Penis never knew much. He didn't know why it seemed 2 be his calling in life 2 remain a poor and undeniably desolate soul, lost in some otherworld form of a nonsensical wilderness. He couldn't seem 2 grasp the concept of 'fate' either, but most personally-- probably, Smokey Buldoone simply could NOT fathom how or why the other wandering homeless nomads so whimscially referred 2 him as 'PENIS' (although his head DID seem 2 resemble and take on the shape of one).
The man PENIS had spent FIFTEEN of his 34 years eating shit pellets from the bottom of regional dumpsters and laying his tortured head to sporadic rest on tattered, filth-soaked mattresses, disregarded somehow beneath the Hobie Beach freeway. And somehow, even beyond the loss of their housing and material wealth, the others still managed to maintain pompous and 'all-too-better-than-thou' aires when it came 2 Penis, often tormenting and teasing him. Those whose teeth, if not irreparably missing or broken, curled like yellow-green death, smiling wickedly @ Smokey Buldoone.
"Hey PENIS! Don't HOG the fuckin' FIRE! ...Can't effectively WARM all of us if you got your big, fat ASS in the way...", one would call, then laugh out, an aristocrat, robed in some stranger's throw-aways.
Another would hollar, "PENIS!!! Your stench is worse to my nostril hairs then the rot of ten dead horse dicks! Your foul makes the rest of us smell like millionaires!"
They would rub their greasy hands together, laughing, hacking up used chaw bits and spitting alot.
"So... are you thanking me right now then...or?", Penis would once reply, only to be interupted by an elbow to the chestbone.
It wasn't until one abnormally cold December morning that Smokey Buldoone would be abruptly awakened by his own sleep-assassinating realization. As the cardboard comforter, that warmed his filth nightly, departed from his body by the bone-chilling winter breeze, he'd had what alcoholics refer 2 as a 'moment of clarity'. Fifteen years had just blown by, floating off as softly and quickly as the blanket itself... and it was time 2 make a move.
No longer would Penis settle for his membership to the cult of unclean; you know: those who subscribed to a strong belief that bathing- that marriage of soap and water- was as sacreligious as smacking the Pope in his dentures with a fly swatter, rimmed with barbed wire; those who naturally grew a hate-boner for the common day businessman, as he repressed his grimace, slightly deterred from a schedule, for a detour into the land of guilt, only remedied by tossing charity in the form of copper coins and Penis and his peers. These suits would then become proud, feeling nobelity like Cub Scouts who'd made new rank, maybe 'head Webelo', while these ex-members of so-called 'civilized' society- these cement- dwellers of no God, unkempt and in dire need, forced out that ole' urban bum classic "May God bless you, brother" just before lying back into that world of self-loathing and self-pity, feeling as tainted as that same Cub Scout celebrating his new rank in a private mass @ a gay church, surrounded by exposed and lingering preist cock.
"I love you, my sweet Penis." He'd never heard it spoken. And yet, he dreamed almost each and every night that those very words would warmly fall 2 the earth, and then, slither HIS way. He'd spent all these years imagining, in a deep, crack-smoke-induced trance, that somewhere, out in the dark, that same sentiment was dangling in the salty air, the words reeling in anticipation of his prescence. Somewhere, beyond the churn and clank and roar of passing motorists; SOMEWHERE... some special ONE was patiently (virginally ofcourse) WAITING 2 bless him with those words.
And now, he simply COULD NOT dream anymore. He would not wait for her to come to him. She, who would need not wonder whether HE would come for HER, either. Smokey Buldoone was fucking ready. This choice to conclude his roofless oblivion stood erect, similar to a metaphor for the reason he had chosen to push away at such a young age, disconnect, and exist this way. Now, it was high time to rebuild. The slow road back to a western civilized society beckoned. Penis would finally leave behind him the houseless hecklers, letting loose the shackles of this repugnant lifestyle, abandon his smelly bed, and return to being human.
"Peee-nis, mah' man... if ya' wanna' BE 'impo-tent'... ya' gotta' LOOK 'impo-tent'...", one narley inaudible wretch adivised, as he rolled forth his plan, slick as porn shop blue prints.
"Look, I don't want the sun to go down on me just yet. I aims to rule my own destiny and then seal it with that tongue-kiss of good fortune., replied the new Penis, arms flailing, the ragged prophet, finally FIXED on comprehending FATE.
"Damn. Thasss deep, Penis. Mah' man, Pee-nus... goddamned 'Aristo-ma-tottle' of the homeless... thasss fuckin' inspiring, NIGGA... (healthy pause) Man, i don't want to be getting in yo' way, but uh... do you got a cigarette?"
The bums could never understand an entity such as Penis; but he would not wait for their grasp or even yield another moment to their comfortably lazy ignorance. He would turn instead, semi-sift, the back of his t-shirt riddled with holes of varied size left to face their doubt and chuckles. He would leave that world behind. Far behind.
"I'VE GOTTA' BE FREEEEEE.. I'VE GOTTA' BE MEEEEEE!" He knew not where he'd heard it, this phrase of liberation he'd tacked on to his mental health, yet he would repeat it over and over, making it serve as medication; a self-assuring mantra; an anthem for rebuilding confidence; a verbal Viagra.
And the other bums would yell at him to "SHUT THE FUCK UP, Penis!!!"
He stroll down the back roads of the boulevard singing it.
"I'VE GOTTA' BE FREEEE... I'VE GOTTA' BE MEEEE...."
Women would often pass on the same streets and clutch their handbags and shield the eyes and ears of their small children. Who was this dirty peasant, shouting out therapy to himself, at various volumes of dank unchained and off key melody, like some sort of really bad, blatantly low budget off- off- off Broadway alley one man production? Did he even know who Sammy Davis, Jr. was? Why did he smell like chlorine and semen and for Chrissakes, what were the odds he'd attack at some point of this state? Would he assault them suddenly? What's the timeline on an outburst of overwhelming happiness usually? Who could say?
As for Penis, he knew not where he was headed, nor why he had chosen this particularl bitingly- brisk day 2 head there. All he could feel was the excruciating sting in his unclipped toe nails, the flake of a four day old resin of Cheez Whiz that had somehow found it's way bung-ward one eve as he slept, and a head full of hope. Unexplainable, inexplicable hope, coupled with vocalized explosions of bliss.
He ALSO became painfully aware, through the course of his destination devoid journey, that he had not been laid in at least a good five or six years. On top of that, it was only once and lasted only a few seconds. Plus, she hadn't exactly been the consumate Playboy pin up. No, far from it. More to the point, she was a one-legged, toothless crack connoisseur, a prostitute who reeked of sour salt and vinegar potato chips and spoke in mindless riddles, often screaming random obscenities, calling Penis a motherfucker. And aside from the minor fact that she attempted to kill him once with a junkyard tire boot, post sexual relation that dawn, it dawned on him now, that she was possibly the only woman that ever loved him.
PENIS yearned 2 be loved by another. And so, he continued to walk, his traveling light and his destination unknown. His heart open, his eyes half open, still a bit sleepy and high, but he kept on.
And when he approached the man trying to perform felatio on the exhaust pipe of a Ford wagon...
(to be continued...)
(An excerpt from the archives, written as a theater class assignment in 1999 by GABE ALBERRO, while attending Rhode Island College for a brief stint)
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