I have a long history with hobos. Dating back to the late nineties when I offered a “homeward bound” fellow in my college dorm dumpster a simple sandwich. “Excuse me, would you like a sandwich?” He replied “My name’s GATOR!” and left within seconds.
There was the time I exited the NYC subway, en route to work, only to come upon a hobo “flicking his beans” for the morning rush hour commuters.
The time a hobo called to me across the street one morning on my way to brunch, “I don’t like your earrings!”
The time the homeless woman crossed paths with me on the sidewalk in Portland, spitting “Don’t excoriate me!” I don’t know what that means, I thought to myself. “I bet you don’t even know what that means!” She yelled. She can read my MIND, I thought. And made a break for my car.
And the favorite “Do you have a quarter?” from a hobo on a sidewalk bench. “No, I’m sorry I don’t” I said, feeling like we had a bit of an honest connection. He stood up, stared right at me, cursing “Yeah, you look sorry, you f****** b****, I’m GAY!”
Cut to this past Saturday, after my final UCB level 2 improv class on Santa Monica Blvd. I waved goodbye to my classmates when one stopped me and said “You should look at this.” (See above). He had seen a
drunk Mexican hobo head-butt my car window five times. When it didn’t smash, he head-butted the rear panel of my car. And made a dent. WITH HIS HEAD. I was impressed. Did he have a metal plate in his skull? Was he a karate master? A police report was filed. The officer at the station asked if he was a drunk Mexican — that they had picked him up and he was in custody in back. I said “…Does he have a big welt on his head? Then it’s him.”
This case will never be solved. I didn’t see the guy. And the officer marked me down as “M” in the male/female box. I said I was a lady. He fixed it. And I went on my way.