Blueberry Bums

My beard is starting to become very thick and dense. If I ruffle up my beard with the palms of my hands, it starts to resemble pubic hair. It’s a very ratty look I have going on. My dad says it makes me look intelligent. My girlfriend says it makes me look like a bum. I like to think I give off the appearance of an intelligent bum, a wily homeless man, getting by on the brain in his head and the cut of his jib. Spending his days in the Lincoln Park library, reading up on Proust and Thoreau to satiate his thirst for knowledge, yet spending his nights in the alley behind the Einstein’s on Diversey, searching for a stale blueberry bagel with a bit of honey-almond shmear to satiate his hunger for food.

When I’m lost in thought, I roll up a strand of hair from my mustache and pluck it out. I don’t even feel the pain from pulling it out because I’m so deep in my thoughts. It’s a habit I picked up in high school when I thought it was cool to have a mustache. Now I have a mustache because it goes with my beard, but mainly because I’m too lazy to shave and I want to see how long my facial hair can grow. As a result of that habit, my mustache is starting to get patchy. There’s this one spot in particular where I’ve plucked out over a dozen hairs. Ratty ratty ratty.

I talked to an actual bum today. Or, rather, he talked to me. I was paying for my croissant at a coffee shop when he came up and asked for some money. I couldn’t utter my usual response of “Sorry, I don’t have any cash” because I was holding three one’s and some change in my right hand. I gave him a dollar and he said “Oh, man, I just need one more dollar” and so I gave him another, to which he added “Just one more, one more, I need some money to buy a pie,” and so I gave him another, to which he said “Come on, man, come on, it’s pie,” but he elongated the word “pie” so that it took him five seconds to say it. “Piiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee.” I gave him $3.56 and the coffee shop owner kicked him out and I got my croissant and left.

Back when I worked at Jersey Mike’s, there was this homeless guy named Todd who would come in every night around closing time. He never bothered any of the customers and he livened things up while we cleaned, so we let him stay. I was always hoping that I’d manage to gleam a drop of wisdom or two from Todd, but all he wanted to talk about was sex.
“Hey, Fernando, you banged any girls lately?”

“Have you ever touched a chick’s boobs?”
“Fernando, would you do a girl behind the dumpster?”
“Do you like black butts, Fernando?”
I don’t know why I have this idea in my head that homeless guys are treasure chests of knowledge. They’re not. If they were, they wouldn’t be homeless, right?

Once, in Austin, I had a homeless guy throw a condom at me. I don’t think it was used. At least I hope it wasn’t.

Once, in New York, I had a homeless guy approach me and start talking to me in all sorts of weird voices. When I finally gave him a dollar, he stopped and said “Thanks, man, I hope I’ve entertained you, man, I would never beg for money, but this is how I make my living, man, by making you laugh, man.”

Once, in Houston, I had a homeless guy jump out of the bushes when I was waiting in line at the drive-thru of a Whataburger. I thought I was about to get car jacked, but, no, he just wanted a taquito.

Once, in Chicago, I had a homeless guy sing to me and Delma. Then he conducted a marriage between Delma and myself.

I don’t know why this turned into “Alf's Experiences with the Homeless." I started it thinking I was going to write about my beard and how I want it to grow as thick and mighty as Poseidon’s beard, but instead you get a bunch of homeless people anecdotes.

Poseidon looks like a bum.

You know what I just realized? I never told Todd that my name wasn’t Fernando. Huh.