They are invisible, a face you pass by everyday without a care. Society simply isn't designed for their existence, and so they make a society of their own. Some catch trains, some hitchhike, others get around in their own way. Each one has a story and each one is a walking conduit of wisdom gained through experiance. These are my people, my tribe, and they will always be dear to my heart. But who are these people you ask? Allow me to explain.
The ranks of the homeless are filled with four different and unique classes, each commanding a respective amount of respect. A Hobo works and wanders, a Tramp dreams and wanders, a Yegg steals and wanders, and a Bum drinks and stays put. In the old days the Hobo was king, though as their numbers dry up it is the Tramp who takes their place. My own class, the Yegg, are very rare indeed, but are respected by all other classes as never bowing down to authority.
I have always practically lived as a tramp, smoking dope and squatting in abandoned houses every weekend with my friends, creating almost magical memories of what life is supposed to be. I was a skilled Yegg already, and kept the houses we occupied that still had their electricity stocked up with stolen food. Fried chicken, Gatorade, chips, fish, candy, liquor, black and milds, fruity pebbles, bowls, plates....we had it all.
For some reason I always figured I would eventually run away, so i kept a fully stocked "Hobo bag" filled with stolen supplies. I was fully loaded, and my supplies were culled directly from the survival tips of other homeless. I had even begun hanging out with a few, partying and hearing their tales, and I must say I was drawn to the culture. I learned the ancient hobo hieroglyphs, a dead language, but terribly fascinating nonetheless.
When I was kicked out of my house I lived on the street as a Yegg for about three days, and I have to say it took some convincing from my friends to leave that lifestyle. After that, anytime I ran into any other homeless I made sure to give whatever I could: money, black and milds, food. I knew their hardships, and if I had a place of my own I would have boarded them.
I cannot wait for my motorcycle, and the call of the asphalt does beckon my soul. But I also hear the train whistle, the stirring of mulligan stew, and the warm cackle of a jungle fire. One day I think I might just join their ranks if I get disgusted enough with the society I live in now.
After all, every jungle camp could use a Shaman and a little Mojo.
(Homeless Survival Guide 1)
(Homeless Survival Guide 2)
