There is this homeless man who tends live on the street below me somewhere. He doesn’t have hair. It’s not that he doesn’t have something growing out of his head; it’s just that if I were going to tell you that he had hair, you would assume that I was talking about many hairs that together look like one head of hair. As far as I can see it, this man only has one hair; one giant hair that seems to grow out of his head as one composite, three foot long piece. It looks a little like if you were to cut one dreadlock off of your Rastafarian friend’s head, then were to take it to the nearest chemistry lab, put on a lab coat and some protective eyewear, and throw the dreadlock under a magnifying glass, where you would find that the dreadlock was actually attached to a small hermit man. It’s probably one of the most dedicatedly homeless things that I have ever seen. If you were to go to a massive anime convention and look through the crowd, you’d see that it’s blatantly obvious who the godfathers of the anime enthusiast world are. The local kids who heard that there was an anime convention in town walk into their local VFW, slightly plump, with their Nintendo NES in one pocket and their Pokémon keychain in the other. Maybe, if they were into anime enough, they wear a Sailor Moon shirt. The vets on the other hand, they walk around dressed like every character in Howl’s Moving Castle put together. They are sweating profusely from the fact that 1. They are wearing a 20-pound jacket of prosthetic arms. 2. They aren’t sitting down. These are the professionals. They are the ones who, had they not been 38, the local amateur fans would want to emulate. If there were a “perfectly stereotypical anime fan” checklist, they would be the basis for comparison. That’s like this one-haired homeless guy; only it’s a homeless checklist, and the stoop to my apartment is like a constant homeless man convention.

Obviously, because of how awesome he looks, I wanted to talk to him; see what made his brain tick; how he thinks he would fair at this year’s world dreadlock competitions; what he did his dissertation in at grad school, etc. So, one day after an especially beautiful summer rain, I found him searching through the change slots of a long row of public telephones, presumably looking for 3.15 in change, (the exact amount of money needed to buy a two liter bottle of Strongbow and a Mars Bar), and decided that it was time that we met.

It took quite a bit of courage to approach him. He’d become a bit of a local B-list celebrity in my mind, so it felt a little like I was trying to approach someone like Mick Foley, which I could never do in reality. I followed him around for a solid 6 or 7 minutes, pretending to have an elaborate conversation on my cell phone with a girl named “Tabby” about how her son-in-law had gotten lost in Trenton, New Jersey on his way home from Martha’s Vineyard. I don’t even know anyone named Tabby. Eventually, mid-sentence with Tabby, my phone actually rung violently in my ear. In a state of nervous panic, I told her to “hold on” because there was “someone on the other line”. In retrospection, it was a really poor cover up, being that obviously the phone doesn’t ring while you are already on the phone with someone else. It also visibly hurt my ear, as I was trying to keep talking to Tabby to tell her that I was on the other line while simultaneously pushing the phone and Mortal Kombat theme song ring tone away from my face. No one else in the entire world could have been fooled by that disaster, but luckily, homeless people don’t have cell phones, so he probably didn’t know what the sound was, or even what the object was that I was holding close to my face.

Following this fumble, I decided to end the conversation with “Timothy” who was again, fictitiously, on the other line. I don’t know anyone named Timothy either. I know several Tims, but I’m never called any of them Timothy.  I don’t know why I kept choosing names that I’ve never actually used in reality to name my fictitious friends. In reality though, the person who had actually called while I was mid-sentence with Tabby was unknown. Because I had been so caught up pretending to be on the phone with Tabby, I didn’t even think to actually have a real conversation when the opportunity presented itself, so I hung up with the real person, and talked to Timothy instead. I realized what I had done the second that I put the phone to my face though, so it couldn’t have looked like a smooth transition. I said hello to Timothy and told him that I could not meet him for party snacks today because Rhonda was coming over for soup, but that I did have toquitos in my freezer, so he could come over tomorrow instead. This was partially true; I did have taquitos in my freezer at home, but Rhonda was another fictitious person as well as another name that I had never actually used in context before. I told Timothy that Tammy was on the other line, so I had to go. You know that feeling when you suddenly realize that you may have just made a mortal error and that the second your realized it may be the second that it was too late? This is how I felt when I told Timothy that I was on the phone with Tammy instead of Tabby, only the feeling was completely misplaced, since none of the conversations I was having, the people, or the importance of the conversations themselves were actually real. If I can actually use that feeling awful feeling of mortality a few times in my life, and I wasted one of them on the mistaking the name of a pretend friend, during a pretend phone conversation, all to fool a homeless man, I will be very embarrassed.

For damage control, I chose to get back on the line with Tabby, tell Tabby that I had to go, then get on the line with Tammy, who “wanted to know if I went to the book fair on Saturday”. I said that I had, another partially true statement. I did indeed go to a book fair over the weekend, but it was actually on Sunday; this mistake I cannot explain. I told her to join Timothy and I for taquitoes the following night and told her that I had to go because I had to catch the bus, which I now realize, was a ridiculous thing to say. I could easily have kept talking on the bus, but I decided that it was time to do what I had come to do, so I told Tammy that I would see her tomorrow night, told her to bring wine if she could, and got off the phone.

At this point the homeless man was several strides ahead of me, so I caught up and took a long breath of air and tried to think of the best way to greet him. I wasn’t sure if it would be arrogant to address him formally, but at the same time, I didn’t want to be condescending by offering him a meal or change for an interview. I decided to go with the former. Just as my mouth was opening to greet him, my phone rung again, startling him and I both.  He looked at me a lot less curious about the phone than I was anticipating, which leads me to assume that he does know what cell phones are after all. In my mind, I was expecting him to stare at the phone wide-eyed, like I would if I saw someone die by the hand of a laser gun, or how I would if I saw a flying car for the first time. He looked at the phone very similar to how I did when I saw my phone for the first time; unimpressed.

I looked at the caller ID, which said “Thomas, Jefferson”. I looked at it and loudly said “Thomas Jefferson?!” This proclamation attracted the attention of a passing city tour group, like I was eavesdropping and decided to answer a question addressed to the tour guide. I answered and realized that it was actually my uncle Jeff. My mother’s maiden name was Thomas. Apparently instead of naming my Uncle Jeff, Jeffrey, which I can only assume is the standard lengthened variation of the name Jeff, my grandparents named Uncle Jeff, Jefferson. They had no idea how much their eccentricity would make their grandson look like an Asshole 40 years later. I answered the phone, and my estranged Uncle Jeff, who I have never actually talked to on the phone before, says, “Hey, is this Timothy?”

“No, this is Ben. Is this Uncle Jeff?” I say.

“Ben? Oh, hey there Ben. Sorry. I must have hit your name on accident. Sorry. Tell your mother I said hello. I’ll talk to you later.” I don’t need to remind you that B and T aren’t even vaguely close to each other in the alphabet, and therefore difficult to confuse when trying to call someone name “Timothy”. I hung up the phone, shocked at 1. The fact that, when in writing, I confuse my Uncle Jeff for Thomas Jefferson. 2. The sardonic irony that the caller was actually trying to call someone named Timothy. I hung my head for a few seconds, and looked up to see the Homeless man staring at me, as if he was waiting to hear what it was like talking to Thomas Jefferson on a cell phone.

Before he could say such a thing, I the said “excuse me sir, can I interview you?”

“What?!” he barked, almost before I had even asked the question. Clearly he wasn’t responsive to the formal approach. I decided to come from a different angle and go with the latter of my two possible greetings.

“I’ll buy you some booze if you let me interview you, man.” He looked at me for a moment, like he was going to take my bait and request a pair of colt .45’s or he was going to strangle me with his single hair. Then looked to his right, and said “There’s your bus”.

I looked at him, shocked, like I had just woken up on Christmas to see Santa Clause lighting my cat on fire. I couldn’t blow my cover. Did he really believe all of the conversations that I had just had with my fictitious friends? Was I that good at improvisational acting? Did homeless people really not know enough about cell phones to realize how full of shit I had just been? Was I right about homeless people and cell phones? Was he that nice of a guy to remind me that my bus was approaching? Was he actually going to ask me about my conversation with President Jefferson before I beat him to the punch? A thousand wildly presumptuous generalizations assaulted my psyche. I was defenseless and vulnerable. I rigidly tipped my cap to him and said, “yes it is”, and walked towards the bus. I had never in my life tipped my cap to anyone, and I always wear a cap.  I don’t know why I would have ever done this.  I got on the bus, looked back, and watched the homeless man with one hair, whom I had thought was an easy kill, walk into another phone booth, and out of my life as the bus sailed off to an unknown destination.

About 100 feet to my right, there is a several story high crane lifting bleachers several stories high. Since I’m sitting at a coffee shop that is the primary young family junction in this part of town, immediately below the crane, about a thousand small families are walking. I can’t help but think about how I would initially react if I saw it fall. I don’t think I would laugh, but I might. I wouldn’t do it because it’s funny. I would do it because I am writing this blog entry right now, and the irony of that would be too much to handle. What if it did fall and some how, I was the only person to notice? When I realized that if fell, would I stand up and go, “Holy Shit! I mean, Willickers!” since there are like 15 kids between the ages of 3-6 running around my chair as I write this. Everyone would look at me as I stand up and for some reason, no one would move. Maybe everyone around me is actually deaf. Maybe this coffee shop that I always come to and write is a coffee shop SPECIFICALLY for deaf people, and somehow I didn’t even notice? Is it arrogant that I always listen to music while I sit here? I have been taking a deaf person’s seat everyday for the last two weeks, AND I taunt them by listening to my music and sometimes moving my head to the rhythm.

Or, what if everyone isn’t deaf, and when the bleachers fall, everyone gasps except for one dude who just goes “Holy Moley!” Everyone would all simultaneously rush over, and there would be a crowd of people trying to pull these bloody people out of this iron contraption. All the while there is an old woman standing off to the side going “goodness gracious”, and that man that yelled “holy moley!” keeps saying it, and there are little kids running around laughing because they are too young to realize that people are actually dying.

I might laugh at this, ONLY if all three of those variables were happening as i described. I wouldn’t be laughing out loud though. That would be off-color.

Eventually, someone would make a “based on a true story” type film about this. This young filmmaker would make an art film about this event and would add a romantic back-story. Some young construction worker named Bruce would fall in love with a girl named Juliet who is an English socialite who gets morning coffee at Peter’s Yard. Juliet realizes that Bruce is a beautiful pianist, when he hears piano coming out of a flat window on a rainy august night. Bruce invites her up, and she listens to him for hours. She hires him to perform at her sister’s wedding on the Spanish Coast. They have sex. She falls in love with him and decides to keep seeing Bruce despite her engagement with Theodore, her d-bag fiancée who wears stupid hats and ONLY cashmere socks. One day, Bruce and Theodore have a run in. Theo knows that Juliet is in love with Bruce, so Theo has his meaty friends break Bruce’s fingers so that he can no longer play piano. Bruce no longer can impress Juliet, loses his job on the construction yard, and can no longer quench his passion for music, so he becomes a binging drunk. He grows an awesome beard and decides to just spend all of his time in the dark, and never leaves his flat. Juliet finds out what Theo has done and goes to Bruce’s flat to tell him that none of his piano ability, or the fact that he had massive and sexy forearms from construction, impressed her.  It was actually Bruce’s pure heart. He is drunk when she tells him, so she walks away thinking that she will just marry Theo since Bruce has given in to the bottle. The next day, Bruce shaves with his useless fingers (and destroys his face) and goes to see Juliet at Peter’s Yard coffee shop. As he calls out to her to tell her that he truly loves her, the bleachers fall on him and mangle his body. She runs to his side but it is too late. He is barely breathing and is clearly about to die. By his side, she sees a beautiful oil painting of Bruce and Juliet on the Spanish Coast. In his last few seconds Bruce says, “This is a painting of the happiest moment of my life. I painted it with my teeth.” He dies. She says, “I will avenge your soul.” At that point, she decides to become a labor union organizer/ assassin of the upper class, and goes on to become Time Magazine’s 67th most powerful person in the world.

I made that up right now, but that’s probably what would have happened.

On another note, there is a new short story in the words section. It’s about a homeless man I know.

-ben

Hey there ol’ friends. Welcome to the new site! It’s been a while since any of us has made any attempt at actually writing and letting you all know what is happening in our lives.

First of all. Most of us graduated college and are now struggling to keep afloat in the real world. I moved to Ediburgh, Scotland, where I was originally heading to finish my degree, but decided to just stay for a while. I spend most of my days writing and counting people with dreadlocks in various coffeeshop establishments around town. At night, I work at a club. Sometimes I go talk to my friend Russel at his bookstore Analogue books.

Alex owns an air freshener design firm, but because he is such an incredible social activist and doesn’t deal well with labor unions, has decided to work on the line with the rest of the boys for minimum wage. What a good sport.

Rob has a bit more school left, but is in Montreal for the summer, where he has become a popular grassroots separatist politician. He also makes appliances.

Pat makes bagels still. He has one more semester of school, then he will probably become one of most popular aquatic explorers of our generation. He might do his senior thesis on the social problems of fly fishing.

Other Pat is in Cleveland doing things with Cleveland.

Dave was recently voted as one of the top 100 college journalists in the nation, so he is probably still unemployeed.

Harry is probably somewhere in South America singing in a barbershop quartet. This is probably the most ridiculous sounding of all of the explanations that I just gave, but is probably the closest to being true. For the last 5 months or so, he has been singing on a cruiseship that wanders around South America and Alaska. As far as I know, he is doing quite well, though he did shave his beard.

Our other friends are doing other things.

To wrap this up, WE ARE LITTERALLY DISPERSED AROUND THE WORLD! Wow. Good thing for the world wide web, because Team Win can still live on. Keep posted for more team win things!

Ben