theseadog

Steve's Friggin Journal
Read it, or die trying.

Prelude
Life as it once was

So Sunday the 20th found me packing half of my belongings into my truck, and the other half in the trash. Does anybody need a desk, coffee table, bed, TV or bookshelf? I know a certain dumpster where you can find them.

I had to trash all large objects, because it decided to pour rain out while I was moving; rendering the bed of my truck useless.

So then I headed out to Manda's work, to party with the party people. Sunday night drinking is quickly becoming my favorite night out. I did have to walk 2 blocks there in the rain, and ended up arriving looking like I was just fished out of a river. Thank god I love the rain.

After the bar closed, we headed on over to the Burgundy Room, where I proceeded to drink to excess. For a guy who's trying toi save up for a new apartment, racking up a 134 dollar tab in 2 hours isn't exactly a step in the right direction.

I left the bar drunk and wet, 3 hours before work. So I stumbled to my truck, sat down in the driver's seat, and was instantly transported to a time 1 hour in the future, where I was now hung over and wet. I swear to god, I never closed my eyes, and I have no idea how that steering wheel imprint ended up on my forehead.

And so I headed to work.

Monday
The Plot Thickens

I ended up at work an hour early. Still hung over. Still wet. Still with a fading steering wheel imprint on my forehead. So, since I had an hour to kill, I did the only logical thing I could think of. I paired my forehead imprint with its maker.

4 hours later. I'm no longer early for work.

Nobody seemed to mind that I was late. In fact, they applauded the fact that I still worked a full 8 hours. Hell, I just wanted my full days pay.

After work, I headed south towards my apartment, so that we could clean it out, and spend our last night there. So, I'm headed up a bigass hill on the 5, when my "check engine" light pops on. That was the first time I've ever experienced what people call, "A feeling of impending doom". It's a common misconception that the "check engine" light serves as an early warning sign of car trouble. I can tell you from experience, that this is not the case. There's no early warning about it.

As a precaution, I started to move towards the slower lanes. Halfway into the lane next to me, I lost all propulsion. I popped the truck into neutral, and back into drive. Nothing. I pop it into neutral, then to second. Nothing. I pop it into neutral, then to first. Uh, yeah.... Nada. I've stopped moving forward now, and the next step seems to be backwards, down the hill. On the freeway. At rush hour. So I hit the hazards, put on the breaks, and shut the engine off. I wait a second, and then turn the key. Nothing.

There are four lanes on my side of the highway. I am now blocking the middle two.

I had to dart in front of angry traffic to reach the call box, which I should mention here is absolutely useless. I was on hold for twenty minutes- truck in the middle of the freeway- before a highway patrolman happened by and thought to himself, "Hmmmm.... That ain't right".

He blocked of traffic, and pushed me to the shoulder. An hour later, AAA was there to tow me back to work. He said the problem was my alternator, and that I'd need a new one. But I still needed to clean my apartment. So, off to the metrolink I went. I bought a ticket to Burbank, and awaited the train. It came 10 minutes early, so finally things were going my way. Or so I thought.

As it turns out, my train was not 10 minutes early. In fact, no train is ever 10 minutes early. A fact my brain forgot to mention to me. It turned out that due to rain, all trains were running 40 minutes late. This is how I found myself in Acton. Do you know where Acton is? Of course not. Do you know why you don't? Because it's in the middle of fucking nowhere, that's why. How it even rates a train station is beyond me. But if you ever end up there, be forewarned. There are no trains to LA after 6 PM, and good luck trying to get a cab.

MY plans of cleaning my apartment were shattered. No big deal. My plans of one last night in my apartment being ruined, however, was a bit of a deal.

I found myself sleeping on a train bench in the rain, until the 5 am train back to Valencia. I'm beginning to dislike the rain.

I am now homeless.

I stand on the curb, waiting for the little man to light up, ensuring my safety across the road. A woman steps up to the curb beside me. I glance over to her. She glances at me. I initiate a conversation.
"How's it going?"

She smiles brightly.
"Oh, I'm doing great, thank you. Today's just been awesome. How are you?"

I relax against the lightpost.
"Not too shabby."

"Oh, well that's good."

"Yep"

........

I clear my throat. She shuffles her feet. I break the silence.
"I'm homeless."

The little man on the light post flashes to life. But apparently the young lady has changed her mind about crossing. She disapears around a corner. I cross the street. Just 3 more miles to the bus station.


Tuesday
The Plot Continues To Thicken

I'm awakened several times throughout the night by trains rushing past. Most of them are headed towards LA. None of them are passenger trains. There's comes a point when you feel as if you can't possibly take another false alarm. After that, life laughs at you, and sends the false alarms more frequently. Finally, you give into despaire, and assume your train will never arrive. It was at this point that mine pulled into the station.

Late for work again. More applause over my stoic insistance that I work my full 8 hours.

After work, I decided to give my truck a shot. I knew it wouldn't work, but I popped the hood anyway. I readjusted the connection to my battery, hopped in, and turned the key. The truck roared to life. Perhaps my train really had arrived?

I drove through the rain to nowhere in particular. I figured I would stop by a few hotels, to get some more prices. I didn't find a single one under 400 bucks a week. I only make 450 to 500 a week. At that price, I'd be living in hotels for a decade and a half before I could afford a security deposit on an apartment. No, better to just sleep in my truck for a few weeks to save up some money. My truck. Mytruck that miracalously sprung to life again. My truck that was now cruising me around town. My truck that was now vibrating violently. My truck with the check engine light glowing once again in an evil yellow. My truck with no propulsion. My truck that was once again, dead in the road. Again.

AAA hates me. But I love them so.

Does anyone know how much a cracked cylinder costs to repair? A lot. That's how much.

I sleep in immobile mobile home.

Homeless conversations:

I aproach homeless man number 1.

"What's up man?! I'm homeless too!"

The transient eyes me, from head to toe. His eyes come to rest on the toes. He rubs his hands together greedily, and begins to salivate. He replies in a voice reminiscent of Billy Bob in Slingblade.

"Them's nice shoes...."

I run. Fast.
***

I aproach homeless man number 2.

"What's up my homeless brethren? Is this where you live?"

He looks around, then points down the street towards a dirty blanket and shopping cart.

"I sleep down there."

"Sweet. I sleep in my truck."

"People always kick me and spit on me."

"People say hi to me sometimes. But that's because they don't know I live in my truck."

"The rain ruined my bottle collection."

"Oh, I know right! I had to listen to the rain on my roof all night! It woke me up like twice."

He eyes me, annoyed. His gaze falls upon my feet.

"Them's nice shoes...."

I run. Fast.
***

I aproach homeless man #3.

"What's up fellow hom..."

He lunges to his feet and drives a shard of glass between my ribs. The last thing I here is him screaming, "I stabs ya! I stabs ya aginn! Boogedyboogedyboogedy!" and I slip into unconciousness.

When I awake, my chest feels as if it's on fire. My shoes are gone, and my feet smell like piss. I wonder how I managed to piss on my own feet, when I realize, it wasn't me. This round goes to you Mr. Homelessman. This round goes to you.

Wednsday
The plot begins to congeal. Lumps of structure and form settle to the bottom. A thin crust develops over the top.

I wake up wednsday in the drivers seat of my truck. Sore, but on time. I shower at work, and head to the office. I work. Work ends.

Wednsday. Ahhhh, wednsday. The day my paycheck comes. I hop on a train for Burbank (the correct one, too) and head to North Hollywood to collect. Once there, I drop by buttonbutton's work, but she's not there. So I call up Adam (Formerly Add) and he swings down to hang out. Eventually, mail time comes around, so I head over to see Sam and Heather, who have my mail. Surprise surprise! There is no check.

So I bought some beer, and we headed to Adam's place. He cooked up some steak, and his roomate's girlfriend shared her shrimp. Then we popped in a movie. Surf and turf, beer, The Big Lebowski... Hell, I even had a floor to sleep on. Despite the lack of paycheck, wednsday was a damn good night.

What did the one homeless guy say to the other homeless guy?


I'm cold.


Bwahahahahahhahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha!!!!!


Oh... I guess you had to be there.

Thursday
The plot has formed into a solid brick, foating in an odd fluid. A strange film developed around the edges.

Adam drove me to work Thursday, because he's my hero. I worked that day. Much like the others. Wow. Amazing.

After work, it was off to the train. Again. To pick up my check. Again. And stop by buttonbutton's work. Again. Only to find that she's not there. Again. And to be similarly disapointed by the lack of pay check. Yet again.

So, Sam had to go to work, and didn't have time to drive me to the train station. No problem. I'll just take the bus. Hmmm... where is that bus? Oh. It stopped running 15 minutes before I got there. Oh well, I guess II'll walk to the train station. Hell, I've got a whole hour before the last train.

If you're ever walking from the NoHo red line to the Burbank Metrolink station, and only have an hour to get there, do yourself a favor, and jog part of the way. You don't have to jog very far. Or very fast, even. All you really need to do is shave 4 minutes off of the trip.

Hmmmm, sleep at a train station in the rain? Dude, I'm an expert. Well, not at the sleeping part, but I'm getting good at staying there all night. In the rain.

The Burbank station seems to be a bit warmer than the Acton station. But there's a hell of a lot more false alarms.

It was at about this point that I started thinking, "You know, maybe all this time I've been wrong? Maybe there really is a god, and he's finally gotten around to smiting atheists.

Some day, I'll actually be an arson investigator. No, seriously. It will happen. But what then? Should I start a family? What will you do Steve?

Well, I've finally figured it out. I need to find myself a hot cop chick. You know. Those cop chicks... that are really hot. Yeah, that's right. The ones that don't exsist.

I need to find one, and I need to marry her. That way, we can reproduce, and create a race of super do gooder children. I'll train in all the skills necessary to beat the shit out of crime. Oh, I'm not talking about the petty crimes like jaywalking, recreational drug use, homicide or speeding. I'm taking about the serious ones. I'll train them to hunt and destroy pedophiles, rapists, all those who drive too slow in the fast lane, and the jackasses who scream stupid shit out their car windows at pedestrians.

I'll even give them cool catch phrases. But not, "Balls dude" because that's my thing. Oh, sure, you might say, "But Steve, you stole that thing from Wes!" Well fuck you! It's a thing, I stole it, It's my thing now. Finders keepers.

Friday
I throw the brick-like plot at someone's head. He cries. I laugh.

4 hours late for work. I hate you metrolink. Friday was so uneventful, it doesn't even rate a post day ramble. But I'll add one anyway. I slept in my truck. Woo hoo.

I like heights. I'm not sure why. I like to stand on balconeys and peer downwards. Every time I do this, however. I have to resist the urge to hurrdle the banister. This is not a suicidal tendancy. On the contrary, I would to be able to plumet 20 stories, only to land on my feet, and walk away. I don't know why, but I've fantasized about this many a time. I dont think I'll give it a try though, as I doubt the resultswould be happy as they are in my imagination. I don't know, I guess I'm a wierdo. But then, you knew that... Didn't you?

The Week Ends
The plot shatters againsts the head of a crying man. Well, there goes my plot.

I slept in Saturday, then finally got to claim my check. There was a lot of exploring of Valencia, and I saw Constantine in the theatre. I'm just biding time at this point.

I aproach a homeless man. His name is Hank. Homeless Hank. I think it might be funny to ask him to spare some change. He doesn't find it as humorous as I do. Hank stabs me in the face. Repeatedly.

I scream for him to stop, but he just stbs me. Over and over. In the face. Finally, I grasp him by the wrist. He struggles against me. The tip of the blade tests the elasticity of my skin. And I say to Homeless Hank, "Dude. Stabbing in this face when out of style like, last paragraph and shit."

He pauses. Homeless Hank seems to be blinking the confusion from his brain.

I reassure him, "Seriously man. Punching in the throat is the new stabbing in the face."

"Oh really? Well, the next time you invent a fictional charecter such as myself, you may want to inform them beforehand of any sudden sudden changes in your policy."

"My fault man. I dropped the ball on that one."

"That's ok Steve. I forgive you."

And with that, Homeless Hank punches me in the throat.

This Week
The plot gone, all that remains is a tranparent yellowish fluid. I poor it on the counter and examine it. This, my friends, is the denouement.

This week has been spent running erands. New post office box, month pass for the transit system, etc. As you can tell, I've found a place that offers internet connection. I'm surrounded by high school and junior high gamers. I'd like to drain their blood via a large gash in their thraots. Try screaming, "ROFL!" now bitch. So, I'll be back tomorrow to comment in all of your journals. And the next entry I make will be back to the revamped version of my journal.

Someday, I'll be an old, wrinkled man. Lying in bed next to an old, wrinkled woman. As she sleeps next to me, I'll lean across her body, and peer down at the face of the woman I married, squinting against my failing vision. And I'll say to her- in mostly vowels, as my false teeth are out-

"You are so friggin sweet, it's insane."

She'll stir, and slowly bat the sleep from her eyes. As the words I've said sink in to her tired mine, she'll smile. The wrinkles in her face disolving as her skin tightens around her mouth. Then she'll reply,

"Balls dude."

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Later people.