Coffee House Bastard: Tales From The Shed

The Starving Artist is a cliché.  The Starving Artist is a truth.  Art, in essence, is relative and fleeting and there does not exist a fundamental path to one’s success.  Money may come in waves, but more often than not, those waves are ripples and usually cutting north (away from you and your silly Boogie board).  “Art ain’t easy,” as my high school Wood Shop teacher used to bark, at least not the stuff that comes from deep down inside, from somewhere beyond the pancreas.  Artists, in general, experience the world and all its dark little crevices, naked and raw, so that the rest of the world can vicarious experience it from the sanctity of their Hi-Def entertainment systems or at the local museum. 

Most true artists do ‘starve’ for their art, at least for a moderate period of time. We’ve heard the legend of Billy Bob Thornton almost starving to death in Glendale while trying to book a show.  Then there’s Big ‘ol Tyler Perry somehow sleeping in his compact car on the streets of Atlanta, struggling as a playwright until his ship came in with the force of a Category Five hurricane.

I have never starved.  I’ve been hungry, yes, but I had never gone too long without some form of foodstuffs during the Days of the Lean.  I did cut weight as a high school wrestler, going several days without eating and chewing tobacco to spit out another quarter pound of water weight, but that was self-imposed and moronic. 

Have I been homeless?  Oh yes...there I’ve been.  Now, could I have begged the few friends I had in LA to crash on their couches after my girlfriend gave me the boot?  Of course.  But, I’m Irish...raised on stubborn pride and taught not to impose.  I was out here in Los Angeles for a reason and this was no time to consider turning tail and heading back east to tell the tale of the horrible Hollywood People. 

I spent the first two evenings of my homeless life sleeping in a ’91 Honda Civic hatchback (RIP White Bullet).  On the first evening, after passing out to a 40oz of Mickey’s while reading a book of Bukowski, a single mosquito ravaged me a thousand times over through the course of the night, leaving me red, lumpy, and irritated as I glared at the big orange dawn. 

The second evening faired no better.  A passing gang nearly used me for target practice after I unintentionally scared the be-Jesus out of them after my ghostly white face appeared through a sun visor as they tried to Slim Jim my car door.  By day three, I knew that I was no Tyler Perry, but I persisted on, trying to find the rhythm to being homeless (which, to my knowledge, none does exist).

I was car slumbering in the neighborhoods around Venice and Playa Del Rey and I soon realized I was in dire need of a secluded public restroom to get myself together in the mornings.  McDonald’s wouldn’t work; neither would the Venice Library restroom (as it is a hotspot for SoCal’s homeless, usually having to wait in a line to use a bathroom, free Internet, etc).  So I drove out to a small public bathroom in the Playa Del Rey ‘Lagoon,’ remembering it from my many days at the beach.  It stood in between the Lagoon, a playground, and a little league baseball diamond; and because it wasn’t summer, I reasoned it would be dead this time of the morning.

All was clear as I arrived at the Lagoon with my bag of toiletries, parking my car next to the Pacific.  Definitely not a bad place to spend a morning.  I quickly made my way into the white concrete edifice, which was not as clean as I’d remembered.  The floor covered in half-an-inch of cold water with no toilet paper or stall door to speak off.  I hit the sink, washing my face and hair with hand soap, then gave the pearly whites a good two minutes of scrubbing and combed the hair.  Not a bad looking beach bum...could have used a tan, though.

And then, the morning caved in.  Within a millisecond, fifteen elementary school boys on some bizarre morning field trip surrounded me.  Little faces staring up, wondering why the longhaired man with no shirt on was brushing his teeth at the sink.  The two boys closest to me turned to one another, whispering.  “Why is he brushing his teeth here?”  “He’s a Homeless Bum,” the other replied.  “Ewww,” another said under his breath.

Several of the little faces grew concerned as three of them shot out of the restroom, screaming, no doubt to tell their teachers of what they had found.  A vision suddenly blasted into my mind’s eye...two Playa Del Rey Police Officers escorting my shirtless yet clean self across the Lagoon into a patrol car as a small mob of frightened children and their most-likely attractive teachers watched on in horror.

In that instant, I grabbed my toiletry bag, made my way through the sea of first graders, and walked quickly over to the White Bullet, making my getaway before the situation grew ugly.  I now knew that being homeless was neither a game nor something you did on a whim.  You needed a plan.  And a plan was what I would devise.  END OF PART ONE.