Negros

Drop-ins were an elementary aspect of Hobo Survival, and the Youth Link center in Toronto had always served me well. Nestled in the depths of a grimy alleyway that sunk between two unkempt sideroads; the door of YouthLink always provided a soothing waft of stale urine and a vulgar, yet intricate display of graffiti.

A little bit grimier than this

Inside, the scene was much more relaxed - usually. This year, it seemed like a crew of black folks had taken the drop-in over. Not that I've anything against black people, but these folk took the stereotypes to the next level. The only audible words that were shared amongst their slurred ebonics were "nigga" and "fuck." They traipsed around the room, pants strewn around their ankles, spitting incomprehensible raps and trying to bump into people and start fights. I felt ashamed to share a bloodline with these ignoramuses.

The three women working behind the counter were as sweet as always, though. Their soothing smiles and gleaming eyes invited you towards excellent conversation and an endless wealth of sympathy and seduction (well, the latter was more of a dream/objective for the kids at the center.)

After we'd eaten our meal (pre-cooked, ready-made egg patties and bagels. Much more appetizing when you slather sriracha sauce all over them) Fernweh decided he wanted to check his Facebook. He patted one of the dudes sitting at the computer on the shoulder and asked him when he'd be finished. The guy kicked his chair back, stood up, and stepped up to Fernweh while his chair slid to a halt behind him.

"Mothafucka, you don't touch me. You don't know a nigga like that. You got a mothafuckin problem?"
"Whoa, buds. I was just asking--"
"No, mothafucka. You get the fuck out of here, man."

Fuck it. The drop-in had been usurped. We had no reason to stay there any longer. We wandered the streets, dejected, broke, bored, and battered. The day passed extremely slowly - we had no energy to squeegee, yet, we had enough energy to stay awake. Eventually, we found ourselves back home at the bridge.

Scrib had the idea of lighting a fire. I voted against the idea, but soon, we were all gathering bits of wood from the bush beside the bridge. Soon, flames had ignited, and soon, the fire department had been summoned. I'd definitely envisioned this the moment the suggestion of fire had been offered, but I was willing to dodge authority for a little while. I just hoped this wouldn't heat out everyone's sleeping spot.

As the trucks began to arrive, glaring red lights illuminated the underside of the bridge; painting a picture of purgatory on the ground and the barriers, We fled towards the bushes and listened to the gruff hollering of firemen as they extinguished the fire. While we were in the bushes, we found an oddity: someone had created a dwelling in a crevasse that separated the bridge from one of it's supports and another thick wall. Candles were lit inside, tapestries were hung on the wall. It seemed that there were a few hobos who truly knew how to live off-the-grid, staying present on-the-grid.

As the firetrucks departed, we realized that today had been lame.

It was time for bed. Scrib and I bestowed upon ourselves the honour of finding ourselves some mattresses, so we hustled to Subway and looted their cardboard dumpsters. We retrieved massive lengths of cardboard that dwarfed us both in size and in width. We hoisted our monolithic mattresses over our shoulders as we marched across the street, obstructing all sorts of traffic and earning many satisfying honks from infuriated drivers.

At last, we arrived home. The final smoking embers of our fire smouldered an puffed grey clouds towards the sky as we set up our beds. Memories of ignorant African-Americans and burly firemen floated in my head as the embers faded into nothingness, and soon, slumber engulfed us.