Urban Nomads and Other Stories

By Odie Hawkins

“Urban Nomads and Other Stories” offers the reader the possibility of being able to experience lifestyles, different people, circumstances that he/she might not ever experience during the normal course of their daily lives.
In the era of “Fake News” and attacks on journalists, you read about two journalists who immerse themselves with urban nomads to get the story their editors’ want for City Beat Magazine.
Those familiar with barbershops know that there is a different vibe culturally in a shop that is in one area of town versus another area. This book gives you a chance to visit a barbershop in Compton, California where elders still get respect.
Times of racial tension are not much different than they were years ago. 1960’s period piece of “Racial Stuff”, provides insights on what a Northern Black man experienced in the Deep South.
Unique experiences of a Black boy’s with “Five Uncles and a Daddy”. All families, especially Black families are not the same. All poor families are not the same as all “po” families.
There’s a “Honeymoon Tent” on St. Julien Street, which shows some people don’t surrender to their circumstances.
Finally, there are photos that take you onto the streets, moments in time in “Urban Nomads”.
There is a strong possibility that a close reading of this book will change their lives positively, forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728339979

Odie Hawkins

Odie Hawkins was a member of the Watts Writer’s workshop that spawned the Watts Prophets, a collection of spoken-word artists, considered the forebears of modern hip-hop.He is the co-author of the novel “Lady Bliss,” and the author of “The Snake, Mr. Bonobo Bliss, and Shackles Across Time. 2011 he was a panelist at the Modern Language Assoc. at the Hilton, LA Live. Additional information may be found on Facebook page, his website:www.odiehawkins.com., his blog, and/or just Google his name.

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© 2020 Odie Hawkins. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

AuthorHouse™

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www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover photo by: Zola Salena-Hawkins

Photos by Zola Salena-Hawkins

www.flickr.com/photos/32886903@N02

Cover designs by AuthorHouse Design Team

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3996-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-3997-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920702

Published by AuthorHouse 12/19/2019

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Dedicated to ALL of us Urban Nomads

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CONRAD

CITY BEAT… AGAIN

DEEP IN THE BARBERSHOP, COMPTON …

DRAFTED, DAMMIT

RACIAL STUFF

FIVE UNCLES AND A DADDY

UH DICE BE NICE, COME SEVEN TWICE

THE ST. JULIEN HONEYMOON TENT

URBAN NOMADS - PHOTO GALLERY

URBAN NOMADS - PHOTO

GALLERY TABLE OF CONTENTS

PHOTOS By ZOLA SALENA-HAWKINS - www.flickr.com/photos/32886903@N02

URBAN NOMADS

Odie Hawkins (Author)

Zola Salena-Hawkins (Photographer)

KMPH-Blue Rose

A Journey

A Victim of the Trail

Alone

Bargain

Barred

Behind the Big House

Bikers

Blue Village

Boxed

Bridge Life

Bridge to Nowhere

Bronstein

Caged

Cell Phone

Clean Up

Closed

Cora Smith

Curb Eating

Don’t Surrender

Educating

Hard Sleeping

Hear Me Now

Hell

Home Repair

Home Sweet Home

Hope

Last Home

Law and Disorder

Living Swell

Loaded

Lonely

Lost

Moving

Must Turn

Naked and Unafraid

Night Life

Nitty Gritty

No Baby Sitters

No Picasso Here

No Place to Be

No Sweet Home

No Trespassing

NOMADICS

On the Edge

Perspective

Plastic Living

Protest Art

Quid Pro Quo

Recycling

Rest

RIP

Sally and Frank

Sarah B.

Saviors

Schizophrenia

Shrouded

Shut Down

Silent Shouting

Snacking

Still Got Email

Substation

Sweet Sleep?

Tenting Tonight

The Alley

The Bye Bye Bus

The End Don’t Give Up

The Good Life

The Overpass

Time Up

Under the Overpass

Under the Underbelly

Urban Hotel

Vietnam, Vet

Wall Street

Walled Out

Weighed Down

CONRAD

"Right here, right here in this spot where the sidewalk is split, I lived for

three long crazy years. Or was it four? Sometimes it’s hard to remember. A voice

told me that I would die if I strayed too far from this spot."

It wasn’t easy to believe that Emmanuel Conrad, brilliant scholar at a prestigious university, ex-pro football player (quarterback), best-selling author, once lived on a crack in the sidewalk on 4th Avenue, downtown. I looked up at him, that wasn’t hard to do; at 6’4, he towered over my 5’8.

How long were you out here?

After just a couple days I was beginning to use the language of the people surrounding us – ‘ey Conrad, you ain’t out here no mo,’ huh?

Naw, my brother, I ain’t out here no mo.

I was out here for 25 years.

You lived on the streets for 25 years?

That’s right, up ‘til two years ago when ‘San Julian’ broke out.

Summertime on Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles. I strolled along beside big-big Emmanuel Conrad, feeling less afraid than I had felt for the past three nights.

Alone, I felt vulnerable, a pale faced nerd making his way through the garbage, the make shift cardboard shelters, the tents, the rats that scurry along the sidewalks.

‘scuse me, my name is Michael Bronstein, I work for City Beat Magazine and I’m looking for Emmanuel Conrad.

Get the fuck away from me I don’t know no ‘Manuel Conrad.

Emmanuel Conrad, he’s a writer, they told me I might be able to find him down here.

I just told you! I don’t know no fuckin’ Conrad, now get the fuck outta my face.

Well, if you should happen to see him, here’s my card, ask him to give me a ring, we’d like to do a feature on him for City Beat magazine.

The guy I gave the card to, a grizzled relic from some dark horror movie, stared at it as though it were contaminated, and then tucked it into one of the layers of his multi-layered rags.

What was I supposed to tell my editor? I was assigned to do an interview of a guy who had a best seller on the LA Times list for the past six weeks now and was invisible.

Look, this guy is down there on Skid Row somewhere, he can’t be invisible, after all he has a book on the best seller list. Find him, Bronstein, interview him, earn your daily bagel, ok.?

Shirley Brown, Editor, City Beat Magazine, was not into being nice when she wanted a story.

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A Journey

Find him, Bronstein, make your family proud of you. Give us the atmosphere, the stench, life on the streets, you know what I’m asking for, we’ll make it a series for our December-January issue. Or maybe the Black History, February issue, I haven’t decided yet. OK.?

Honey, I know where Conrad is. Well, that is, I knew where he was ‘til yesterday.

I stared into the old, old face of what might’ve been a young African-American woman. It was twilight and I was beginning, once again, to feel that I was an outsider. My emotional antenna was up. Was she trying to play me for something? I’d already passed out $200.00 of City Beat slush fund money to locate the mysterious Mr. Conrad.

Ok., lady, where is he?

Maybe I was becoming callused, hard. I slipped the $20.00 bill into her grimy paw and tacked a hard look on my face.

Well, mister, like I sayid, I knew where he was ‘til yesterday.

It sounded like a sly plea for more bribe money to me. I took casual note of the disgusted look on the dark horror movie-faced guy as I palmed another $20.00 into the ancient-youth crone’s crack cocaine wrinkled face. I’d been on Skid Row long enough to recognize that look.

So, where is he?

She did a surprised, surreptitious study of the $20.00-bill. Dammit! I could’ve had her for $10.00.

Well, like I said, I knew where he was up ‘til yesterday.

I palmed her another ten-spot, anything to get to the Heart of the Darkness. Hello! Hello Ms. Brown, City Beat Magazine editor. I was going to do whatever was necessary to locate Emmanuel Conrad, bestselling African-American author currently living on Skid Row, somewhere.

So, where is he? I probed deeply.

He may be up in here, she pointed to the hotel behind us with her chin, check the desk. Her hangdog expression certainly warranted more money but, courageously, I resisted.

You say he’s here.

Noooo, like I said, he might’ve been here since yesterday. But he might be somewhere else now.

Dammit! Foiled again. Now what? Nobody at the New Hampshire School of Journalism had ever taught us anything about finding interviewees on Skid Row. I strolled thru the tired, funky, tobacco stained lobby of Mr. Emmanuel Conrad’s assumed residence. The Ghetto Sketches Hotel … .

Uhh, Mr. Emmanuel Conrad? Just a moment, sir. Would you kindly take a seat over there while we locate Mr. Conrade? The desk clerk turned back to fiddle with the remote.

I’m thinking out loud. Whooaa! Wait a sec! This has got to be the Ultimate Unrealville! Here I am, trying to locate a citizen of Skid Row who has just written a bestselling novel, and they’ve put me on hold to deal with the immediate concerns of a jive ass television show. How do I know it’s a jive ass television show? Well, aren’t most of them?

I sat in the lobby of Hotel Ghetto Sketches for an hour before the woman I had given the latest bribe shuffled in.

Conrad outside, she whispered and held her palm out for another $10.00. Damn! I meant to break the cycle of bribery and all that, but this didn’t seem to be the right time.

Well, where is he? I whispered back.

Right here, she announced and scurried off.

Emmanuel Conrad, brilliant scholar, ex-pro-football quarterback, Skid Row habitante, bestselling author was blocking out the street in back of him.

My name is Michael Bronstein….

I know, I got your card… .

So, well … I’m from City Beat.

I’m familiar with your fucked up/psuedo liberal rag mag, what do you want from me?

It took a couple blinks to think it out. What did I want from him? City Beat/Shirley Brown, Editor, had simply sent me to locate a bestselling author that no one had interviewed. It was going to be a coup. The whole slant of the thing was resting on my journalistic shoulders.

Well, now that you ask, I really can’t say what I want from you. My editor said, Go interview this guy."

So, you’re here to interview me?

Well, hopefully, it’ll be about much more than an interview.

2.jpg

A Victim of the Trail

I don’t know what I said, I can’t honestly say what triggered our bond. All I can say is that now I was strolling through the Skid Rows that comprise Skid Row in Greater Los Angeles with Emmanuel Conrad, the bestselling author of San Julian Street.

Uhh, Mr. Conrad?

Call me brother Conrad.

Of course, brother Conrad.

Hey brother Conrad, you ain’t out here no mo’, huh?

Nawww, Sister, I ain’t out here no mo’.

Conrad, uhh, brother Conrad, how does that make you feel?

What?

When somebody down here calls out to you, asking you about your current status?

3.jpg

Alone

He didn’t reply; he simply steered me into a restaurant that could’ve been the role model for a greasy spoon.

Let’s get something to eat.

The fast food-taco-Chinese place knew him and piled more bad food on two trays than I’d ever been exposed to.

You don’t have to eat this, if you don’t want to.

His suggestion sounded almost apologetic. I took him up on his offer and suffered thru a greasy chicken taco.

Summertime on Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles. Smells, unforgettable tableaus (I started thinking about a camera), the streets. After a hasty burrito ‘n beans (his choice) and a chicken taco, we’re strolling the streets again.

Suddenly, he waves his right hand in a nebulous goodbye salutation and disappears up a dark alley. Should I follow?

Two days later I’m back on Skid Row, on San Julian Street, looking for Emmanuel Conrad, bestselling author.

Uhhh, my name is Michael Bronstein, from City Beat Magazine … .

Never been exposed to so many people who could nod in such a negative way. No one knew Conrad, suddenly.

Michael, we want to put the Emmanuel Conrad in our Feb issue, what’s up with that?

Shirley, to be honest with you, I think I have a hook, the problem is hooking up with the subject.

Well, that’s a problem you’re going to have to deal with, isn’t it? Frank, what’s happening with the pedophile thing?

Suddenly I was back down on Skid Row, my job at stake. That’s the way it was, Shirley Brown fired people who couldn’t complete their assignments.

Emmanuel Conrad?

I don’t know no Conrad. You want something to help you out?

How could a few rat shit pellets of crack cocaine help me out? I found myself faced with an offer that I could easily refuse. He whispered over my shoulder, into my right ear.

4.jpg

Bargain

They tell me you been lookin’ for me.

I swallowed my last bite of greasy chicken taco and twisted around to face Emmanuel Conrad. I felt angry enough to want to say something very undiplomatic, but his charming smile cancelled the bad vibe out.

Yeahhh, remember the other day, you were giving me an interview and suddenly you broke it off and went somewhere.

Well, I’m back now, he announced, and signaled for a cup of coffee. Minutes later we were strolling thru Skid Row as though nothing had happened.

So, what do you want to interview me about?

I want to interview you about ‘San Julian Street’, your book, about you, your life, all of this….

Ohh, I didn’t know that.

I thought I detected a sly smile. It was my turn.

Before we get to you, let’s go to ‘San Julian Street’, what made you do it?

Good question, he said, and strolled beside me, not making any other comment. I felt intensely frustrated. It was time to become aggressive.

Conrad, look, I have an editor who is a real bitch. You know what I’m sayin’? If I don’t come back with a world class, dynamite interview of the best-selling author I could lose a few brownie points.

Why didn’t you say that, Bronstein?

I thought I conveyed that impression when we first met?

No, you didn’t, but ain’t no real big thang. Let’s walk on over here to the Square, it’s a good place to sit ‘n rap.

Pershing Square at high noon. Bold pigeons beg for food from the noon time-lunch hour crowd. A wide-ranging assortment of diverse human beings hangs out here. Some of them are completely sane.

Emmanuel Conrad sprawled on one of the stone benches circling the south and western fringes of the Square, all 6’4" of him covered by clothes that looked as though they had just been snatched out of the dryer at the local laundromat. How could a bestselling author run around in roughdry clothes?

Well? That’s what his expression conveyed to me. It was time for me to dig into the core.

Ok., Mr. Conrad, let’s have it. Who were you? What are you? And what the hell are you planning to become?

I’ll never forget the outrageous roar of his volcanic laughter. To be completely honest, he scared the crap outta me.

Hell! You wanna know everything, huh?

I nodded numbly.

He ignored the first question I put to him, and the second one, and simply started talking. I thought it was schizoid stuff until I began to listen more closely. His voice was barely louder than the traffic around us.

I knew I could work my way through, even though the obstacles seemed insurmountable. Being homeless and schizophrenic are not easy bumps to get over. There were a number of people who thought I wouldn’t make it.

"I followed his intense gaze at a man who had come to sit on the steps about 20 yards in front of us. He was brushing his hair, or rather he was brushing the bald spots on his head where his hair had been. He brushed with a heavy hand. Evidently, he had brushed himself into baldness.

"How long was I on the streets, out here? Roughly a quarter of a century, 25 years. Strange as it may seem I can’t recall anyone of those years as well as I can recall that three-year attachment to that section of sidewalk I showed you.

It would take weeks to run you through the horrors I experienced during my time out here, but nothing sticks in my mind like those three years."

You say a voice told you that you would die if you left that spot.

He turned to glare at me.

Who in the fuck told you that?

You did, the other day.

The glare became a charming smile.

Yeah, well, it’s true. That’s the nature of schizophrenia, the voices, the forces that have control of your behavior, the demons, the madness.

Both of us looked up at the shuffling, erratic walk of a man completely covered with grime and grease, pulling a super market cart through the Square. He could’ve been an old man, a young man; and, if he hadn’t had a long scraggly beard, he might’ve been a woman. He paused every now and then to carry on an animated conversation with an imaginary companion.

Conrad nodded in the man’s direction.

I used to be like him. The person he’s talking to now is just as real to him as you are to me.

Why is he still there and you’re here?

Once again, he ignored my question and simply started talking. It was a little disconcerting to not to have someone respond to a direct question; but I had to go with the flow, after all he was giving City Beat an interview, he was saving my job.

"Of course, I had people talk to me about my problems, some of ‘em were down ’n out, just like me, but for some reason they seemed to feel that I had a chance to make it.

‘Look, Conrad, (they told me),’ ‘you don’t have to be down here, you got an education, you got brains.’

And then, there were those lovely people who worked in the Ray Gun Building, the Department of Justice, right over there on Spring Street, the legal secretaries, ‘specially that wonderful little sister who wore the cowboy hats. Damn, what was her name?"

He paused and stared at the man brushing his bald spots. I felt tempted to pop in and say, Well, ok., look, while you’re trying to remember this person’s name, let me ask you this … ? But I didn’t.

Zola Salena, that was her name. Never will forget her. She gave me money, bought me food, gave me encouragement with her upbeat vibe. All of them did, to some extent, but she was special, you know what I’m sayin’?

The question was so unexpected I could only nod, Yes, yes, I know what you’re sayin’ ….

"Still hard to believe that they would’ve come within 50 yards of me, the way