Homeless Men I Have Loved

I have used this blog to describe various awkward encounters with homeless men. I was of the opinion that I secreted some sort of scent, which drew the lost and mentally insane. Of course, I was thinking of the blatantly insane–the men who bark and yell at the voices in their head.

It took me a long time to realize that there were more homeless men in my life than I originally thought. My gradual awakening started when I caught myself checking homeless men out. I couldn’t tell if I was eying a really attractive hipster, who had carefully cultivated a “never washed” look, or the genuine homeless man. They often wear the same things: lots of layers, scruffy beards, beanies, torn jeans, army jackets. Most of the boys/men I’ve dated have had a definite homeless aesthetic.

Homeless Man, Lover

Apparently I’m not the only woman who attracts homeless men.

Video by JAAM Orphan. I do not know if this is a parody. If it is, this is pure genius.

Homeless Men Who Have Loved Me: Shoe Man

Shoe Man accosted me outside of Santa Cruz’s hipster cafe. I was in the middle of a conversation when he desperately pleaded with me for help. I recognized him from around town, and maybe this is why I didn’t feel threatened. Besides, I was surrounded by friends.

Sexy.

Shoe Man held out a brown paper bag and unwrapped a pair of women’s black loafers. Each shoe was pancake flat, but still he asked, “Will you step on my shoes. I need to get them into this bag to give them to my daughter.”

This was a ludicrous request. The shoes had already been flattened, and he’d just taken them out of the very bag he claimed to need to put them into. But I decided to run with it.

“Why can’t you step on them,” I asked.

“Can’t. Bad ankle,” he said, looking very proud of himself for thinking of this excuse. He didn’t necessarily look homeless. He wore a flannel button down carefully tucked into his jeans and a baseball hat. But he made sudden spastic movements suggesting insanity, and he was the color and texture of a hot dog fried in a microwave.

Apparently he had bested me in the war of wits because before I knew it, I was stepping on his shoes. My friends looked on in simultaneous horror and amusement. He feverishly turned the shoes over and over, so I could step on every part of them. Eventually his enthusiasm unnerved me.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I’ve always found it’s incredibly helpful to be extremely polite to those who scare you, “But I’m going to stop doing this now.”

He tried to convince me to step on them one more time, “Just one more time,” but I refused. I started walking away, and he did little bows of thanks behind me. I thought I handled it quite well, after all I’m used to homeless attention.

Unfortunately, my compliance apparently encouraged him, because the next week he accosted another friend of mine and asked her to do the same thing. Both of us had been wearing leather, black boots. I hadn’t been special. He didn’t see me from across the street and realize that my feet, and my feet alone, needed to be pressed against his women’s black loafers. He used me for my boots.

Kids do the darndest science fair projects.

Homeless Men Who Have Loved Me: Burrito Man

Where he lurked

Burrito man may have not actually been homeless, but by virtue of quirk and hygiene, he definitely qualified. No matter the weather, he always wore two overcoats. He used to come into the bookstore where I worked and sit in Science Fiction, a section I ignored unless forced to point out Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. His familiar presence in the back of the store lulled me into a false sense of security. He never bothered anyone and he was young, about my age, so I thought maybe the grunge was just a look. Occasionally, he would come to the front counter and talk about the weather, but with a disproportionate amount of energy for such a boring topic. We didn’t get many young men in our bookstore, so for a second I thought about him in a romantic light. The weather talk killed that.

“It’s been RAINing an AWful LOT. Don’t you thinkthatmaybe somesunSHINE would BE NICE.” He shouted the beginning of each word and didn’t pause between words, indicating either a drug habit or serious attention disorder.

Note surfer friendly decor

He seemed innocuous until I ran into him at Planet Fresh, the white people Mexican restaurant, specializing in healthy, flavorless food. I was with a couple of friends, but they were still waiting for their food, so I picked our seats. I didn’t recognize him when I sat down next to him at the bar. We were just two people attacking burritos, until I saw his hands. They looked sticky with some sort of viscous black liquid, and his nails were chewed to the bone. He noticed me staring and said, “HEy YOu used TOworkatthat BOokSTORE.”

“Yes, yes I did. I’m just a student now.”

“THat’sCOOl. MY nAMESben. WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”

I thought about giving him a fake name, but this seemed unnecessary. What, besides being dirty and wearing two overcoats and talking strangely, was threatening about him?

I told him my name and we shook hands. His hand was surprisingly soft. What did he do all day? Did he still live in the Science Fiction section? Who was paying for this burrito? I hadn’t seen him panhandling.

This person deserves a job

Santa Cruz has famous panhandlers. People compete for wittiest signs, “Visions of a Hamburger.” “It’s for Beer.” The aggressive panhandling wears on the extremely tolerant community. It’s hard to see these young, white kids as victims of neglect and abuse, which many of them probably are. They seem homeless by choice, hippies four decades late.

My friends got their food and took their seats next to me. They eyed this strangely dressed boy, probably debating the homeless question. Two overcoats: daring, hipster fashion choice or insanity? I felt like I should introduce him, so I did, and he shook their hands exuberantly, repeating their names like he was going to have to use them in the future. I was hoping my friends would offset some of the burden of this awkward encounter, but they proceeded to eat in complete silence, waiting to see what Ben was going to do.

“I Like THis FOod A Lot. DO YOUcomEhereOFTEN?” He spoke only to me.

“No, not really. I used to come here in high school.” We talked about local high schools, and I had to admit to attending the one Santa Cruz private school.

My friends chewed and looked at me with big eyes, seeming to say, “Stop displaying your privilege.” He didn’t say which high school he went to, and I imagined this omission betrayed an ocean of difficulties—an early life on the street without parents or special schools for loud, alien talkers.

There was a long pause, and I measured his burrito. It looked like we had at least another five minutes of conversation, if he didn’t also eat his tortilla chips. Ben didn’t look to be interested in either his chips or his burrito. Since we’d been talking, he hadn’t taken a bite. Instead he fondled the burrito nervously, squeezing it like a stress ball. Finally, he said, “WELL THis HAs BEEN NIce.”

I thought he had gotten the hint and felt obliged to leave. He was going to make some excuse about having to be somewhere and take off, but no.

“I’d LIke To DO THis AGain. I’d LIke TO SEE YOU REGularly.” He was looking at me. I looked to my friends, to see if they understood what was happening. They were both completely absorbed by their burritos, chewing feverishly. I could have said I had a boyfriend, but for some reason I was brutally honest.

“I’m flattered, but I’m not interested.”

“I COUlnd’t buy YOU A BURRITO some TIME?”

Bromance

I laughed awkwardly, suppressing the question, “Could you?” and said, “No thanks, man. You seem cool, dude, but I’m just not interested.” When diverting affections of the male persuasion it’s essential to call the man in question, “dude.” It’s friendly but utterly nonsexual and should turn off any straight man. They don’t want to bro out with someone they want to kiss. That would be gay.

Ben took a second to process. He eyed his burrito, taking a cue from my friends. He didn’t seem deflated. He nodded a couple of times, and I felt terrible. Eventually he got up and got a to-go bag for his food.

“WEll MAYbe I’LL SEE YOU AROUND.”

“Yes, I hope so,” I said. He shook hands with my friends and disappeared down the tropical-colored steps of Planet Fresh. I never saw him again, and I flatter myself by imagining this is because I spurned his love.

Next week, “Shoe Man” and the question, “Why Me?”

Homeless Men Who Have Loved Me: Laura Linney Man

Flore on Sunset

They never have names—living in memory as shoe man, burrito man, or bike man. I seem to attract the ardor of men who I was raised to call “homeless,” as if there was nothing else out of sorts with them. When recovering from breakups, I tend to see my homeless would-be lovers as part of a trend. The crazy ones like me. I thought maybe it was just a Santa Cruz phenomenon, until the most recent man accosted me while I was enjoying my fake BLT outside of Flore on Sunset.

"He cried again."

I was lost in my neighboring table’s conversation, “They’re always super sensitive. I should just say no right away.” The heavily tattooed and equally overly accessorized vegan girls next to me were discussing the perils of dating men from their Narcotics Anonymous meetings, so I naturally didn’t notice him approach. Suddenly he was above me. “You look like Laura Linney’s daughter.”

Laura Linney

He picked the wrong girl to try this line on—despite the fact that I look nothing like Laura Linney. “Does Laura Linney even have a daughter?” I said. I was raised to politely contradict people with a question, but I was really saying, “Laura Linney doesn’t have a daughter, fool. You obviously don’t have access to IMDbPro!”

Laura Linney man didn’t pick up on my subtext, “No, you look just like her. Wow, wow!” He noticed how I was locked in a staring match with my sandwich. I was staring at it like it might suddenly become animated and tell me how to best get rid of this man. “Is that your first meal of the day?” he said paternally.

Tempeh Bacon Sandwich

Ventriloquist Eyes

Besides carrying way too many plastic bags (a tell-tale sign), he could almost pass as having a home. His clothes were perhaps recognizably Salvation Army, but he was clean. He seemed concerned by my passionate relationship with my sandwich, and I wondered when was the last time he ate. Did he want part of my sandwich, even though it was vegan? I imagine there aren’t many vegan homeless people. His round belly was reassuring. I focused on the sandwich, and he said, “Are you an actress?” I looked up and he smiled. He had found my line.

He said, “You’ve got ventriloquist eyes.” Half of my brain was untangling the implications of “ventriloquist eyes,” while the other half was remembering that there was a copy of Backstage sitting next to me; it wasn’t my unbelievable charisma that told him I was an actress.

The Waiter

Finally, I resorted to a tried-and-true tactic, smothering him with politeness. “Thank you, sir. I hope you have a wonderful day.” He knew that our time together was over, and he suddenly became a homeless caricature. He slumped over and began to mumble. Behind me I could feel the Jesus look-a-like waiter debating if he should interject. The girls next to me chewed kale as silently as possible. “Good day now” I said again. I returned to my sandwich and when I looked up he was gone.

“He really loved you,” said one of the girls next to me, and I wondered why.