The Inhuman Act of Being Human

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I got up this morning.

Yeah. Unbeliev- able isn't it? I did it again. I woke up and rose and I didn't vomit all over my fat belly and shit myself climbing out of bed. I'm happy over that fact, because I'm pretty disgusted at getting up sometimes. Sometimes I tear myself away from some fabulous dream, where I'm either chasing or fucking some unbelievably beautiful woman and I'm doing something cool, like defusing a bomb in Times Square, or stopping a terrorist plot on native soil. Whatever it is I'm doing, I'm a bad ass about it.



And then I wake up in my little room, in my little bed, in my little world. And I got up. Yeah, I did it again. Unbelievable isn't it. Without puking or shitting. Amazing. I didn't sleep all that long again. Barely two hours today. And that was pushing it. I got behind my computer and started writing. Soon, I was going to get ready and meet my brother in Grand Central Station. The huge terminus that hates homeless people.



I say that because hours later, I'm standing in the middle of the vast expanse, under the dome of stars. Which is what the entire thing is, a massive dome-like structure with a starchart painted on its ceiling. So I'm standing there and I look at the flights of stairs at the East and West of the building. And right there, before the stair, there is this huge fucking sign that says: "Sitting on the steps is prohibited by law." Okay? Big assed sign. And there, sitting on the stairs on both sides are scores of tourists and commuters, eating lunch, taking pictures or simply waiting.



And walking by me, while I'm standing at the infor- mation booth in the center of the huge structure, are the NYPD. Police officers strolling by, talking amongst each other and completely oblivious to the motherfuckers sitting on the stairs. Now, here's my problem. Or better yet, you may be asking, "Why is this bothering you Hobobob?" Well, when I was homeless and cold and hungry I came to this very same place and stretched out on the floor to get some sleep. I sat where there was a score of commuters and tourists at the time, because it was nighttime and they were waiting for the last train to East Bubblefuck or wherever these shits spray from, and they had stretched out on the floor to sleep until then.



So I was smart enough to join them. But as luck may have it, the train arrives, and all these cocksuckers get up and leave me lying alone, asleep on the floor. Then the flatfoots arrive and hit my feet with their billyclubs, telling me to get the fuck up and get moving. Wha? I'm a fucking commuter going somewhere! "You can't sleep on the floor of Grand Central," they tell me. I get up and wander around, tired as Hell. I make my way around to the...guess where, boys and girls? You got it, the fucking stairs. I mount maybe four or five, sit down next to the stone railing and lay my head against it as a pillow and doze off. That's how tired I was. I can use stone blocks as a fucking pillow. You try that shit. Next time you go to bed, put a toolbox instead of your pillow on your bed and lets see how well you sleep.



Now I must have been out for a good fifteen minutes before there is a sharp rapping sound over my head. It's the cops again, this time tapping on the stone railing with their billy clubs. "There's a sign down there," they point. I look at it. It says no sitting on the stairs. I struggle to my feet. They tell me, if they see me asleep anywhere else in this station that they are going to throw my ass in jail for vagrancy. That's very good. Thank you.



So, as tired as I was, I was forced to leave Grand Central Station and wander around in the growing morning to find a place to sleep. And I did, at a Starbucks coffeeshop. Sitting upright on a stool while the morning commuters rushed in and got their morning cups before work. I am pissed and tired and all of these feelings flow back upon me while I'm standing, waiting for my brother and seeing all of these blockheads sitting on the stairs and worse of all, the NYPD, New York's Finest, do shit about it.



And if you've ever talked to a New York City cop, you get snide comments. I know if I go to them and point out this fact they'll tell me, "So what? We hate the homeless. Fuck 'em. Are you still one, bitch?" I'd have to tell them no, and turn up my nose to them, walking away. Screw them bastards. I know they do a tough job and they are asked to deal with the riff raff of the city, of, no doubt, I am a part of. But there could be some compassion in the entire mess. Some help. Some caring.

But there never is. That's why I like sleeping and dreaming. Because I could be doing something cool with some hot babe, and all of this life, and all of these memories could be finally forgotten.

They can go where they belong. Somewhere else.

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