A Hobo Trip (revised)

Sleeping soundly is a pleasure like no other. During my restful state I find myself traveling to far off lands that are closer by comparison to the real world than the real world itself. Sleeping soundly, I have not a care in the world nor any notice of my true state of mind. That is, of course, until a crab apple fell upon my head and woke me with a start.

“Holy Crap!” I exclaimed. “I have to go to the bathroom!”

The thinnest vision of crystal waterfalls and cascading tiles running over vast prairies of sorghum and millet turned to misty wisps inside my head as reality flogged my subconscious into submission. Replacing my drug-induced serenity is an urge to urinate so strong that I would strike down Michael Jackson himself if he stood between me and the stained, brick corner I call my abode. Before I unleash my awesome fury upon the broken porcelain bowl I pieced together with gum and rubber bands however, I take in my surroundings. No longer do I stand knee deep in my own festering filth. The tattered rags and soiled cardboard boxes filled with geriatric diapers I once called my home no more line the 9x9 slab of concrete I viciously defend as my territory. The only familiar surroundings I see is the stained velvet rope fastened between two severely dented and chipped golden poles I stole from another vagrant like myself behind the alley of a studio in Hollywood. Even Hollywood itself seems to have changed. I see no streets, no buildings, and no cars flying by at high speeds with high school kids hanging out of the windows and hurling urine-filled glass bottles and greased up bowling balls toward my drunkenly swaying head. I see instead a field, stretching as far as the eye can see, lined entirely of dead horses in varying states of decomposition.

Curious indeed. Even my velvet rope leans against two dead horses propped on end in a sickening display of animal coitus. How I got here I do not know. Why I deserve this, who can guess? No one knows the stories of the vagrants, but I am slowly beginning to find out. My name is Jeremy Rodriguez, born and raised in Maine, Mississippi thank you very much, with naught to show but a paltry masters degree in Journalism and a bachelor’s degree in Pie Making. Journalism is useless, I know, but even still, I’m getting nowhere fast standing on this mound of dead horses.

Three hours, five miles and a refreshingly empty bladder later I see an end to the dead horse carcasses. Crossing rivers and valleys of dead animals may seem appealing at first, but let me tell you, it can get annoying. Not so much the smell, or the feeling of bones and rotting flesh squishing loudly beneath your stocking-clad feet, more so the underlying fact that there is no change of scenery. After a while you just look for a dead cow, or baby…something inconsequential to break up the monotony, you know? In any case, I crested the final hill of carcasses around 6 pm just as the sun was starting to sink below the fiery horizon and I entered into a new, more terrifying wasteland…one filled with pansies.

I have no idea where any of this came from. The horses could have obviously been gotten from a region in Mongolia where horses outnumber people, but I had no idea there were so many pansies in the world. Most wore skin-tight exercise apparel and flagrantly commented non-heterosexually about each other’s hair and muscle tone, but one or two appeared normal enough to carry on a conversation. One fellow, a man going by the name of Renaldo-Frederic-Sanchez XVIIVX seemed likely enough to be able to give me the information I needed.

“Say, Renaldo,” I started after making the formal introductions, “Where can I find a good post-card?”

“Well,” Renaldo said with a toss of his lustrously curled blond hair, “There’s like this guy who sells Potato Chips, his name is Henry and Oh My God is he gorgeous. You’ll totally know him when you see him. The BEST Frito lays in stock if you know what I mean… Anyway, he has more post-cards with puppies and flowers and glasses of orange juice than you can shake a sheik’s silk shawl at.”

“Thank-you Renaldo,” I said, “And on another note, where the hell am I?”

“Close to the 7th level. Really this is more of a transitional point between everlasting torture and reruns of Cher music videos, so it’s like 6.5, but we just call it “Gay Times at Ridgemont High” for short.”

I stared blankly at Renaldo, “Wait, what?”

“Oh I’m sorry,” Renaldo gasped, “Are you knew here?”

“Where?” I demanded, slowly losing my patience.

“Why in hell of course. I thought you knew… that’s why you said, “Where in hell am I?”

The last thing I remember was fighting another bum for a sandwich. We were wrestling around on the ground while all those kids were laughing and cheering us on until he pulled out a grenade and then…and then…my mind drew a blank. Is it possible to have died and gone to hell? It would explain why I didn’t have any shoes, but is it really possible? I had to find out for myself. I MUST find that post-card salesman.

Ignoring Renaldo, I stormed off toward the potato chip salesman (disregarding Renaldo’s confused pleas) and demanded to see the flamboyantly gay man’s wares. This would be my test. Scanning the post-card spindle, I glanced at hundreds and hundreds of post-cards, each of their fronts adorned with varying pictures of rainbows, hippies and anti-war protest signs.

Turning to the Salesman I demanded, “This is it, this is all you have?”

“Why sir,” The Salesman started, “Is this not appealing to you? Perhaps you missed the puppies, flowers and glasses of orange juice.”

“No,” I replied curtly, “Show me the best you’ve got.”

“Hmmm,” The Salesman thought, stroking the thirty-two-day-old stubble on his chin, “The best I’ve got eh?”

“Yes,” I nearly shouted, “Quickly now, it is of grave importance.”

“Tch, chill out amigo,” The Salesman said, “How about this one?” and held up his best post-card to show me.

“Dear god,” I said, “Is that a picture of a paper bag with the word “Bag” written on it?”

“Yes.” The Salesman said, an obvious smirk on his face.

“What the hell?” I asked, furious and scared all at the same time…dreading the reply that I knew was about to come…the final clincher to my answer.

“Why sir,” The Salesman said, “It’s Art.”

I hung my head in shame, “Touché Salesman, Touch酔

The Salesman looked at me with curious wonder, but it was all over. I knew where I was. I walked away from the Salesman, the world, and life itself, intent on crawling into a hole and spending the rest of eternity alone. Suddenly it all made sense… the horses, the pansies, even the crab apple. This is hell…and me without my hand basket…golly.