Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.
Not My Proudest Moment: The Subtle Mugging Skills of a City Hobo
Back when I was in high school, I was admittedly a certified asshole. My senior year, I was voted most sarcastic. The yearbook committee ended up spending an entire role of film trying to capture a picture where I wasn’t flipping them off. I, along with my friends, would go out at night and steal street signs, break windows (both in cars and houses alike), tear up people’s lawns and other asshole-ish behavior that middle class white kids partake in. I was better than everyone else, and I knew it.
One day, I took BART into the city with some friends to go get ourselves into some trouble across the bridge. After emerging from the underground platforms, I was immediately accosted by a bum. A dirty, stinky, bum.
“Gimme a sandwich,” the bum said.
“What?” I replied.
“I said gimme a sandwich, I’m hungry
“Fuck you hobo. Give ME a sandwich. I’m hungry too.”
After our brief encounter, the bum, having lived this way for a very long time, realized he had nothing coming out of me and turned around, muttering to himself as he sought out another mark. As for me, having NOT loved my life for a long time, wasn’t ready to let it go. So I did what most teenaged assholes would do. I bought a sandwich.
I walked right back up to this homeless person and proceeded to eat the sandwich in front of him. I made a show of it too. Mouth open, food falling out and letting out moans of pleasure like I was Jenna Jameson at an all boys school. The hobo stood there the entire time, not saying a word with his mouth, but telling me a novel with his eyes.
He hated everything about me, and I loved it.
After finishing about half of my sandwich, I simply announced that I was no long hungry, looked at this poor guy, and threw the leftovers into the gutter, stepping on it with my boots as I walked away to catch up to my friends. Apparently this move was so dickish that my own, equally shitty friends were disgusted and weren’t shy in telling me how they felt. It got to a point where I felt the need to prove how un-dickheaded I truly was, in order to satisfy the criticisms of these fellow, penile craniumed chums of mine.
Later that night, on our walk back to BART, we happened to stumble across more homeless people. Figuring that this was my chance to redeem myself, I quickly scanned the area to find the coldest, sickliest bum I could find. Once I spotted him, I crossed the street, took off my jacket, and offered it to the dirty gentlemen. He accepted with a confirming grunt and I hastily hiked back to my friends to bask in the glory of doing my good deed for the month. We got back to BART and I reached in my back pocket for my wallet to get my ticket. Except it wasn’t there. Or in the other back pocket. Then is dawned on me. My wallet was in my jacket pocket that I had given to the shit bum.
“Guys, I gotta go back and find that bum. My wallet is in the jacket I gave him.”
We ran back to the street where the homeless guy was, and thankfully (since he had no home to go to), he was still there. He had already put my old jacket on and was looking quite warm in my garb.
“Hey man. Remember me? I just gave you that jacket about 10 minutes ago.”
“I’ve had this jacket for years!” He said.
Uhm, sure. Listen, I need it back.”
“It’s mine! You can’t have it!
“I don’t want the jacket back to keep. I just need to get my wallet out of the pocket that I forgot was in there.”
“It’s my wallet!” he said as he reached into the pocket, clearly unaware that the wallet existed up until this point.
“Dude, just give me my wallet. Keep the jacket. I just want to go home.”
And with that, the shit bum opened my wallet, rifled through everything and took out all of the cash. All without breaking eye contact. And when he was done, he stood up and walked away. Dumping my wallet, sans the cash, into the gutter as he left. Now, I am not sure that this guy saw what I did to his fellow street neighbor earlier in the day with the sandwich, but if he had, he played this hand of human poker perfectly. I grabbed my wallet and walked back to my friends, muttering to myself at what had just happened.
“Did that guy just take all of your money?”
“How much did you have in there?”
“I don’t know, about 60 bucks?”
“Damn. You just got mugged by a diseased, elderly bum and didn’t even know it.”
“I suppose I did. This sucks, lets get back home and smash some mailboxes in. It is the only thing that will make me feel better.”