Desolation Road

The sun is up but it gives no love; not today, it gives no love. It’s beautiful outside; the cement is warm and cracked. I’m sitting across from the pita place. It’s been about three hours since we, Hippi and I, set up on this particular corner. My black plush guitar case has one one-dollar bill and maybe another dollar in change lying inside of it. Dear God, I hope we can make some more money; I haven’t eaten in about three days now.
         This isn’t what I expected when all my friends told me of what life could be like pan-handling out here in Bellingham, Washington. They talked like the streets were paved with gold, echoing the change I have longed for, for so long now. They claimed everyday bellowed the youthful exuberance and hedonistic innocence of years past. Instead the streets are black pavement, covered with hot tar melting in the warm, hollow and heartless sun. The only people I’ve met out here are junkies and pushers, not like the friends I once clung to tooth and nail, that would move me with but a smile. I hate this godforsaken place.
         The normal people of a normal college town walk by, shopping at all the small college stores on the downtown strip. The guy at Nero’s-a pipe and bong shop-wouldn’t give me a job; he looks like a cop anyway. I apparently don’t fit the look of their clientele. Honestly, who would be uncomfortable buying their paraphernalia from a guy with beat up, patch work jeans and dreadlocks? So it’s out on this corner again; day in day out.
         This place is just like any other college town I’ve ever visited; a bunch of small clothing stores, some organic restaurants and coffee shops, and bars every where. The new refurbishing of downtown makes it look like a sad attempt at an "old world" motif. I guess that’s what is hip this year; brick roads, brick sidewalks, and brick buildings. Everything is brick. A cool breeze comes in from the bay. The “usuals” are starting to arrive.
         Joe, the 75 year old junkie hobo with Tourette’s syndrome, just came around the corner. He’s an intriguing old man. I don’t know how he’s not dead yet. His body is covered from head to toe with tattoos-things like goblins and stars. He’s selling pot to teenagers again. It’s the same routine every day; he scares away the few people willing to give me a couple bucks. I can’t say that I blame the poor souls; he’s too much even for me. Yesterday a cop showed up and confiscated his twelve pack of beer and they had a stare down for about a half-hour; I didn’t make any money from then on.
         The spidery looking plant behind me isn’t doing much to block out the sun, and the bulbous red plant container it sits in isn’t all too comfortable on my back either. The plant’s dead, all of them are, but they’re on every corner of every block in this city. They look like the last throws of some failed invasion by a species of spider aliens. They’re black and withered, hanging over the edges of their red ball caskets. Cigarettes are piled up in their soil. It’s funny; everybody told me how progressively thinking and environmentally friendly the people in Washington are. They’re just like everyone else.
         A woman just came out of the Gap and gave me a dirty look. It’s not surprising, my skin’s turning yellow and I’m about twenty pounds under weight. I feel bad for Hippi, he’s got a newborn, but he still wants to split the money evenly. I’ll just spend my share on magic mushrooms and pills. Maybe it’d be better if I just left, you know, disappeared without any trace. To think just a few months ago I had a nice job, a decent apartment, and a girlfriend I cared for very much. Now I’m considering smoking one of the cleaner cigarette butts in the plant container behind me and breaking onto one of the organic farms around here so I can finally eat.
         Jesus Christ! When will this stop? The day is so very beautiful but the darkness inside clouds that out. I know that when I leave this corner I’ll get what I need to forget for the night, whether I have the money or have to steal it. I just wish I could eat. My head hurts and my stomach aches and pavement doesn’t make a good bed. Jesus, when will this all stop? When will the clouds of Hell finally part to let shine down the light of Heaven? When will the war end? When will I surrender?