Robo Hobo Homo #060

I have five to six roommates at any given time. I could have up to seven. Freddy is only one. The wheelchair guy another (WC). Freddy talks about taking the bus up to the library all of the time. As I sat down at the library, I thought it funny that I never saw Freddy there. "But then," I thought to myself, "I never really look around for him."

Just as I tossed glance over my shoulder I saw him coming towards me. He asked me to watch his stuff for a minute. Sure enough, by the wall directly behind me was a simple chair that had his bag, his cracked tablet (charging), his phone (also charging), and a pile of tobacco on the floor.

I have to explain the tobacco thing. Man, I do not know if I can explain the tobacco thing. In summary, Larry had decided to roll cigarettes inside of the library and left a pile of loose tobacco on the floor of it. All without a single fuck given.

After a few minutes of that, he came back, thanked me, and I went on my way.

Robo Hobo Homo #059

With my computer acting up a bit, I finally asked about getting access to the computers at the library. The librarian said that she could get me a guest pass, but that a regular card required a bit more. I needed to have verification of my address in the area. I’m not sure if all of my healthcare paperwork counts, but that’s kind of moot because of the second requirement.

It’s $30 for six months and $60 for a year. I was surprised, but then this is a pretty nice place. The library isn’t particularly impressive except, of course, for the fact that it still exists in this day and age.

I don’t think libraries are obsolete, I just know that it’s hard for libraries to keep their doors open when people think that all of their essential functions can be served by the internet.

As a homeless person, it’s a place where I can access the internet on a reliable computer, access data related to jobs (they do have a copy of HTML and CSS for Dummies), and keep up with current events. As quiet as libraries are, they’re a social center that can connect folks together.

Even my roommate.

Robo Hobo Homo #058

The courthouse was on the way to my most important stop, the Mental Health Office. I already went over it before, but I do want to impress upon you how nice everyone there was. A lady noticed that I used the word “y’all” and I confessed to being from Texas. I can’t overstate how much it meant to me, feeling broke and vulnerable, to have someone notice me as a person. It wasn’t just her. The folks at the local helping people find employment office, the Food Stamp Place, and even the DMV were really nice.
 

That the Thrift Store people and my case worker are a bit more abrupt doesn’t seem so bad.

I also saw a fellow resident at the Mental Health Office. I won’t even give him a made-up name. We shared a few words, had some small talk, and that was it. None the less, he’s a good guy and I’m glad he’s getting help too.
 

I wouldn’t have pegged him as someone who really needed counseling, but then you can never tell these things about folks just by looking at them.

Robo Hobo Homo #057

On Wednesday after I left the local helping people find employment place, I was headed for the mental health office. On the way I wanted to swing by the courthouse to see what I had to do to get another social security card.

I forgot that courthouses have guards and metal detectors at them. If I had a dime for every time I had to walk into a courthouse, then suspiciously walk back out as I put my boxcutter down on a nearby hand rail then walk back in, I’d have twenty cents.

But hey, I could use the money right now.

Luckily, this town is small enough that that was not the case. In fact, they had a relatively large display focused solely on helping folks get new social security cards. Go fig. I read it over, noted the documents, grabbed an application, and got out.

I turns out that I only need a valid driver’s license and my birth certificate to get the new social security card. Whenever I got to the library later, I managed—through my euphoric haze—to look up data on getting my birth certificate from Texas. $22 paid through a debt or credit card.

Outstanding.

At least I was on the right track.

Robo Hobo Homo #056

It’s unsettling how quickly you get used to things. There aren’t any paper towels here. Strange, right?

There is a roll in the kitchen. There is (usually) a roll in the bathroom. There’s also some toilet paper, but my best investment ever (a $2 package of 84 moist tissue wipes) is seeing me through most of that.

It’s not there for when you wash your hands. It’s not there when you eat a bagel at 1400 in the afternoon. It’s not there when there’s a little smudge on the table and you need to wet a napkin to get it off. It’s not there when you eat corn on the cob and everything is sticky and buttery.

I never thought of a life without paper towels. It’s not bad; it’s just different.

It’s one of those things you get used to quickly.

Robo Hobo Homo #055

Whenever I signed up for DSHS, I passed on a cash option. First thing Wednesday morning, I popped back in there and checked on that. I had to sign in, but the information lady at the front answered all of my questions and had me on my (cashless) way in no time. It was really productive.

The DMV was pretty quick too. I needed to check on the price of transferring my license locally, from Louisiana to this state. It was, considering my current financial status—hell, even considering my immediately prior financial status—pretty expensive. It was good to know though.

Between those three, I stopped by the local helping people find employment office. It hasn’t been too useful to me, except that I can print out applications and resumes from it. Daryl asked that I get him a copy of my resume and suggested (sagely) that I print out a few more besides. I did that, but I messed up the saving before I printed and to make a long story short I have scratch paper now.

Also, another job lead on a job that specifically pays $9.50 to veterans.

(That’s not a lot of money.)

Robo Hobo Homo #054

Amongst everything else Tuesday night, I noticed that we were drying dishes on a regular bed sheet stretched across a wire rack. I asked around and no one knew when it had last been replaced. I replaced it Wednesday morning and put it and the aprons we use to do dishes in the laundry room, on the assumption that the house laundry guy would do it, sight-unseen.

He didn’t and I guess I should have gotten with him, but upon further investigation, it was ‘Stache and I just didn’t want to go there. He seems like kind of a dick even on his good days and I while I’m not great with people I think that I can official say that we “have history.”

So I signed up for a laundry slot Thursday to wash the aprons myself (and the linen, if it was still there), but I completely forgot because I ended up waiting for so long to do internet stuff.

Anyway, by not telling anyone about moving the aprons and stuff, nothing got done, the other dishwashers were thrown off and I’m now behind on my personal laundry schedule.

Robo Hobo Homo #053

I have no shaving cream. That’s not a real surprise. I only have razors because a guy named Neils gave some to me. I’ve been using shampoo, soap, and nothing at all as shaving cream and let me tell you I can’t recommend any of it. Somewhere, there’s supposed to be a hygiene place where I can get deodorant (I’m running out) and shaving cream, but the only person I’ve heard about this mythical place from is my roommate Larry, who is intensely incapable of giving instructions.

Now, in my personal life, there are three things I generally despise: cities, effeminate gay men; and having other people give me directions while I drive. There was one date where I had all three, but let me tell you, I finally found a living human organism worse at giving directions than gay men.

Larry my roommate is the worst. He doesn’t know east from north, favoring a system of navigation where everything is “up” some number of blocks. Facing is a quaint idea. “That building with the windows” is a landmark. He backtracks to an unknown point in his directions without warning or anything but a quickly repeated “nonono” before he says the next direction with enough emphasis that he thinks you can’t help but now which exact part of the rambling, incoherent set of random descriptions you just went back to.

For now, I’m just going to have to continue this near-dry shaving.

Robo Hobo Homo #052

I tend not to hide my homosexuality. Oh, I’m quiet about it, but I tend not to lie about it or swerve too far out of the way to cover it. Unless it amuses me.

However, that means that I generally want to establish another reputation before it becomes public knowledge and that I want to avoid any “gay stuff” that might be misconstrued as predatory in retrospect.

I’d rather it go, “That guy who’s good at washing dishes is gay too, did you know?” Rather than, “that gay guy is good at doing dishes.” It’s a subtle difference, but a really important one. To that end, I’m happy about the praise I get as a dishwasher, but at some point enough becomes enough and I start looking like a teacher’s pet.

Whenever I went to find Tosh, I learned that he lived in one of the nicer rooms of the shelter. Some of the rooms let you pay a very low rent and you get a nicer rent and some more privacy. You still have to do chores and I think your stay is still limited to 90 days, but they’re better, cheaper digs while you recuperate and put money aside for living solo again.

When I knocked on Tosh’s door, I really thought I heard him say, “come in.” The rule is that you never enter someone else’s room unless folks are dying, and I abide by that. I cracked the door a bit and told him a bit about what was going on, but I wasn’t sure my very soft voice was really carrying enough, so I poked my head around the corner.

There he was, scrunched up on his rack, with every available limb covering his crotch as casually as possible given the circumstances. I’ve been fortunate that I’ve only been walked in on while masturbating once, but I probably had that same look of intense concern in my eyes.

I pulled back a bit, having finished my story and he simply said “I’ll be right up there.” While I made my way back to the kitchen.

I really hope, he didn’t say “don’t come in I’m touching myself,” because that’s the kind of behavior on my part that could be misconstrued as predatory.

Robo Hobo Homo #051

Look ‘Stache was a jerk about things when he didn’t have to be, but getting a nice meal at the end of your work day when you’re coming home to a homeless shelter full of farting guys is a really small request.

I finished up the dishes, signed it off, and made my way to the lobby to ask the lobby guy if I could write myself up for not watching the kitchen securely enough.

I don’t use the phrase “blew his mind” lightly because people love to say that about the things they do, but this might be the one time I legitimately blew the mind of someone over the age of twelve.

He didn’t know how to react and we talked—very civilly—about it before he got up and got Tosh for back up. They started saying really nice things and other folks were walking by and I—

I tend to get a bit of praise over here. I’ll go over the praise thing later (and the other thing with Tosh. I haven’t forgotten!), but I get a lot.

It was all a bit much, I slid off of the seat with a “This is getting awkward. I’m…gonna go now.”

With that, I took my leave and hit the rack early and unsatisfied.

Robo Hobo Homo #050, The 'Stache Saga, Part II

I went to get Tosh, the guy who runs the kitchen, and there’s another misadventure there, but when I got back, I let ‘Stache know that we didn’t have his meal and that Tosh would be up to get something for him. ‘Stache was angry and asked point blank if there was no meal and I told him no. There wasn’t. That it had been put aside, but someone else had eaten it. He’d signed up just like he was supposed to, but we fucked up.

I should have let Tosh know that ‘Stache didn’t want a consolation prize, but I didn’t think about that. I was just angry that I’d kept such poor control of my watchstation and that now a person was suffering for it.
 
Sure 'Stache was making himself a salad and he was being kind of a jerk about things, but he was right: if he signed up for the meal then he should have gotten it. I was the only person in charge of the kitchen after he cook left and it was my fault he didn’t get his meal.

Whenever Tosh arrived, instead of backing down when ‘Stache vented at him, he bowed up. The two yelled, ‘Stache yelled a little angrier, and eventually things got quiet. I had returned to doing the dishes.

Later, Tosh came in, asking if ‘Stache had yelled at me. He explained that he’d written up ‘Stache for their altercation and wanted to put the screws to him. I evaded, simply saying that I considered ‘Sache’s actions towards me to be reasonable given the context.

A guy shouldn’t get written up twice because we couldn’t make good on our commitment to him.

Robo Hobo Homo #049, The 'Stache Saga, Part I

So I might have mentioned that I do dishes after dinner. It usually takes me about two hours. I need to cut it down to something reasonable like an hour and a half, but it’s a work in progress.

There are a lot of guys in the kitchen at night. Sometimes the breakfast cook comes in to make something. Sometimes cleanup crews come in. Sometimes the guy that runs the kitchen comes in and…I think I’ve griped about this before now that I come to think of it.

One of the things the night cook does is check the sign-up sheet on the door to see who needs a late dinner. The goal is that everyone gets a job so they can move out, right? Well, the shelter still provides dinner even if you’re working during dinner. It’s pretty sweet.

Well at night I’m sometimes the only person in the kitchen with the evening meals. Now, I don’t have any specific authority over it, but I’m the only person ‘on the clock’ while folks are getting their meals. I’ll usually notice when someone saunters in to get a meal, but I generally do my job and assume everything goes to plan.

Until Tuesday night, whenever a guy, ‘Stache, didn’t get his meal. He came in an asked about it, but I didn't see it on the table for late dinners. I felt pretty bad and checked around the kitchen for it, but if it wasn’t on the table, then someone ate it.

Robo Hobo Homo #048

So a guy with a broken ankle arrived Monday. He got it while hiking around the mountain. I’m trying to help him around, but then he says that because he’s broke he’s going to need to learn how to get around on his own anyway. But then someone else helps him and I feel like a tool.

I haven’t gotten a chance to ask him about the mountain yet.

He’s a cool guy though. He might have even been trying to do what I wanted to do. There’s no telling, really. I would like to sit down and talk with him about the mountain. Show him my map. Try to understand the lay of the land.

He got a wheelchair on Thursday so he’s getting around better. Still makes me look like a tool though. Four months he’s going to be laid up. Being a cold, homeless queer is bad, but having a being homeless and having physical handicap? Damn.

Robo Hobo Homo #047

So I made an appointment. The folks were nice. Very nice. I’ve never been a really big “insurance” guy. I understand the operating principles, but I never quite know how to make sure everything works.

I once had to pay over $1,000 for an STI test just because I went to the doctor’s office a day fucking early. It was a complete hassle that saw me getting billed by three or so different organizations I’d never heard of and my overall experience was unsatisfactory.

With the public healthcare plan I signed up for as a poor person, I was able to fill out my form and then the folks behind the counter determined my insurance information.

They could do that because the system was all linked together. They had to do that because I hadn’t gotten my card yet. Getting a mental health screening was at the top of my list of things to do and I imagined there would be a line so I didn't want to wait for my card to come in the mail before I got into the queue.

Luckily, I was correct. My appointment ended up being on “Walk-In Wednesday,” which is a little depressing, but for essentially free mental health that might be able to help me hold down the next job I get, I think it’s worth it.

I know it’s worth it.

Robo Hobo Homo #046

That was something else I’d done on Wednesday. I had received assurances that I had insurance coverage, so I decided I’d take some time to actually get evaluated.

I want to start by saying that I don’t consider my suicidal tendencies to be an error or the result of something wrong with my brain. If anything, the fact that I haven’t done so in the face of the overwhelming evidence of the futility of my building a future is proof of some processing flaw.

None the less, I do get emotional flashes where I do want to die as a result of stress. Having someone just slide up and blow my brains out would be a preferable experience to some of the social situations I encounter. It’s just cleaner and easier.

It’s not my lack of zeal for life that I find troublesome. It’s the aggressiveness of these moods that concerns me. It’s that I can be so down for so long. It’s that I can be so euphoric at something which is rationally a very small thing.

I don’t think that having “nominal” brain chemistry is the cure for anything. I do think that maybe if I didn’t brood over things, I’d be a little more capable of engaging in the social give-and-take that’s required to stay at a job for longer than a year.

Robo Hobo Homo #045

I put in some Elance bids Tuesday. I almost never do that. I’ve had an account since forever, but I’m always afraid I won’t be able to finish or that I’m somehow unqualified and that I’ll ruin my Elance reputation and I’ll never get more Elance work. I’m always more comfortable with things that might be useful later if I never use them.

Well, this is the eleventh hour. It’s as late as it gets.

They had one for editing blogs written by folks who had English as their second language. That seemed like a layup so I went for it.

There was one where I’d be taking simple phrases and rearranging them to make them legally distinct simple phrases. That was weird, but I put in a bit that was on-the-nose price-wise and they went with someone else.

The last one was for 5 opinionated finance/current event blogs of 300+ words. Now, I don’t know anything about finance, but give me a laptop and a wi-fi range long enough, I can learn anything on Earth. I put in what I think was a pretty good bid.

On Wednesday, I learned that I got it. The blogs were for the personal blog of someone who's pretty important, even if I’d never heard of them. The wheels began to spin. I was on the library computer because of the problems with mine, so I only had thirty minutes to get things done. I opened up tabs of relevant news articles and printed them to the Microsoft Document Writer. I don’t have internet at Purgatory Shelter so I had cache them so I could read them later and write the articles when I was back at the shelter.

I barely got my articles saved and transferred to the internet before time ran out. As poorly as my computer was running, I managed to get the files and get them onto it. I went over them a bit, then I picked up magazines off of the shelf and read finance articles until it was three thirty and I was at the cutoff point for when I had to get home.

The entire walk back to the shelter, I was jubilant. I felt alive like I hadn’t in so long. There was some worry in there too though. I acknowledged it and decided to focus on the present.

For those moments at least.

Robo Hobo Homo #044, Clarification Online

When I said earlier that there's "no standard" for passwords, I meant for social services cites. Sometimes they need a symbol, "!" or something. Sometimes, they need eleven characters. I can change my password to match the site, but the thing is that I never remember which modified password matches which site.

It happens with job applications too. Every company has their own standard of password which ostensibly exists for my own good, but is usually a fast-track to a password reset email.

I appreciate that these folks want to protect me while I'm trying to work for them, but it becomes a real hassle really quickly. I could just write down the passwords; I don't honestly think that anyone is going to steal my healthcare password (and I know they couldn't decipher it if they did get a hold of the book I'd inevitably write it on). 

The practical answer is for companies and agencies to list the password requirements of their site on their login pages. Not necessarily directly on it, but available under a button so I can more easily recall which set of bullshit, atypical features my password has to have for site #119383498.

Robo Hobo Homo #043

I also did some shuttle runs between the computer and the public phone.

A letter from the healthcare selection department (not my actual healthcare provider) confirmed my fears; I'd entered the address incorrectly whenever I'd signed up. I tried to fix it online, but I've logged into so many systems over the past week that I've completely forgotten all of my logins and passwords because there isn't a standard. So I was locked out of my account and had to shuttle run to the phone to handle it there.

A nice guy named Judge helped me out and we had a few laughs about how the mailman took my mail to the right address anyway and how I used to do call center work and other stuff until I was fixed up.

Then I shuttled back to the computer.

I was trying to get the SafeLink phone hooked up (still). According to the internet, my application was canceled. I turns out I originally filed under “really poor” because I have no money, but it turns out I needed to file under “receiving food stamps.” The woman in India who has a job was very polite and explained what had happened and what needed to happen.

I returned to the computer and started my third (fourth?) SafeLink application. At the end, it needed my Food Stamp ID number, which I'd never gotten from the food stamp people. So I had to shuttle run back to the phone to call the Food Stamp people and get my number.

The number they gave me was eight digits, but SafeLink needed nine (naturally). Stymied, I put a '0' in front of my number and it went through. All I needed was for SafeLink to talk to the Food Stamp department and verify that I was on food stamps, then they'd put the phone in the mail.

Until then, it's shuttle runs and getting call-backs at the front counter of a homeless shelter.

Robo Hobo Homo #042, Tuesday

Financial constraints mean that going into town is either a one and a half hour trip each way or a prohibitively expensive $1 trip on the bus. That means that I spent my first Tuesday hanging around Purgatory Shelter.

I called that janitorial job that I was so conflicted about applying to. They said the position was filled. When I was putting in apps later, I saw that it was up, but whatever.

I called the shipping manager job I'd called about Friday, but no one was there and I left a message. A few seconds later two people called the shelter back-to-back, but not for me.

One of the case workers was in and I got hooked up with one of the computers. An older guy named Frank was sitting next to me. He was signing up for SSI or SSDI. Whichever one doesn't shoot down nukes but gives you money for not being able to work.

I helped him out with a thing or two, and he really caught on fast. Drugs are a common way that people end up here, so we ended up talking about that. I mentioned that I'd had a boyfriend who'd done marijuana and that's how I knew I was allergic. There wasn't any awkwardness or those “I'm cool with gay people” moments, which was a relief.

We ended up talking about why I was here. I have a great line about egomaniacal shithead one charisma point shy of full-blown sociopathy. He said “Yeah, me too,” and we've kinda been friendly ever since.

Another guy, Sharon, came in and he needed help with some IRS stuff. I couldn't help him, but he came back a bit later for some other information and that was readily available.

One out of two ain't bad?

Robo Hobo Homo #041

One of the actions brought up by Daryl during the House Meeting was the subject of boxes. Apparently, we have a recycling dumpster that's nothing but cardboard boxes. It didn't get picked up last week because the last two dozen or so boxes weren't broken down properly.

I had gotten a lot done Monday. As I finished washing the dishes I took out the kitchen garbage. Someone had cleaned out the fridge and there were three moldy plates of food in there. The garbage wasn't that full, but I figured it was for the best just to take it out anyway.

As I left the back door, making sure it was propped open so I could get back inside, I saw the recycling bin overflowing with cardboard boxes.

After I put a new bag in the kitchen, the only thing I had to do for the next thirty minutes was to break down boxes. I got my boxcutter out of my backpack and walked outside.

One of my first jobs was as a stock guy at Radio Shack. A lot of it included breaking down and reshaping boxes in the alleyway behind the store. I really liked doing that and it was cathartic getting to do it again. Some of the boxes were tougher, but nothing I couldn't handle.

It was about twenty minutes of work, but after I was done the dumpster was at about 60% whenever it had been an abundant 120% when I'd come out. It was good to have a job done and to see the difference it made.

Despite all of my other setbacks and halted steps forward of the day, it made everything seem okay for a bit.

Robo Hobo Homo #040

The lobby is also the guy who signs people in. He gives folks their first orientation, checks their names against those of known sex offenders, asks them about weapons, sets up their bedding, issues linens. It's important stuff.

Granted, you're not quite an authority. Everyone here is pretty much on the same level. One of the guys working desk, I'll call him Mark Trail for reasons you'd agree with if you ever saw him in person, asked another guy, Troy, to leave the desk area. Now, I only picked up this conversation after they started yelling at each other, so I don't know how it started.

None the less, Troy didn't appreciate being asked to leave and Mark didn't appreciate him not leaving when asked so they argued about it and eventually Troy accused Mark of being a racist which marked the point where you knew there wasn't going to be an amicable solution.

I was within earshot, but in another area at the time and it was the first argument I've heard since coming here. As I continued working on my executive sales position application, I heard them continuing to snipe at each other over the course of the next few hours.

So I'm not worried about standing desk because at least there's a bottom on this thing.

Robo Hobo Homo #039

But the lobby is more than just impenetrable social conventions. People have medications and there's an actual postage box thing set up for folks to take their medications. The lobby guy has a master lock that covers the postage box and the person taking the box has the key to the PO Box with the medication in it. The lobby logs whenever someone takes their medication and how much they take and then everything gets locked up again.

There's a log book too. It's not much of one. It's a civilian, we-don't-know-how-log-books-work log book, but it's there and it seems to be filled out in good faith. There are keys to hand off just like when I worked offshore.

And the clipboards. Permission to stay overnight, permission to sleep during the day, laundry schedules, work sign-offs, labor pools, rack assignments. It goes on.

I love it. I haven't done it yet, but I love it.

Robo Hobo Homo #038

After the house meeting, I had to learn how to run the desk in the lobby. It was the standard fare; a demonstration of rules in writing followed up immediately with how 40% of that gets ignored. And I, a robot, get to figure out which 40% that is with no social intuition whatsoever.

For example, you're not supposed to be sleeping during the day unless you have permission. This guy on my left is sleeping in a chair in the dining area. Folks aren't waking him up, but then I don't know if a staffer, like Daryl, were to come by, if they would wake him up and give him a warning, give him an infraction straight up (one of the five needed to kick you out), or simply ignore him. I just don't know because it's all arbitrary to my robot senses.

Anyway, lobby training was pretty iffy, but all my shifts are from 0200 to 0400 on weekends, so I'm not too worried.

Maybe I'll do some ride-alongs in the evening as my schedule permits though.

Robo Hobo Homo, #037

If I handle the lobby for three shifts of two hours each, wash dishes seven days a week for an hour and a half, and volunteer at the Thrift Store for another three hours, that's 19.5 hours of work every week to stay here. Temporarily.

I'm not complaining, but it keeps me busy. I do dinner dishes so I end up falling out to the kitchen right after dinner. On Mondays and Thursdays, there's a house meeting after dinner. Daryl brings up some things and other guys go over things. New chores are announced on Monday (still dinner dishes).

This Monday had two things: new lobby training for guys who are new (such as myself) and a pitch from Oxford House.

Now, according to Daryl, 90% of the guys here have a substance abuse problem. That's heavy. Another few have mental illnesses (my mumblr from earlier definitely has mental illnesses). I'm not sure about the rest.

Oxford House is apparently about guys living together, living without substance abuse, being a community, and paying pretty low rents. It was interesting, if not really insightful.

If it's one thing I've learned, it's that social connections are more important than talent when it comes to getting along in the world. If your social connections let you spin into a cycle of drug abuse, then you've got a shitty set of options when you get out of rehab. You can either have no connections or you can immerse yourself in an old life.

I can see how organizations like Oxford House would act as a new social network to integrate oneself into.

Personal Space

This new story about the homeless spikes has me thinking. On the one hand, homeless people can be smelly, mentally ill, and unpleasant to be around for other reasons; being homeless is not conducive to showers, mental health treatment, or fitting into polite society. Indeed, not taking showers, having a mental illness, and not being socially adept can make you homeless.

The other hand calls out a line of thought that takes "not in my backyard" to the next level. The though, however unspoken goes, "these people should not be around me, so I will keep them away." Now, it's true that homeless people should not exist; there is enough on this planet to provide everyone with a home and their own space to exist in. 

That's true despite me being a person who knows that the social contract should fail negative; no one should be forced to endure a presence in their personal space that they don't want. Whether you're a woman on a bus trying to get rid of a creeper or a simple worker trying to walk down the road without giving a bum change, you have every right to tell someone "no" and have them fuck off with no further explanation.

Robo Hobo Homo #036 Professional Interfacing Contributor

When I first started looking for work two years ago, I just blasted the same resume over and over. When that didn't work, I started tailoring each resume to each position. I've got hundreds of resumes now. More than Tony Stark has Iron Man armors. To be more precise, not-a-thousand hundred.

So when people ask for a resume, I'm a bit thrown back. I don't really have one resume to rule them all. They're each custom pieces which balance my qualifications with concerns about being considered overqualified, concerns over gaps in my job history versus the thoroughness of a background check, the stretch of a title versus their willingness to reconcile that with a call to my references, the probability of it matching search terms in an automated search system with appearing shallow and copy-pasted to a real person reading them.
 

Robo Hobo Homo #035

The last two things my case worker brought up were actually about finding work. 

Do I have a resume and a social security card? No. I lost my resumes with my good backpack at a gay bar in the city the night before I arrived. I didn't tell him that; I'm not an alcoholic and the how isn't as important as the now.

I'd already told him what happened to my social security card, but he'd forgotten. I told him that I'd destroyed it and he made the exact same face as when I'd told him the first time. He still never asked why, but instead told me to get another one. I'll be doing that Wednesday.

I'm not sure about the copy of my resume. I'll talk about that more later.

Finally, he told me a thing that would help me work to get money from a third party! There's a company that hires folks to work in their lodges during the tourist season and moves them around to different locations year round. If I was willing to travel it was an option.

I said yes.

So he set me up with a computer and I went to their website. Of course their only opening was a fantastic executive sales position so of course I applied to it.

I also took the opportunity to reapply to SafeLink. My application on Saturday had ended on a vague error message asking me to call them. I'd called that afternoon while waiting for Daryl's schedule to clear (no matter what else I say about the guy, he keeps busy) and they didn't have any record of my application.

Starting from scratch, I applied again, this time getting stuck when they asked for me to upload a picture of my Food Stamps card. Now my laptop doesn't have photo capturing software and I don't have a phone to take pictures with, so in order to get a phone to make calls, receive calls, and take pictures, I need to ask someone to take a picture of my Food Stamps card and sent it to SafeLink. It rubs me in exactly 359° of wrong directions, but it's doable.

Eventually, it was time for dinner and I had to take off.

Robo Hobo Homo #034

When I wrapped up at the thrift store, Vivian said I'd done a pretty good job and she'd be happy to have me back. That was pretty nice.

I took a different route home. Usually, 8th St connects the east side of the town to the west side. It's a bit of a hike; seven blocks up and about twenty over. There's also an industrial road which runs along the shoreline before it cuts down into the neighborhoods around L St. I decided to see if that was any quicker than 8th.

It wasn't much quicker, clocking in at about seventy-five minutes instead of the ninety it usually takes. However, I did pass by a lot of industrial buildings and I got some names and numbers to plug in for phone calls Tuesday.
   
When I got back, I needed to meet with Daryl, my staffer. On Friday, he'd given me a “Goals Sheet” and requested I get it back to him Monday. Friday afternoon had been slow, so I gave it a pass and when I found him hanging around the building, asked him if what I had down was the kind of thing he was looking for. He didn't bother looking at it and without an encyclopedic knowledge of the masturbatory, make-a-difference movies social workers watch, I'm not sure where the line “It's not about what I want; it's about what you want,” came from.

I want to know so I can put a name to this hate.

He didn't have much to say about it Monday. “I want a job, and that's fundamental to the following plans,” was self-evident. There were also some things about doing my jobs around Purgatory Shelter and doing researching into housing.

The next topic was getting my California driver's license swapped over to Washington State. According to him, it would only cost “$35 or something.” You know I mentioned that I sometimes don't fight the social current hard enough? This was definitely one of those times. My driver's license is from Louisiana and I'd need to multiply my cash-on-hand about nine times over to have thirty-five dollars, much less be able to spare it.

But of course, I'll be going to the DMV Wednesday to look into it. It is a good idea. Having a local driver's license can be an asset and it doesn't look like there's much to it besides a fee that I pay (and taking a picture and I certainly don't feel like taking pictures right now).

At least it's something I can aim for in the future.

Robo Hobo Homo #033

I set up quickly and started ordering a brand new prepaid phone from eBay. The one that met my requirements was about $60, and it would be another $50 for the phone card. It was a lot, but my PayPal money wasn't of any use to me until I got a bank account. Worst case scenario; I could hock the phone and have cash in my pocket at a minimal loss. If it's one thing I've learned from gaming, it's that a hundred of a resource I can't use is worth one of a resource I desperately need.

It wouldn't be until later that day that I would realize my new Food Stamp card made another shot at Safelink a good idea.

After that, I checked my email for job replies and messages. My brother's birthday is coming up and he asked if I was still in Texas. I told him I wasn't because there was nothing there for me and left it at that. Curt, but at this point, there's nothing more to say.

Terrence messaged me back, too. His grandmother had just died and he wished me luck. I couldn't think to do anything but apologize for the timing. He lost his brother about two years ago and I feel like I just wanted to make this a little bit less shitty for him.

I scoped a few jobs and restarted my computer about four times, so the fifty minutes passed pretty quickly.

Robo Hobo Homo #032

The real pain of it is that I arrived at the thrift store an hour and a forty-five minutes too early. Richard didn't need me until eleven thirty. It would've been a waste to loiter around the thrift store for that long so I opted to hoof it up to the library.

Let me talk about the city layout here. Because it's on a port, there are roads running north/south that support the major, local industries. They're pretty close together and divide the city into an eastern half and a western half. The whole town has streets that run east/west. They follow a numbering convention starting at 1st St in the north and ending at 18th street in the south. The eastern half has most businesses and the downtown area. There, the north/south streets follow a conventional naming convention (I'll use US Presidents). The western half is mostly suburbs that uses letters for their north/south street names (the highest I've seen is “O Street”).

The library is on a street I'll call Joan of Arc. Joan of Arc runs at an angle to the city's grid system, joining up with Lincoln to become a highway in the southwest. The library sits at about 12th St and Buchanan I was starting on 1st St and Pierce.  Just one block over and eleven blocks down.

The city doesn't commit to the grid system. There are a surprising—and to the pedestrian, dismaying—number of dead ends where a street just stops and picks up again on the other side of a public building or a thicket of impenetrable woods.

Heading south and uphill, it still only took about twenty five minutes to get there going uphill.

Robo Hobo Homo #031

I found the guy I was looking for, Richard, and he directed me to Vivian. I spent the next few hours learning a lot about thrift stores. They take in a lot of stuff. They have to bulk process and store all of it. There's not a lot of consideration that can be given to individual items.

Not a lot, but some. While I was there, Vivian came across an animatronic parrot that Richard identified as being a collector's item from Disney's Pirate of Pensance. I was checking a line of identical yoga pants to ensure that they were hung properly, facing the correct direction, and tagged in preparation of pricing while she dug through the bag looking for a parrot's remote control.

I also took a pickup's load of used clothes and shoes to a little shed where they'd be sent to another charity. While I was putting some baskets on top of some more baskets in a basket corner, I noticed a glass...thing had been broken and had to stop to clean it up. Then there were some Fall and Halloween boxes needed to be put upstairs. There was a shopping cart of leather-bound Western books that I had to push/drag/lift across a gravel parking lot to a warehouse.

A guy pulled up with a pickup truck of his aunt's (or whatever's) old clothes. I was asked to bring them to the shed outback for Vivian. The guy was flabbergasted that we wouldn't be immediately hanging them alongside our very own Purgatory Thrift Store Prized Collection and displaying them proudly for people to adore. 

I mean, gods, man! Old women clothes aren't oil. I don't want to be crass, but the ratio of womens:mens clothes is hanging tough at about 9:1. Thanks for bringing them by and while I can't tell you the whys and wherefores, rest assured they're going somewhere for someone.

Really. Thank you. But “Thrift Store” is an old white man word for “closer than the garbage dump" don't expect the stuff you're barely not throwing away to get you a nomination for Nobel Peace Prize.

Robo Hobo Homo #030

On Saturday, the guys at the thrift store told me that if I volunteered on Monday, I shouldn't come in exactly when the Thrift Store opened at nine thirty. Probably great advice, but I don't have a watch.

I'd explored the building that contained both EmployFolks and the Community Public Relations. For my trouble, I found a DMV office that was closed on Mondays. I stopped by one of the banks on my list— National Bank C, for those of you keeping track at home—and learned they had a $50 minimum balance. While they were aware of PayPal (or faked it, which is good enough for me), they couldn't transfer the funds in without an account existing. And they couldn't make an account without funds on hand. Chicken and the egg, but an understandable one.

After seven blocks, I made it to the Thrift Store, but I had no idea what time it was. The door was open, but it still seemed too soon. I walked down two blocks further. I'd circled both of the local blocks when I'd arrived too early on my Saturday visit and I wanted to expand my horizons.

Wasn't much to see though, except that there was surprisingly more city east of where I was. Having nothing else to do and no sense of the time, I went in.

Robo Hobo Homo #029

While I was waiting on the bus over, I ran into one of the guys from the shelter. Eric taught me how to do dishes and he's done a few other mentoring things. As we waited and tried to ignore the kids that were waiting for a school bus at the same stop (that's a apparently a thing that happens in some places), we got to know each other a bit better.

He used to do construction in Las Vegas. Ran a crew of over a hundred guys. He planned whole subdivisions, but when the market fell through he got laid off. Since then, he's been trying to find good jobs, but he's over fifty so it's pretty rough. A pretty good number of the guys at the shelter are older.

Here in a bit, he's going to see a doctor to get an update on some medical care he needs. About a year ago that day, he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. He had to have surgeries to make it through. I wouldn't have known it without looking at him. He said he's been here twice before, which means that with a 90-day stay and a 1-year exclusion, around these parts at least two and a half years.

This guy got beaten to hell, but now he gets around pretty fine. I don't know if it happened at the hands of locals or our fellow homeless guys, but it's a pretty good reason for even guys as broke as us to have healthcare.

Robo Hobo Homo #028

After the welfare office, I went to the local public office dedicated to finding folks employment. Let's call it EmployFolks.

They had a website and I'd applied to a job through it Saturday, but I guess it turns out that there was a different site. I ended up looking like a jerk in front of an old lady as I tried to log onto my account that didn't exist.

We eventually got it sorted, and I learned I could sign up for a resume class and even print resumes with them, saving me costs on printing things from the library. They're still all the way downtown, but it's a new resource.

In that same building, there was a Community Public Relations office. I don't know how else to explain what this place is. Word from my friend Eric—I'll talk more about him in a bit—is that they give out bus passes towards the end of the month. Bus passes cost around $36 and they make riding the bus within the city free.

He didn't know the times though, so I volunteered to look into it and maybe we could both get one on the available dates. I found out they were giving some out on Friday and let him know when I got back to Purgatory Shelter that night.

It was the ultimate side quest.

With the fresh hope that something besides getting around town was going to be the straw that broke my financial back, I began walking over to put in my volunteer hours.

Robo Hobo Homo #027

While I waited, I perused the job posting they had in the back of the office. It was the same stuff from the local public office dedicated to finding folks employment. It was varied and informative, but nothing meaty or new.

I was called and had a nice conversation with the woman as she coded my card. She'd moved up from Los Angeles and much preferred it up here. We talked a bit about the difference between the two until my card was ready, she told me it should be activated no later than seven AM Tuesday and I left.

During the last conversation, it had occurred to me to ask about the cash benefits, but there's this...social inertial to things that I sometimes don't fight against. It feels equal parts unnecessary and rude to do so. I feel that it introduces an impulsive, selfish element to the interactions of the people around me. The decision to stay here was predicated on me learning to throw out those old behaviors.

I'll call them in the morning and ask about it.

Robo Hobo Homo #026

When I'd signed up for Food Stamps, there was the option to sign up for cash as well. General assistance I guess. I was too proud then to ask for it, but as the sliver of gel in my deodorant got just a little thinner Monday morning, I was kicking myself for that.

A bus trip costs $1, transfers are $1, and a day pass is $3. If you need a transfer to get where you're going, then the day pass is your way to go. With just $5 in my pocket I could afford a trip to the transfer station downtown and a lot of walking after that.

My first stop was the local welfare office. I signed in electronically. A few minutes later, my name was called and the lady at the information desk left me with the distinct impression that she'd actually read my file. She acknowledged that I'd successfully filed online and that I'd wait until I was called.

A few minutes later that was what happened. At window number six, another nice woman honestly complimented my jacket and asked me a lot of the same questions that my Case Worker had. She asked how I'd ended up here and I began my story, edging ever closer to tears. I'd traveled to the city, it hadn't worked out, I had no other options, the mountain was here and--

--repeating a pattern equal parts funny and sad, she politely said she understood before I could finish the details of my intention to commit suicide.

We did a few other things and she explained I'd get a food card and I could pick it up at window one when they called for me. I thanked her and left.

Bragging

So Robo Hobo Homos number 1 through 25 were all written in a single Sunday. It was pretty intense, but it felt great. Not just getting this much written, but having this much to write.

That totals to 8,051 words in one day. Wowzers, son.

Robo Hobo Homo #025

So I have this computer. I try to stay productive even when I'm not connected to the internet. I can save webpages with job applications from Craigslist or wherever and I can craft resumes and write cover letters for it while I'm offline. Once I get to the library or wherever, I can pop 'em over, give them a fresh review, and send them off.

I can also write stuff like this, create game plans, or think up articles to write for sites that pay for blind submissions. I keep busy on this little guy.

It was a gift from a friend and it is a monster computer. It's just really big. Super-big. Way faster than my last laptop too. I loves it, despite the damage it's suffered.

So I'm really concerned when this guy, Palestine (Pally for short) walks buy and just assumes I want to sell it. He did it twice. We haven't even been formally introduced to one another.

Yeah, he's kind of a bravo. Anyway, I mention very clearly that it doesn't work well—to cut down on his interest—and he mentions with a smile that he knows a guy who can fix it.

I don't want to assume that homeless people are thieves. I mean, I am homeless people. Being homeless takes a certain amount of trust though. If everything you own can be picked up by you, then everything you own can be picked up by someone else. It's something I'm very aware of.

I'm also aware of how important a computer that has all of my resumes, my cover letters, my bookmarks for jobs, my signed in internet accounts, my DD214, lists of references, detailed work history, and all of my gay erotica is to me.

The answer is very.

It finally got resolved today—I'm doing a rough draft of Robo Hobo Homo blogs #1-25 on my first Sunday here—when he mentioned it again and I reemphasized in strong language that it barely functioned as I conspicuously put it into my backpack.

A few minutes later he approached me and said he didn't mean to make me uncomfortable or to leave me with the impression that he might steal my laptop. It was nice of him and I do feel a bit better, but my mind is far from at ease over it all.

Robo Hobo Homo #024

The words “I will regain all that I have lost,” keep going through my head.

They're good as a broad mission statement, but then I am an idea guy. The trick is always in the execution. Ostensibly “get a job,” is a plan, but there are a lot of part-time jobs that won't necessary enable me to live independently. There are plenty of jobs that won't move me towards my end goal.

Not that I know what that is. I want to be a good writer. I want to be a wealthy, famous writer, or at the very least someone who pulls in some cash with a side gig doing the writing he loves.

I also want to be a software developer. I want to solve logical problems and expand tools and watch a thing that I created move. I want to explore ideas and wield computers like a god. A nice cubicle that offers holiday pay and health insurance would also be nice.

I'd like to teach. I'd like to be a freelance web designer. I'd like to operate nuclear reactors. I'd like to drive my car without wondering if it's going to collapse. I'd like to go on a date without apologizing for how little money I have. I'd like to revisit all of the names from my past I have scrawled on the inside of my soul in a great reckoning of pain and pleasure.

I want a rebirth of glory, a renaissance of power! I want to stop running through my life like a man late for an appointment, afraid to look back or look forward. I want us to be what we used to be! I want...I want it all back the way it was.

Robo Hobo Homo #023

I also happened across a janitorial job at a local small business. It pays about average for work around here. Part time. Late hours. Nothing special.

By taking it, I'd be committing to a “rebuilding” plan. I'd be working there for just a while, taking in money to springboard myself to another job. Eventually, I'd leave for something better or just, as I've done in the past, leave because I felt that I wasn't going anywhere there. It's a pattern I've gone through before. It's good for me, but it's not so great for the people who are going to have to hire and train a new janitor from scratch in my aftermath.

Then again, I could get that job, springboard myself to another part time job, and then do both of those for a while as I get housing, clothes, some training, and some other resources under me, waiting a bit longer before I take on the next step.

Y'know, an extended plan to use two people before leaving them. It's better yeah, but I guess you don't hire a part-time janitor and plan for them to retire on the job.

I guess a lot of it depends on my plan and even when my entire world has collapse in on me, even when everything has shattered because I'm not willing to answer a question, I'm still not willing to answer it.