You Have To Name Your Hobos

You have to name your hobos.

There are a handful of vagabonds in my neighborhood with characteristics so distinct; they’ve practically named themselves. My hobos are as follows: The Lapper, Eskimo Joe and Hookhand.

The Lapper looks like an axe murderer; long, shaggy hair like Eddie Vedder after two sets at Lollapoolooza, gruff beard and a t-shirt three sizes too big. No belt. This causes problems because The Lapper’s favorite activity is mindlessly walking up and down Hawthorne Blvd.

I live on Hawthorne Blvd. – a popular, commercial street that The Lapper uses as a makeshift Olympic track. Holding up his oversized ripped jeans with both hands, he power walks back and forth with such feverish intensity you almost assume he’s training for a gold medal. Made of booze.

Eskimo Joe is a total mystery. Sometimes he’s in a wheelchair; sometimes he walks. Sometimes he’s friendly; sometimes he’ll threaten to piss on you. What is for certain is that Eskimo Joe rolls with a huge posse.

I’ve seen the Eskimo Joe Entourage run as thick as five deep – stumbling down the side streets of my neighborhood like the drunken version of Reservoir Dogs. The remarkable thing is that the group members are always changing.

Clearly Eskimo Joe has an enigmatic personality that attracts hobos from all around like some kind of alcoholic bug zapper. That, or he sells awesome drugs.

The one consistent member of the posse, the Tom Hagen to Eskimo Joe’s Don Corleone is Hookhand. Yes, Eskimo Joe’s right hand man is actually a left hook woman. She’s like a nomadic Captain Hook except she’s not a pirate, has a sparse mustache and might have a Peter Pan tattoo.

Like Captain Hook, she may be afraid of crocodiles but I’d never know. She can’t seem to form complete sentences and settles, instead, for shouting complete nonsense. One classic exchange occurred when I startled her near the 7Eleven dumpster and we proceeded to yell, “Raarrrr!” at each other until we both had a good, albeit disturbing, laugh.

There are plenty of laughs to go around when you treat your neigborhood hobos like the fun-loving creatures they are. So instead of ignoring them like nameless, human husks, shuffling along like stinky apparitions – nickname them, yell nonsense at them and maybe buy them a belt. They need your attention like tinker bell needs claps.

You have to name your hobos.