet hat. She walked down the steps slowly, as if each one were a significant a
chievement. Her arm, bent severely at the elbow, pinned her purse close to her side. The surface of the last few steps was cracked and uneven, and so she extended her tiny arm to grip the railing. At that moment a man ran up and jammed an entire box of peppermints into her mouth.
NOT MARTHA STEWART
Vinny had just squeezed off three really vicious, warm, partially liquid farts and was now trying with all his might to suck down from the back of his nose a huge gob of hardened snot that felt as big as a human embryo. Ignoring the dog shit encrusted under his fingernails from several weeks earlier, he reached deep into his throat, pulled loose some partially digested food, swallowed it again and continued to make hamburger patties for the kids.
GARNISH
The man in the tweed hat stood by a tree, rolling a half-dried snot between his thumb and forefinger. Moments later, the snot now completely dry, he strolled casually past a sidewalk café and gently flicked it into a young lady’s lemonade.
. . . FINISH YOUR SENTENCES?
STAN: Why do you always . . .
DAN: . . . finish your sentences?
STAN: Yes, it’s something that’s . . .
DAN: . . . been bothering you for a long time?
STAN: Yes.
DAN: Well, it’s a habit that started in grade school. When the teacher called on another kid, sometimes the kid would start to answer and then get stuck. So I would supply the rest of the answer.
STAN: And this habit has stayed with you . . .
DAN: . . . ever since that time.
STAN: But there must be something you can . . .
DAN: . . . do about it? The only thing I could do about it would be to find some person who might be willing to . . .
STAN: . . . finish your sentences?
DAN: Yes, if I could just find someone to finish my sentences . . .
STAN: . . . it would put a little balance in your life?
DAN: Right.
STAN: But why does it have to be someone else? Why couldn’t it be . . .
DAN: . . . the same person? Why couldn’t the same person whose sentences I finish . . .
STAN: . . . be the same person who finishes your sentences?
DAN: I don’t know. Let’s ask this . . .
MAN: . . . man over here. What can I do for you fellows?
A Person I Know Day
The American Retail Association reminds you that next Sunday is A Person I Know Day. It’s a lot like Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, but instead of honoring your parents, you take the time to honor some other person you know. It can be anyone at all: mailman, delivery boy, gas station attendant, drugstore clerk, even that interesting fellow who stands on the corner all day displaying his penis. Any person you know is eligible; in fact, every person you know is eligible. So why not honor them all? Go out today and buy gifts for all the people you know. It’s the perfect way of showing your love and saying, “Hi, I’m sure glad I know you.”
And when you think about it, you’ll probably be in store for some nice gifts yourself on A Person I Know Day. In fact, the more people you know, the more gifts you’ll receive. So go for a long walk today and introduce yourself to every person you see. Just walk up and say, “Don’t I know you? If not, I’d sure like to.” Then give them your address and tell them to send you a gift. You’ll make lots and lots of new friends. And you’ll be helping the economy.
IF IT AIN’T DIRTY, WHY CLEAN IT?
I’ve never seen anyone cleaning a church. I’ve seen many things, but never a cleaning crew working in a church; vacuuming, mopping, dusting the statues and scrubbing the altar. You know why? I figured it out: Churches don’t need to be cleaned; God does it. It’s one of those miracles. That’s how they know it’s a church in the first place.
Here’s how it works: After a church has been built, the owners wait six months and then look inside. If it’s clean, they know it’s a church. So they get ready for the grand opening. And from that day on, they never have to clean it. No matter what kind of crud, grime or muck the sinners track in, the place remains spotless. But just between you and me, a little Windex on the stained glass wouldn’t hurt once in a while. It would help bring out all those bright, pretty colors they use to show the torture and the bleeding of the saints.
OUR LADY OF THE TV
“Hi. I’m Our Lady of the TV. I’m here to say hello, and to make sure everyone prays real hard for peace. Also, the last time I was here I forgot my sunglasses. Has anyone seen my sunglasses?”
(Stagehand hands her the glasses.)
“Thank you. Hold my purse, would you?”
(She hands him her purse and puts on the sunglasses.)
“I know that many of you lead a pointless existence. You have dead-end jobs, bad marriages and children who hate you because you’ve ruined their lives. I also know you look to symbols like me to provide solace and hope. Well, here’s the deal: I have no solace to offer, and, frankly, there is no hope. I’m just an illusion; an illusion that means nothing. So work it out for yourselves; if you ask me, you’re not trying hard enough. Thank you. I’ll be back in a few years. And please stop bothering my son with stupid requests like winning the lottery.”
(To the stagehand) “Gimme the purse.”
LETTER TO A FRIEND
Dear Trevor,
The reason I’m writing is because I’ve lost your address and have no way of getting in touch with you. For that reason, chances are you won’t receive this, in which case you should not feel obligated to reply. If, however, this letter does reach you and you wish to answer, please enclose your current address so I will know where to send this. By the way, you can ignore the return address on this envelope, as I am moving next week and, although I don’t yet have my new address, I will be sending it along as soon as I hear from you.
Should you have any trouble locating me, please be assured I will contact you as soon as I have my new phone, so, by all means, give me a call and let me have your number. If it turns out I’m unable to reach you, please don’t hesitate to get in touch, as I always mention it to my friends whenever neither of us hears from the other. Should you encounter any trouble reaching me, please let me know, and I will get back to you at once.
Then again, if you are unable to reach me, perhaps it would be better not to get in touch, because I will most likely be trying to get hold of you. And, of course, if I do reach you please let me know immediately. Conversely, if I don’t reach you, you will probably hear from me right away.
Well, evening is rolling around, and, as they say in Portugal, “It’s time to say goodbye.” I hope you receive this before you mail your letter. It’s so good to communicate this way.
Sincerely,
Sperla Vaughn
P.S. Should this letter be lost in transit, please disregard.
BITS AND PIECES
TRUE FACT: I saw a guy on the street wearing a T-shirt that said “Couples for Christ.” But he was all alone. And I wondered, What would Jesus think?
• What’s the difference between a drop and a droplet? After all, if you divide a drop into smaller parts, all you really get is smaller drops. Big or little, a drop is a drop. Same thing with a crumb. But the odd thing about a crumb is that if you cut a crumb in half, you don’t get two half-crumbs, you get two crumbs. To me, that sounds like magic. I gotta ask David Copperfield how they do that.
• When it comes to God’s existence, I’m not an atheist and I’m not an agnostic. I’m an acrostic. The whole thing puzzles me.
• A saw a homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk, yammering to himself and repeatedly punctuating his remarks with, “You know what I’m sayin’? You know what I’m sayin’?” And I thought, For God’s sake, the man is talking to himself! If he doesn’t know what he’s saying, who would?
TRUE FACT: On June 8, 1995, Glacier National Park was closed because of too much snow.
• Colin Powell spent his entire adult life as a soldier, trying to devise the most efficient ways of killing foreigners for his
country. Then he became a diplomat, trying to devise the most efficient ways of getting foreigners to cooperate with his country. Tough sell.
• Whenever I hear about parents who have nine or ten children, the only thing I wonder is how they survive the birthday parties.
• I recently learned there are three people still alive who can do the minuet. Unfortunately, only one of them is able to move without a wheelchair.
• I think they should have a hotline that never answers, for people who don’t follow advice in the first place.
• I finally figured out what e-mail is for. It’s for communicating with people you’d rather not talk to.
• You know what I like most about the NCAA Basketball Tournament? Sixty-three losers.
When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? Page 22