My Ascension to Homelessness

The trials and tribulations of a member of America's most misunderstood cultures.

My Ascension to Homelessness

He stood in front of me, a lumbering, intimidating in stature. Clothed in a dark purple pinstriped suit tapered in a copper dust, as if he had been standing still in an abandoned library for 30 years. Sans the dust, an impeccable fedora cap was placed on his head, titled with a fitting sway. Were a song playing his introduction, it no doubt would be Through Poland to a Jewish Village. A wide grin, parallel to the brim of his hat added a careless intent. A bellow of smoke darker than his skin ascended in a dancing fashion. However, where his eyes ought to have been, were occupied by two toothless mouths windowed by the smoke. This man existed, I saw him with my own two, otherwise, normal eyes. I knew that the grim reaper finally had enough, and that he had come to ferry me across his river. However, for a time I can not recall, perhaps ten minutes, he stood still, with the only motion coming from the hazy smoke. He had no intention of claiming me, not that day. In retrospect I believe he was merely saying hello, politely introducing himself so that my day came, he and I would already be acquainted.

I truly did meet that man that day, as his face is as easy to recall as my father's, given that they shared the dark, worn and wrinkled skin. That fellow will be properly placed in his context at a later point, I merely thought it wise to pay him the respect of introduction outright as he had done for me. The following will be a roller coaster of emotions, self-induced trauma, love and loss, all memories whose grace stings with an indiscriminate pierce. All resulting from my own demons, birthed while swatting the fly on the wall, created while climbing down my pit. I've found my life both reckless and strong, dimwitted and wise, all leading me winding down to join the ranks of a deeply misunderstood folk, whose classification is more category than culture: the homeless.