Night of the Living Hobos
April 29th is an unavoidable birthday gang bang for me, spawning both my mother and my best friend Lindsay. This year I was torn on whether I should go back to
I wasn’t going to tell either of them I was coming. It was going to be a surprise, and then I wouldn’t have to get them a gift. My presence could be gift enough. So Saturday morning, I stuff my clothes into a bag and headed to Grand Central. My roommate suggested taking the Greyhound. The last time I road in a Greyhound is a story in and of itself – a two hour trip taking four as I sat behind a man who described his fondness of “eatin’ a fat pussy” ad nauseum. Needless to say, I was reluctant to try again, but since I didn’t have a lot of options I went for it.
The trip itself was uneventful. No pussy talk. However, when I got off the bus in DC, five hobos ran up to me, asking me if I had change or if I needed a ride (I’m guessing they were going to give me a piggy back ride to my next destination). At the time I was puzzled why they had all chosen me and not any of my other travel companions, but in retrospect I guess I had all “easy prey” written all over me. The combination of the large Yves Saint Laurent bag I was carrying my luggage in, along with my unzipped fly suggested that I was both well off and mildly retarded. (I just want to take a second to clarify that I’ve never actually shopped at Yves Saint Laurent. I had taken the bag from work weeks earlier to help me sneak all of my roommate’s umbrellas I had stolen back home.)
I blew threw the first hobo blockade with ease. Rounding the corner, I was accosted by four more. These ones more aggressive then the first. I pushed my way threw them, but two followed me for another block yelling “MISTA! MISTA!” I hurried my pace, but I knew that walking alone down the long narrow stretch in front of me was going to be tricky. I put my headsets in and my extra grumpy face on, which fended off the next beggar. I couldn’t get over the amount of hobos. It was like something out of Night of the Living Dead. As I started to near the metro station I thought I had finally made it unscathed. However, as I got towards the entrance, one last hobo jumped in front of me. I accidentally made eye contact and it was all over.
With his sad eyes digging into my soul, he asked “do you have any change you can spare? I have a kid at home…” It was all so sad and pathetic I couldn’t take it. I rustled through my pockets to find some change. Nothing. So I reached into my bag and found some quarters at the bottom and gave them to him. He smiled and we both went on our way.
It was approximately 3 minutes later when I realized I was no longer carrying a wallet.
I turned around and headed towards the bus station to see if my bus was still there. I knew deep down that I had most likely dropped it while sleeping on the bus, but in route I convinced myself that I had been pickpocketed. It was that asshole I gave change to I told myself, I was distracted as I rummaged for change. He must have grabbed my wallet when I wasn’t paying attention.
I got to the bus station only to find that the bus had already left. When I asked the woman if anyone had turned in a wallet to lost and found she just laughed. “Honey, I wouldn’t hold your breath” – definitely not the words of encouragement I was looking for.
As I walked out of the bus station, the same five hobos I had initially encountered when I first got off the bus confronted me for a second time. Filled with anger and desperation, I snapped. As I pushed through them I yelled “You fucking hobos already took my fucking wallet! What more do you fucking want from me?!” (In the heat of anger I tend to repeat “fucking” several times in a single sentence, usually causing people to laugh at me more than anything else).
With my adrenaline high, I rounded the corner. And there he was. The hobo I had given change to. He was just standing there, smoking a cigarette. Smugly. Smug cigarette smoker, with MY wallet. Something got into me, and before I realized what I was doing, I was standing next to him. “Excuse me, sir?” I asked him. “Do you have my wallet?”
He looked up from his cigarette and looked at me. “Your wallet?” he asked, “Did you lose your wallet?” He looked concerned and apologetic, which only made me suspect him more.
“Look, maybe it fell out while I was looking through my bag,” I said to him, “maybe you found it on the ground. You can have the money inside it, I just want me driver license and ATM card back.”
“Sorry man, I don’t have it. Good luck though. Sorry to hear about you losing your wallet.”
Fucking hobo fuck! Why did he have to be so fucking nice?
Whether pickpocketed or on the floor of the bus, I conceded that my wallet was forever gone. I sulked on the steps in front of Union Station until my father picked me up. “I know you lost your wallet,” he said “But it means a lot to your mother that you’re coming down. She’s been asking all day if you were going to surprise her or not.”
My mood started to improve when I got home (although when my brother asked me for a second time if I have found my wallet I screamed “I already fucking told you I fucking didn’t!”) At the end of the night, somehow my brothers and I convinced my mom and dad to come with us to karaoke at the bar down the street. And while losing my wallet was a horrible ordeal, watching my mother wave to the crowd as Brian, Matt and I dedicated our favorite Journey song to “our mother, the bitchinest birthday girl ever” – somehow made it all worth it.
And in case you were wondering, three days later I got my debit card resent in the mail. And two days after that II lost it at a bar.
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