Golden Nuggets of Hobo Wisdom: A tale of Drunken Debauchery, Urban Survival, & Love

Forward

Years ago my friends and I would hit the road together jammed into a van and party in a different city every night. We didn't have a lot of money and we ate whatever was affordable. Gas was brutal and so was having to live out of a backpack. If we were lucky we met some stoner who gave us a bag of extra weed and I could turn it over in the next city so we could afford a motel room that didn't have blood splattered all over the bathroom. We stole alcohol from bars, crashed on stranger's floors, smelled badly, and we barely made our way back home after a few weeks absolutely broke. Sure we had fun, but some of us lost our jobs and places to live upon our return. It sort of takes the fun out of a road trip.

I used to joke around that we were a few heartbeats away from being like hobos. That's what it's like to play in a small punk or hardcore band and to be on tour. I learned that my experiences playing punk rock and being on the road are all cookies and cream compared to what you are about to read.

When you’re a kid you look up to others, as I did musicians, and aspire to be like them. In Ryan Sprinkle's case, he was inspired by the freedom of a local bum living behind a children's pizza place. Days full of digging through ashtrays, shitting your pants, sweating in extreme heat, flying signs, and the daily hustle just to have a drink must have seemed like a compelling lifestyle to Ryan because he chose this path for his life. And believe me; I'm leaving out the crazy stuff.

We all think we have had to deal with rough stuff, but I have never read a story as wild as this. This book carries a degree of many kinds of isms, incredibly strange individuals, stories I hope to erase from my memory, and it focuses on a lifestyle that I personally hope none of you have to ever experience.

It's a true story from the man who lived it. Actually, who am I kidding...? It's a fucking nightmare. Either way it’s the path he chose. You gotta respect a man with the drive to do as he pleases. Even if given the chance he would steal your movie collection and sell it to a local pawn shop.

Have a safe trip, Danny Marianino, former singer of the North Side Kings and Author of Don't Ever Punch a Rockstar: A collection of Hate Mail and Other Crazy Rumors

WARNING

This book was written by a bum and a trucker, we have no business writing about anything, let alone giving advice. Any tips, tricks, techniques, golden nuggets (whatever that means, anyway) or anything that comes across remotely as though we are some kind of experts should be ignored and understood that it's all for entertainment purposes. Accordingly the authors, publishers, or any persons or corporations affiliated with this book, cannot accept any responsibility for any prosecutions or proceedings brought or instituted against any person or body as a result of the use or misuse of any techniques, advice, Golden Nuggets or anything else that can be construed as advice contained herein.

Chapter 1: Founding Fathers

Is it nature? Is it nurture? Could be a little of both, I guess, though I never really thought about it since I spent most of my life getting high. What I do know is that there was something inside of me that needed to take a closer look, a more detailed view, if you will, of the life of a hobo.

This, of course, begs the question: Why in God’s name would I want to take a closer look at the life of a human trash can? Not from the comfort of a book, but from up close; living, eating, and pan handling with them. Those mangy, smelly, obviously lazy or mentally challenged bums are usually the sort of people most of us can’t even look at as they pathetically beg (or as the insiders call it: Fly a sign or hustle, either one is acceptable). But, to be fair, that is the glass half empty image. For me, at least in my twisted brain, hitchhiking across the country and breaking bread at a homeless shelter was more of a delicious challenge dipped in a hobo’s stew of freedom with a dash of survivalism, than just a stage of life where the dregs of society kill time before they die.

By now you are probably thinking, Gee, that does sound exciting and adventurous. How does one go about learning the ways of the Hobo? Would you recommend jumping in with both feet, or just one? Is it dangerous? Are there groupies? Where do you poop? Where exactly is the best place to worship at the altar of Hoboism? Is it scary? These are all great questions that I’ll attempt to answer throughout the course of this book. Becoming proficient in all things hobo is a difficult and challenging task to master. In fact, I will even highlight numerous Golden Nuggets of truth and wisdom I have picked up along the way that will surely put any novice hobo leaps and bounds ahead of the competition.

Did I jump in with both feet, like throwing yourself in a cold pool? The answer is no. It was more of a long slow gentle easing into a nice steamy bathtub, while intoxicated.

You see, I grew up with a single mom. She was a nurse and seemed to be always gone, which meant my siblings and I sort of raised ourselves. Dad and I weren’t extremely close, but he was usually there to pick us up on Fridays. And like clockwork, we went straight to the bar. Playing underneath the pool table with my cigarette-butt toy soldiers as Dad tried to pick up massively obese waitresses are some of my fondest memories. Then one day when I was eleven, my mom turned my ass into a gooey black and blue pile of mashed potatoes. Apparently she frowned on the idea me being a junkie (I know, what a bitch!) Thank God dad came to the rescue and sued mom to get full custody of me. I mean, really, what 11 year old still needs their mom anyway?

Given that mom was out of the picture I was free to indulge in as many drugs as I could find. Father of the Year would typically pass out at 7:00 every night, so I could go get as loaded as my little junkie heart desired. The one bright spot in my life was my best friend Jack. Jack came from a decent family where the parents loved each other, loved him, and loved me. These people were the salt of the earth, hard working and had good values. They would actually take me out on family vacations as though I were one of their own. The truth is they were more like my parents than my real parents.

Jack and I were exactly the same. We looked alike, acted alike, and had the same sense of humor. We dated the same girls. Literally, we would have a girlfriend, break up and end up with each other's girl. He and I would spend as much time together as possible, skateboarding, getting stoned or fucking around at the mall. And it was about this time my flirting with the idea of being a hobo began. After class Jack and I would go to the Peter Piper’s Pizza located just behind the school. It was the place where all the cool kids went because you could escape the Arizona heat and smoke inside. We soon discovered the golden filthy gem that lived behind the pizza shop, and it became our direct source for buying alcohol. His name was Rusty, you know due to the rusty stain on his pants.

Rusty was a particularly mangy fellow who had one yellow or goldish looking tooth, which was so bright it was hard to look at his eyes or notice anything else about him. Soon it became a regular thing for Jack and me to sit amongst the urine and broken bottles competing for the ever shrinking shade in sunny Arizona. We even started hoboing it up, sleeping outside under the stars with nothing more than the sweet sense of intoxication to keep us warm. Yes, we were truly running with the big mangy homeless dogs. It was a good trade, our money for his legal drinking age accompanied by fascinating tales of hoboism. A typical Rusty tale he regaled us with would go something like this: Sure, I’ll do it if you gimme a dollar. Jack and I would laugh for hours, getting drunk as skunks in the grime when here comes jolly ol' Rusty with another fascinating saga. Can I bum a smoke? in his deep bellowing smokers voice. To the untrained ear it probably sounded like he just wanted a cigarette, but in that gagging, filthy, wheezing way, I knew this man had adventures and tales of glory. You had to fill in some of the details, but if you really listened that wasn’t just the voice of a man who wasted his life on booze and cigarettes and who would probably die at any moment, that was the sound of liberty.

The other kids that would use Rusty for his buying skills thought they were taking advantage of him, but I realized this man was actually taking advantage of us. The whole world was his filthy toilet. The man was a genius. He had his hobo sanctuary behind Peter Piper's, a steady flow of income and all the freedom no money could buy.

Truth be told this wasn’t a secret for just the cool kids; practically all the high school kids used Rusty at one time or another. Kids were smoking and drinking all over Peter Piper's. All was right in our little world. Then one day Jack and I were drinking in our grime spot and Rusty was taking care of his customers. Suddenly we hear one of Rusty’s clients scream in horror. Holy shit, holy shit! He stuck me, he fucking stuck me! It was Brett Schumacher, a senior, holding his arm as a pen protruded out of his bicep

Nobody knows what happened or why Rusty cracked, but I learned a valuable Golden Nugget of information that day, as golden as Rusty’s one golden tooth: Hobos crack.

Despite the stabbing incident, a hobo’s freedom seed was planted in me during those days, but alas it was not to be for now. I had a lot of drugs and growing up to do.

By the time I was a senior in high school my ambitious father was planning his retirement. However, I never knew he was planning his retirement when I’d go to the computer, and in the history section see all these mysterious illnesses that he was looking up. One afternoon, after a long day of ditching school and smoking weed, I returned home to find my dad in the kitchen crying. Great, drama, I thought to myself, when all I wanted to do was take a bong rip and play my guitar. What’s up? I asked, not really caring. What followed was a tale of how he had been fired from his job of eighteen years at Allied Signal, because he had not shown up for work in two weeks. In the months following he had gone to a doctor and been told he had dementia. I stopped receiving lunch money (cigarette/beer money,) as he was not receiving paychecks anymore. Next he had the gall to say that if I didn’t finish high school or get a job I was to find new living arrangements after school finished.

I made sure that I finished high school but didn’t actually graduate, apparently dad and I had different definitions about what finishing high school meant. I thought I was completing my obligations by just showing up every day, albeit stoned; he wanted me to actually get a diploma. For some reason, even though I forgave him for his not clearly explaining the terms of this arrangement, he still gave me the boot.

Chapter 2: New Challenges

For the next ten years I would find myself mooching off friends and loved ones, and learning the joys of heroin, mushrooms and black outs. But make no mistake, I worked for my smack, and by work I mean stealing from the cash register at a gas station I was employed at, or as we like to say in the industry raking the till. Well that is at least until I got fired for raking the till.

However, as a wise man once told me, the key to life is just showing up, and what a difference a little time can make. Two years later, I was a highly paid executive/check out guy at my local Blockbuster video, living with my girlfriend and a buddy of mine from high school. I was standing on my own two feet, living in a swanky apartment in the heart of Mesa Arizona. And wouldn’t you know it; destiny would soon have me rubbing elbows with the homeless again. A panhandler began squatting outside the Blockbusters. Unfortunately, it was my dad. Many people think they know what shame is, but my manager literally asked me to shoo my father away... can anyone say awkward? But the mortification doesn’t end there; my dad had hoboed his way many a night, passing out on my patio. How does one answer their girlfriend's question should we get your dad a couch for the patio? But no, the hits keep coming on the shame train; even my apartment manager would track me down and ask will you please tell your dad to not pass out on other people's property? Obviously I’d retort back with I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dad's been dead for years.

Eventually, my dad showed me that contributing to society and having pride and dignity in one’s work and home are just for suckers when you can collect a government check and live exactly a playing card‘s thickness north of complete and total poverty. Yes, daddy’s retirement scheme, I mean egg, finally hatched, thus allowing him to hang up the gloves, and walk out of the hobo ring. Yes, dad was on easy street now that he was on Social Security. He had enough money to stay at the Budget Suites, that’s that hotel in every city that is just nice enough for prostitutes to do business, not too nice, it has just the right amount of riff raff. Now dad could once again start to enjoy the finer things in life, like owning a cell phone. Unfortunately dad’s eighteen years at Allied Signal didn’t prepare him for life at the Budget Suites. Apparently, some of the thugs loitering at the hotel asked to use his phone and well, let’s put it this way: time for another Golden Nugget: if a street person of any kind asks to use your cell phone the answer is I don’t have one. If that same street person asks hey, what’s that ringing in your pocket? the answer is what ringing?

So there I am, bringing dad some beers trying to cheer him up, you know, because he got robbed of his cell phone and dignity. So, you got rolled again, huh dad? Uh, yeah… those fuckin' niggers…

Truth be told, the Budget Inn Suites is a pretty nice place by comparison to some places. Yes, it gets much worse. But it is especially nice for someone who foreclosed on their home and can’t get a rental as no one will rent to them. So naturally, with a home, money and everything going his way, dad got himself kicked out of the Budget Inn and was then reduced to the Highway Host.

Needless to say, the Highway Host is where one goes when they’ve been kicked out of a Budget Inn. Oh, how I remember those Sunday morning trips to dad's new house, where does one begin? The much lower class prostitutes? The angry black faces? Mexican gangs? Or the Hobos, not the hobos outside, but the ones that hoboed their way into dad’s house. Reggie and Regina, simply hobos with a heart, they were there only to be friends with my dad; yes, they did borrow his new cell phone to make drug deals, and yes, they hit him up for money, but at the core they were really just givers. Little did I know they would save my life. A few days after meeting them I was partying with my brother, drinking codeine cough syrup, popping Xanax and shooting pool, a normal Friday night. I have a very vague memory of Regina and Reggie pulling me out of a vehicle, then nothing, then waking up on my patio. I was in such a bad daze I didn’t know what was going on. There was a note on the door, it was from my girlfriend Rebecca, and it read if anyone has seen or heard from Ryan call Rebecca at 555-223-0469. My God, I thought, I need to get to her. I reached for my keys in my pocket, only to find my confusion tick up another notch. I realized I was not in my clothing. I was wearing shorts that were way too tight, and a shirt that was way too big. Both looked as if they had come out of a garbage can. Rebecca opened up the door for me, but it gets a little fuzzy here. Basically, it involved shitting myself, pissing in a dresser drawer, being dragged around, blacking out, more confusion, and waking up to paramedics shoving narcon down my throat. Golden Nugget: narcon is pretty much charcoal that will sober you up instantly; just think of it as the junkie’s kryptonite.

I heard a wise man once say that everybody is blessed with a super power. For example, the person telling me this felt his super power was the ability to sleep at anytime, anywhere. Mine is to go into the pit of shame and keep digging. My next memory was waking up in the hospital with my mother, brother, and Rebecca and her surrogate dad Jim… it's a little grey, but they apparently needed me to take a piss or they were going to shove a catheter in my dick. Time for another Golden Nugget: the wrong answer is fuck you, you shove it in. Technically, I don’t know exactly where the penis ends and the bladder begins, but in my brain it was extremely close to my belly button.

What followed next was a mystery story worthy of its own book. Some of the highlights are: that my girlfriend‘s car, which I was driving on this particular night, was at a hotel where Reggie and Regina were staying, keys inside and running until it had run out of gas, I had been missing in action for three days, and I was now a heroin addict. Thank you, Reggie and Regina. As stated earlier, truly givers.

Over the next two years I learned all the ins and outs of shooting, smoking and blowing the big H. Eventually my mom found my needles, or as we say in the industry…. works, rigs, points…. So she made me a deal. She would fly me out to Michigan to live with my aunt and uncle to cut my ties and get off the junk, or, as she put it, I could die in a gutter or in prison. In Michigan the plan worked. I just had a slight drinking problem now. But who cared? At least it's legal. I was a new man. I had graduated from junkie back up to alcoholic. No longer did I have to use Juan's balloon delivery service (heroin usually comes in balloons so it is easily swallowed if the situation calls for it). Juan was such a pro he would pull up with them already in his mouth. Juan got his buck twenty-five and I got a handful of slimy balloons. Here’s another Golden Nugget: heroin is not as glamorous as you may think. There is no equivalent to drinking buddies, nobody’s laughing, and there are no great stories that end up with you getting laid. From the buyers to the sellers to the users it's wall to wall misery. I actually did pick up a chick one time on the bus, and we ended up back at my place. It was miserable and pathetic. I think we kissed once, but who knows? We were too busy shooting each other up.

Miracles really do happen. In less than a year, I was off drugs, back in Arizona, and my mom and dad had decided we would all try living in one house again. My girlfriend was with me and I had a daughter now. It was a good month, while it lasted. The details of how I lost it all aren’t important. What is important is that there I was again, a grown man having to find a place to sleep outside just like a kid during the golden Rusty era. The first night was not so bad; I slept by the pool in the apartment complex. The second night I went to sleep at a friend’s house, a girl I knew. Of course, I couldn’t get in touch with her, so I had to set up shop in a field behind her house. I had seen bums sleep in that field before. While a normal person would think it’s not safe because there could be bums there, I thought it must be safe because bums sometimes slept there. After a few nights of some light hoboing, I eventually slimed my way back into my parents place again.

My brother told me about this guy who needed help selling cell phones at the local swapmart. My brother knew him many years ago when they were teenage skinheads. Recently, he and his brothers had been pioneers in the world of mixed martial arts fighting. One of 'em was even a world champ. It seemed like a reasonable deal.

Christopher was a strangely intense guy. He had the kind of sense of humor that only made sense to him. He would say the most hateful things in such a serious way with such a straight face, and somehow he thought I was going to know that he was kidding. After I got tuned in to his weird personality, and during the many, many dead boring hours, we had deep conversations about everything from chicks to politics. Somehow I told him a story where I had snuggled my way underneath some hobo’s mattress behind a Circle K after missing the last bus home. A fellow hobo woke me up by calling me Muppet, assuming I was his drinking buddy. Golden Nugget: if you tell people you sleep behind a Circle K in another hobo's spot, they will always throw salt in your game by telling every girl that walks up you’re