The Ugly Story of a Hobo

By Dick Murphy-Scott

The story of a homeless guy living on the streets. The violence and running from reality mix together in a fantastic mess. Visions of psychotic demons and real ones torment the not well hobo as he just tries to find some peace and some booze. Along the way, he figures out where home is and what sexuality he's running from. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dick Murphy-Scott
• Release date: Jan 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540177971

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Dedications

For Rain, Yum-Yum, and KT.

The Ugly Story

By Dick Murphy-Scott

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Copyright 2012 by the person who authored this, all rights reserved. No part of this book can be reprinted or quoted to make a buck without giving me at least a dime. All names are phony, except for places and the famous. Some of this is crap. Anything fictitious written in this tome is to make me look better

All rights reserved by the author. Don’t steal my stuff. I wrote all this, most of which is pure crap, and if anyone should make a dime off of this it is me. All names that represent semi-real people are changed. The events depicted here are done in a way as to show me in the best possible light, sad as that may be. I even wrote this disclaimer by myself and never went to law school, could you tell?

The HOBO

I am a liar.

Pumping shadows flickering in the hall told of three figures. There were two tall thin shapes and a very slight one flickering on the bricks and wooden doors. By the curve of a bobbing shadow’s hip I knew that was Candi. Grunts told me another was male, but that was not really important to me. The love I had for Candi didn’t fool me. I knew she was a whore long before we had anything together.

Quiet sobs of a child cut through my body. Don’t get me wrong; I am a scumbag. But there is just something so base and vile about a woman pimping with her own kid in tow. Hey bitch, get in here, I shouted; I knew that would stop her for a moment.

It would make her furious that I interrupted her. Calling her out for what she was cracked her phony little world. These were the times when the small little girl child that Candi was long ago came out and was seen. The child who was sexualized and beaten by a long string of step fathers. All the things she only talked about when she was drunk and ugly. This image of her past interfered with what she wanted to be seen as. So did her crummy little home.

The place was run down and was once a motel. Now it was used as apartments by the day, week, or month. The old pool had seen better days and was empty of water. Cracks ran down along the side and grass was growing in them. Not that it really got hot enough to use it. The weather in Santa Cruz rarely breached eighty.

There was scattering, whispers, and two of the long black figures came back to the doorway. The child was crying in a silent and unchild-like way. Candi looked a mess; her short skirt was hiked up enough to tell she wasn’t wearing panties. Brown hair with no shine was draped around her head in a heap. What a sad broken bitch she was. All the pain in her didn’t make up for her being such a wretched excuse of a mother. It just made her a sorry whore and my love was mixed with disgust. What feeling I had for her were like shit mixed with vomit.

The child didn’t truly concern me. It didn’t belong to me and I didn’t care for it. The odd little thing hardly spoke a word. The eyes were so big and full of despair. Sometimes I felt bad for it. Too bad there wasn’t a pound for unwanted children. This one would be better off if it could be put down.

Candi matched the old place. It was once nice and would be great if it was fixed up a bit. The peeling paint and the lumpy furniture reminded me of her body. Not symmetrical anymore and faded. The misuse and neglect made the place look older than it was. Same with Candi.

The way her eyes lacked light told me she was stoned. The child would not look up. What the fuck bitch?

I was just talking to that guy, ok? The child looked at her mother. That child’s face gave away the truth.

I just stared at her. Deep down she was hoping that I wouldn’t say anything. In her mind she thought I needed her. Like her home was my cage. That was the way she liked it.

How much for the kid? I asked her.

Slap, I would never sell my baby! How dare you! How dare you!

Candi was crying and the child started making small noises through her runny nose. I knew she was selling her kid too. Why else would the three be in the hall? It made me angry and sick. Right now I was starting to lose something that kept me human. It was a time to choose; let it go or control myself. The powerful urges and wildness grew, but I did not indulge them yet.

Normally there would be people haunting the halls, hanging out near the parking lot. Not now, they mind their own business. No one wants trouble so when voices carry anger the denizens crawl into their holes.

Fuck you, lying whore. How much? I could feel something swelling in my stomach.

All she did was cry and hit at me. There were some small scratches from her on my arms and so in my defense I grabbed her. Groping around I got the money she had in a pocket.

Then it let go, the wild beast that didn’t think; it did. Spitting in her face I whirled around and threw her body against our door. The thud was dull and she made a small noise. The wall was splitting with old paint and I could see the wood underneath and some fresh red from Candi's head. The child looked up with big eyes and a dead expression. There was something about that look that got to me. Once I started pounding Candi I couldn’t stop.

Last night I had looked at her face and her body and found them so beautiful. It gave me great pleasure to be with her. Even her unbalanced muscles had a delicate beauty to them. Now I was causing her to swell and pop. Blood was running from her nose into her mouth. It was attractive in a weird powerful way. Bam, I hit her lip and split it open. Thud, I kicked her stomach and she doubled over.

The longer I went at it the harder I hit and all the while she just took it. There was no fight in her and the beast raged on in me. The only reason I stopped was because I ran out of punches and kicks. What was left of her was ugly, as ugly to look at as she was to think about. The child looked up and right into my eyes. Her eyes were wide and deep as tears flowed quietly from them, Please don’t go, she said staring hard at me.

For a second I caught my breath and thought. That child made me full of sorrow. Nothing could help her and no one really wanted her. As for me, I felt sorry that my clothes had to touch my flesh. There was not much I could do for another human.

I kicked Candi aside and left.

My shit was not at her place. It was with Randy. We rented a storage locker together and tried to live with girlfriends. Our storage locker was like a shopping cart is to others. Chicks can usually get section 8 because they have children. Often we ran out of girlfriends though and ended up living on the street and under bridges.

Men are not allowed to get broken. No one wants a weak man. That is the way of the world. When a man is broken he is cast out and aside. The looks from others are disgusted and cruel. Women are expected to need help. All they need to do is look good and crank out babies. There is no one who wants me. Not that I am someone to feel sorry for. I broke myself.

But no matter how a man breaks once broken he is used up. Then we're thrown away. Trash. Broken men are never fixed, they are trash. That is the state of being for me and my friends.

Randy was often hanging out at the clock tower this time of night. The cops will be coming soon so I had to hurry or I’d miss him. Then the choice will be to wait by the river until he returns tomorrow or try and find him there. The river was dark and quiet this time of year. Unless there was rain it moved like a snake on glass. Not that I couldn’t figure things out on my own, but I really needed a friend.

I was confused about what had happened. There was emptiness in me. Hitting Candi had been pleasure but I hated myself for enjoying it. That shouldn’t have happened. I should have left when I first felt the urge. Right now I want to get high. Sometimes that is the only way I can stand myself. There are times when the things I did haunt me like old films that won’t stop playing. Watching them drives me angry and crazy at the same time. There is not much I can do to leave myself. Even death might not really be an end. Otherwise I would have done myself in long ago.

If Randy had gone to the river he’d be getting high. It is amazing how high Randy can get. For me getting high is just a way to make time pass quicker and forget what I am. Instead of living through each tiny minute I take an express high to the next day. Not true for Randy. When he is high he goes to new lands and has special adventures. I wish I could join him.

Reaching in my pockets I find no fucking bus fare, so I am going to have to walk all the way down Mission until I hit Pacific. Normally this is not a hard walk but I find myself exhausted after what I did. My mind hurts more than my body aches.

At the end of Pacific is the clock tower. Bums of all kinds find refuge there. It is a safe place for us.

The clock tower sprung up at the end of the Pacific Garden Mall. It is made of brick and has a white cap on the top. Most people don’t bother to come here because it is like a little island. Cut off by a busy intersection the traffic keeps them out.

Mission Street is alive with traffic and the sun is growing weaker, turning the sky electric. In a short time it will grow dark and my feet will start to hurt from the holes in my shoes. The tower is at the bottom of the hill, near the old school. The clock tower is much closer than I remembered. Or maybe I have more energy than I thought. Sitting on the grass is Randy, joking with the Viking.

Hey man, I made a scene with Candi. Can you help me out for the night? I ask him.

Or sure DJ, but we can’t go to Miranda’s; Candi called her and all the hos are out looking for you, Randy answers.

That really means that he already was on the way out of Miranda’s life. I doubt that he could have heard that from Miranda in such a short time.

The Viking shook his head for no reason. The spear in his hand is going to get him arrested. There are a few other people milling about. No one else seemed to care much about our conversation and I continued on. Not that I would believe everything Randy said.

What did that bitch say?

Not sure. Just heard Kelly say they were going to kill you. We can chill under the bridge tonight, ok? He asked.

Yah, sure.

Why did she kick you out? Another question.

Oh, I caught her selling her kid’s ass and I turned her face into hamburger, I passively comment.

Really? I thought everyone knew she did that? You were surprised?

You knew? Why didn’t you tell me? I was pissed.

I thought you knew. Honestly, I paid for it once. It wasn’t much though. The kid cried when Candi told her to suck my dick, and then Candi kept blowing pot in the brat’s face to make her high, make her more manageable. The kid tried hard not to breathe and Candi kept slapping her. By the time she got the kid high enough to give me a blow job I lost my hard on. Candi said I could butt fuck the kid, but that I had to keep my hands off her vagina. I asked why and she said that she wanted her kid to be a virgin. Can you believe that?

Did you fuck the kid? I asked.

No. It got too weird.

Why didn’t you tell me? I really was upset.

Candi wouldn’t give me back the money so I fucked her instead. I didn’t want to say what I did to your old lady. And it was creepy. She made the kid watch.

I’m glad to be done with that std test tube. By now I was getting sore knuckles from all the blows I’d landed on the bitch.

Randy could tell that I was tired and in silence we both started walking toward the bridge. In times of need the two of us would have sex, but we are not gay. Some people think that if two guys have sex that makes them gay, but that is not so. Gays have roles, male and female. Only one takes it up the ass. When guys have sex they take turns and it is just because they need it. Sometimes we need it, everybody does.

Walking down the levee together I feel really sad. Being homeless sucks. The kids call us trolls because we live under bridges and no one wants us around. Randy had some pot, it doesn’t smell very good but it doesn’t matter to me. This is just one of those nights that I want to pass as quickly as possible.

The grass is long and dark now. Shadows are dancing in ways that tell me that the river’s edge is alive with unseen people. By the time we get to the place under River Street where we sleep I am beyond tired, dirty, and high. So are Randy and all the others that we can see.

The soup kitchen is not far from here. Looking at Randy I can tell by the smudges on his skin that he has not been at Miranda’s for a long time. His legs look like sticks under folds of loose cloth that should be tight. It gives me pain to see how sunken his white face is and I notice his light hair looks thinner. The unmistakable smell of human shit hits my nose as I close my eyes and fall into oblivion.

The morning hits and I start to stir. This morning is full of sea scents and fog. Wisps of white fingers roll by the grasses that line the river bank. Pigeons coo from the rafters of the bridge. They hide in every little perch that is seen and unseen. Their shit, and sometimes a small egg, rains down on us. It is better than living by bats I suppose.

Looking out towards the river I can feel every stiff muscle. It has been A while since I slept on the ground and I had forgot the feelings that come with the dawn. Randy is staring straight up and I wonder if he is dead. There have been a few mornings when I woke up and one of the guys was stiff. That happened mostly in winter though. The idea of poking Randy and feeling the cold rubbery body of a dead guy is creeping me out. So I talk to him, What’s up for today?

I gotta go to Soledad.

Why?

I need to talk to my cousin. I can get him shit through a cool guard. But I got to figure out how to pay for the bus.

In my pocket I feel the money I took off of Candi. Last night I was so amped up I forgot where I put it when I was trying to find money for the bus. I move to a pee spot and quietly take out the bills. There are five twenties. Selling a kid must be a great way to earn extra cash. Randy is a good friend but I don’t want to give it to him, at least not all of it. After I finish up with my pee, I head back to where Randy is looking up at the pigeons.

Hey man, I got twenty bucks you can have.

Shush! Randy jumps up.

Don’t talk so loud, he pulls me hard by my shoulder and walks me up to the levee.

Thanks man. I owe you. I am still gonna need a few more bucks. Let’s hang out at the mall and pan handle.

Along the river we find some cardboard. Randy has a marker and we fashion a sign that reads:

"HIV positive vetirin. Plez hep.

Any thin wil hep, nothing 2 smal"

We always misspell the words because it makes us seem even more pathetic. Today Randy really looks the part. I haven’t been out of doors long enough to be believable. So I will kind of stand a ways off once we find our spot.

The food at the shelter will be gone by now, but we can dumpster dive behind the mall. Behind the five star restaurants lies the shit that can’t be eaten. It sits in green dumpsters. This is the food we eat when we spend all our money on pot and alcohol. Many familiar faces are doing what we are and there is shit for all to eat. Some go to the clock tower to wait for today to end and some go with us to beg for money outside of stores. Going from the community under the bridge to the sidewalk where we don’t belong is lonely and humiliating. The looks we get tell us how inconvenient we are to the others.

Tourists, rich people, hippies, students, wealthy students pretending to be hippies, and lesbians are the denizens of the Pacific Garden Mall. It is not even a mall at all. This is the real heart and downtown of Santa Cruz. Everyone here is out in the fresh air walking and stopping to eat or buy odd things. They stop and give change to street performers and people like us.

In an hour Randy has made another fifteen dollars. After that he asked the store if they would give him some money to leave and they gave him forty bucks to go someplace else. Now he had more than enough to make the trip. First stop was the beach to use the showers. His clothes would still suck and smell, but he would be ok enough to ride transit.

Kids stared at him as he used the shower fully clothed. The sea air was still very wet and cold, so I think he must have been uncomfortable. It was hard to tell by the look on his face and I wondered if he was stoned. What could be worth blowing all that money to visit a con in Soledad? Nothing. Randy had some weird fascination with prisons and cons.

The air was starting to warm up as walked back to the Pacific Garden Mall. Once we got to the transit center he rushed to find his route and left me there smelling the fresh baked bread. The smell was so soft and fluffy that I went in and blew a few bucks on a loaf. The first bite was so wonderful that I can’t explain it. Nothing is like eating food when you haven’t had anything in your stomach for a long time. At least, nothing nice.

The texture and the smell made me think that all was well in the world. The only thing I could think about was chewing that bread. All of my other troubles seemed a lifetime away and as I pulled the white spongy middle from the crust I thought everything would be alright. For a moment I couldn’t think about anything but the bread.

Eating takes less than fifteen minutes. Now what? Having a belly full of food feels wonderful and magical. It is early in the afternoon and I decide to stroll about like I am a lesbian and I own the city. A couple of girls with piercing on their eyebrows and short hair walk by me, Love that Oprah, I call out as they give me a dirty look.

One flips me off and they decide to walk arm in arm. Chicks touching each other are really hot.

Pissing off lesbians is fun and easy to do. It seems like their kind is born angry or something. They hate men, society, other women, and most religions. Ok maybe that is not exactly true. At least the ones who I run into are like that. At least half of them are that way, or 50% of the obvious ones. Sometimes they like dogs, usually they love cats. Most are pretty hot looking in some way, even the older ones. Angry hotties who want to touch vaginas and be earth mothers really are cool. Oprah lovers everyone, just like the screwed up little housewives who hang on every word of the hippo-like creature of Zulu descent.

Zulu my ass, she probably is more European than Hottentot Venus. That chick needs to read Roots. The blacks came from West Africa and the Congo via the slave trade with the Europeans. As you can see I spend too much time talking to lesbians about such things and watching Oprah. Actually, I love watching Oprah and talking to lesbians just as much. They seem to always have problems with me. Maybe it's sour grapes on my part, or I agree with them. I don’t know.

I really need to score some pot. Hanging with Candi let me get dependent on her and made me soft. There was a time when I knew all the best dealers, but the transients often go and it is hard to know the replacements. To find my new sources I had thought Randy would point me to them. Now I am not sure when he will come back. Under the bridges the guys mostly deal acid. It sells well to the college crowd. They think it is really cool and a little commie. All of the UCSC people think that being a commie means that you are smart. They are the most narrow minded of students.

Acid sucks and I will only use it if I can’t find some good weed. It can do more damage than pot. Morons spray paint graffiti so they can watch it when they drop acid. It makes the Grateful Dead sound good. I stay away from that.

Going back down to the levee sounded like a good idea. The fog was burning off and it would have been a good day to spend at the beach, but I was going to buy some vodka and pot if I could find it. The cops are pretty strict about open containers and drunk in public tickets at the tourist spots. Beer bottle beach was too far to get to today, so after I made my purchase I started walking up the San Lorenzo River and into the forest.

Once the levee ran out the river turned into a series of creeks. I picked one to wade through into the woods. I tended to avoid going in the forest. Once deep in the woods I’d had this strange feeling. It was like I was a part of it; of nature. This feeling of love, understanding, and acceptance had come over me. This was a feeling like being close to God, and I felt so good. That was the only time I had been without pain and sober at the same time. To be part of that would require me to live in ways I don’t understand. That much change is just too hard. It was like receiving a birthday card with a check for one thousand dollars. Cashing a check is not something I know how to do, and I would need the check to be for a whole lot more than that to bother to cash it. Still, I would feel like I lost a lot. Whether or not that sense of belonging haunts me or not there is always a sense of loss; of what I could have maybe. If only things were different.

The vodka bottle is about one third gone by the time I find a nice spot to waste the day away. I can hear the train whistle. Strange, I didn’t think that would be running today. But I am really not sure what day it is. Drinking is a sure way to put up a barrier between me and what is good. Vodka keeps me separate and alone. It also keeps me numb and from thinking too much. There is no way to access salvation when you are drunk.

Drinking brings about its own escape, although I wouldn’t compare it to grace, it does save me. The world is looking a little better and the sounds of the creek are pleasant. Today is calm and I have a great place to sit and think watching the water sparkle in the flashing rays of the sun. Thinking about the day brings me back to Candi.

What could she be doing? The bruises must be in full bloom right now and every ache would make her madder at me. Not for beating her though. Finding out about her child would be the cause of her rage. To the world she pretends like she is this great mom doing all this great shit for her kid. Poor Candi. The truth is that she gives her kid worse than what she ever got. I really want to fuck her right now. There is something seductive about her. Even when I think about how much I hate her and the bad things that she has done I just want to shove my dick in her and pound. Maybe she fakes it, I don’t know, but she always sounds like she comes. Her body quivers and shakes. It makes me feel powerful.

Getting up I realize that I am unsteady. Looking at my bottle I see that it is more than halfway gone. The little waves are almost touching the bottom. Slumping down I land on the ground harder than expected. Honestly I don’t even recall drinking at all. It is a sad thing to miss out on the enjoyment of the tastes and flavors. Drinking can be so automatic that it goes unnoticed by my senses.

After this wears off I will go back to the bridge. Or maybe I will go to Candi’s. Thinking about her makes me want to see her. It would be stupid to see her, but as the liquid leaves the bottle it seems like a better idea. When the bottle is near empty it seems like a damn good idea. If I wasn’t drunk I could have made it back to her place, but instead I passed out in a field of mustard flowers.

A frog was trying to get out of my shirt and the movement woke me up. It was a strange tickling. Too bad for the frog I wasn’t sure what the motion was until I smashed it into my chest. This made a nasty stain on my shirt. Another badge that told I was homeless. Slowly I was turning back into a troll. Like a fairy tale come true in a way.

Luckily I had passed out before I made it to Candi’s. That would have landed me in jail. Unlike most of the guys I had never been arrested and I planned to keep it that way. My story was not working toward a happy ending but jail was worse than death.

The churning in my stomach and the pounding in my head from the vodka were not as intense as the hunger I felt. It is turning into real pain now and I wish I had not thrown the frog away. Sometimes little lizards and birds are around and if I am not too fucked up they are pretty easy to catch. This is not going to be a morning when I can do that. The yellow from the field of flowers is pushing on my eyes. It is so bright and unpleasant to look at and I just try to keep from throwing up. Acid tickles the back of my throat.

Even though I am really hungry I don’t think I could eat without it coming back up. While there have been a few times that I ate my own vomit I really don’t want to repeat that again if possible.

A figure approaches me. It is not someone I know and he is smoking. Hey Dude, he says, You ok?

I can tell by the smell of the smoke that it is pot. Yah, I’m good. I just got some cancer and would like something to take the pain away. Five bucks?

I hold out the money, he takes it, and drops a little plastic bag with two joints in it. Nice fat ones. I was just hoping for one; this guy couldn’t be a dealer.

Marijuana is a medicine. After a few puffs I felt much better and I thought I could hold down some food. The pot makes me feel crappy after I get a little higher. It is hard to go into stores really stoned and I didn’t want to stop smoking even though I am starving now. When I was halfway through the first one I put it out to save the rest for later. Hopefully I wouldn’t find Randy today because I really did not want to share with him.   Unfortunately I was too fucked up to enter an establishment (or even find the right kind) so I went to the rows of green bins behind restaurant row. Everything tastes good when you are high and nothing I ate came back up. The sun grew more pleasant and I thought I could stand to look around. Instinctively I headed for the clock tower and there was Randy. In his hand were some papers and he seemed excited.

Hey man, he said walking toward me.

Once he was close enough he gave me a hug.

How was your cousin? I asked not really caring. All I could think about was the pot in my pocket and how to smoke it without having Randy know about it.

Oh, he’s doing great. I think he might actually like prison better than being on the outside. He is pretty fucked up.

Why did he end up in Soledad? That place is pretty hardcore, I am not really listening to Randy.

I want some time so I can think of a reason to ditch him for a while and smoke the other half of my first joint.

"Oh, he was just at the wrong place at the right time. He was going to see his baby mama Maria. You know how she is, well if you ever met her. Real crazy, always trying to cause problems.

Then he gets there at the house and she won’t let him in ’cause she says she don’t want her kid around a drunk. Mind you he had been drinking, but only like three beers. It takes a case to get him drunk ’cause he is around three hundred pounds.

So he is banging on the door, and she is calling the cops, because she has this bogus restraining order on him. He just gets through the door and sees her with the phone in her hands and some guy sitting on her couch with his son. So the dude just lost it and shot Maria. He shot the guy too, but the guy lived. Turned out to be Maria’s brother, but my cousin didn’t know that. What was he supposed to think?

It was just a bad scene. Once he got in the room, well, it looked like she was doing that to make him pissed. In a way she was asking for it. So now, because of her, he is in jail for the rest of his life. You should stay away from Candi. She is a worse bitch than Maria."

I hear something about Candi and my thoughts come back to Randy, Oh yah.

Hey my cousin gave me something cool. Let’s go someplace so I can show you.

Off we start on our way to the bridge. My mind wants to keep all the pot for myself, but I think I should share with him. Would he do that for me? No answer comes to mind. Some vague picture of an old yet kind teacher telling me how nice it is to share my crayons is spinning about in some foggy back area of my head. The feeling I got was not very happy or nice when I let Jimmy Germalli use my new crayons. Thinking back it was not to feel good that I shared; it was to avoid guilt.

Hey, look at these, Randy pulled out a bunch of letters and spilled them on the ground.

What are they? I ask.

They are letters from women. My cousin gets them all the time. Most just want to pray for him, but he has three that send him money.

What about sex?

Hey, Maria’s sister gives him conjugal visits. I think they might be married, I’m not sure. I know she is raising his kid, Randy informs me.

So why did he give you these letters? I wonder what the point will be.

Randy seems very excited, These women are the extras; he gets so many that he can’t keep up. Some came with money in them. Instead of throwing them away he gave them to me. We can call them and say we are ex-cons and see what we can get. He says most are looking for sex. Ain’t that sweet?

Yah, sweet, I say as we start to sort the letters.

I’m not really sure I like this idea. There are about one hundred letters in Randy’s hands, and he pulls out more from his clothing. What I want right now is some alcohol, or weed, or anything. It is starting to get itchy under my skin. Even a cigarette would be better than nothing. Like a mind reader Randy pulls a bottle of gin out.

After we take a few swigs Randy puts all the letters out on the ground. Most of them are in white envelopes, but a few are pastels. Some of them have perfume that mixes with the scents of the river, the grass, and human filth. It is a strange fragrance.

The first letter I pick up has a picture in it. The woman looks like she is in her fifties and is very plump. I wonder if the photo is recent or not. There is a vague reference to missing her husband so I think she really wants some. Still, she doesn’t sound like she wants to spend any money.

The next letter has a picture of a hot Mormon chick. I can tell by the way she writes that she will be willing to spend a fortune but is a real psycho nut job. It wouldn’t be worth it.

On and on we go through the letters until we have three that look the most promising.

You pick one, Randy insists.

They are from your cousin, why don’t you go first?

They are all awful; I don’t know if I could even call one of them. Go ahead; you are better at this than I am.

I look the three over. They are all fat, I mean really fat. No they are all morbidly obese. The smallest looks like a two hundred and fifty pounder. The biggest, and ugliest, talks about getting around on her lark. The other is not as ugly as the first two, but she is a lot older. The big one, the lark rider, talks about working and sounds half way intelligent. It would be risky to pick a smart one, but who else is she going to find? I think she must understand how risky it is to write to cons. After a minute I pick her.

Are you crazy? That bitch looks like she weighs five hundred pounds or something. She can’t even walk far. All she does is work, why her?

If she works she has money. So I’ll have to drink more to stand to look at her. Big deal.

In my mind I had decided to contact her. By now the gin was doing most of the thinking so I found a tourist with a cell phone to borrow and gave her a call.

Hey, Candice, right? Look I got your number from a buddy of mine in Soledad, I just got out. I thought you were cute and was wondering if I could see you sometime.

Randy was laughing and the tourist was frowning hard. The tourist didn’t look very tough so he just stood there and tried to stare his phone out of my hand.

She hesitated, and I could tell that she really didn’t like me; at least not what she heard. It was obvious that I was drunk. All she would say is call back call tomorrow. Can’t