If you missed part one, you can read it here. Otherwise, enjoy. More stories later this week.

I distinctly remember lighting up a cigarette to mask (or at least lessen) the taste of the god-awful hobo drink I had stupidly swigged. My mouth tasted like a combination of hopeless and hungover. The good willed drifter who had promised us a ride was returning, but I was already trying to figure out how pathetic I might feel sleeping in the town square.

“Hey you guys!”

The hobo was gesturing and excited. This could have meant any number of things- perhaps he’d found drugs (we hadn’t asked for any), or maybe there was more hobo-juice he wanted to share (at this point, why the fuck not?). My roommate slowly walked towards his posse huddled on the street corner.


He gestured towards fat man in a white shirt, who appeared equally homeless, but perhaps upper class homeless as his shirt was relatively stain-free.

“This is my buddy Colin, he’ll take you home.”

Phenomenal, homeless person one has recommended homeless person two as a reliable means of transport. It’s Humboldt, pretty par for the course.

My roommate being the wonderful conversationalist that he is decided to shut the fuck up which left me to try and drunkenly establish if we were about head down a dark street corner and get stabbed.

“Thanks so much man, where are you parked?”

“No problem, no problem. Just head this way.”

We walked no more than thirty feet before “Colin” began to slow down near a bunch of expensive cars. I glanced quickly at the roommate as if to say, “I may be a fucked up moron, but I am not LETS ASSIST THIS HOBO IN COMMITING GRAND THEFT AUTO FUCKED UP.” I think he understood. But, to my utter disbelief, Colin pulled out a BMW set of keys and marched straight towards a two seater Beemer. BEEP BEEP.

No fucking way.

“It’s gonna be tight guys, hop on in.”

At this particular juncture I am going to remind my dear readers that both my roommate and I were sadly not in a good condition to be making intelliigent decisions. Pertinent questions like, “Do we get into what is probably an expensive stolen car from a ride from a hobo who is probably drunk and very likely not the owner of said expensive car?” were not in the foreground of our thought processes. Instead I remember thinking, “Well a BMW seems like a very nice car.”

We hopped in.

Small talk with strangers is hard enough. Small talk when your roommate is sitting on top of you in a very tiny BMW with a homeless person at the wheel is nearly impossible.

“So man, thanks again for the ride.”

“Sure guys- do you know where you are headed?”

“Uhh, do you know where the flower factory is?”

“Yeah, just point me in the right direction.”

I firmly believe in God because somehow between our two inebriated asses, one of us was able to point in somewhat of the right direction. Just as I was thinking, “What a wonderful crazy person this guy seems to be, we might actually get home”, Colin took a turn for the goddamn insane.

“Did you guys know I was Vietnam?”


“No, we didn’t. Thank you for your service.”

“I’ll tell you what, that war was a god awful war. Bunch of fucking horseshit politicians. GODDAMMIT. You guys have no idea.”

“You’re right, it was a terrible war.”

“I’ll show you guys something.”

He reached into the back of the car and I silently began saying prayers and thinking “Well my parents will most likely cover up the EXACT manner of my death- probably say I was robbed at gun point. Good.” The pistol I was expecting turned out to be a pillow. A fucking pillow.

“This is my Vietnam pillow- has the names of all of my dead buddies on it.”

“Oh.” (What the fuck else do you say to that? Can I get one too?)

“Yeah, that was a terrible war… Did I tell you I was related to Robert Frost?”

My roommate was an English major, I looked at him and passed the torch.

“You guys do know who Robert Frost is don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course the famous poet.”

“I could have been a famous writer too. I’m pretty goddamned good you know.”

From here I tuned the fuck out. I had no idea what he was babbling about- my mind was literally pulling a GPS and trying to estimate to the second how much longer I had to sit in the hobo death trap or what the odds were that I would get home without the homeless Vietnam poet inviting himself to tell us some more gibberish about how he knew Bob Dole or invented the kitty litter box. Luckily we were a turn away.

“Alright man, we are just right down this road.”

“Okay, you guys seem like a nice couple of dudes.”

“Yeah, best of luck with everything Colin, thanks again.”

We got out and my roommate turned to look at me with very open eyes that said “We’re fucked.”He whispered quietly.

“Dude, you got cash?”

I reached inside one pocket. Nothing. I reached inside the other and felt a plastic bag. Pulled it out- a bag of weed. Weird, didn’t remember picking that up. People put weird shit into your pockets in Humboldt and I had no other explanation for it…so.

“Uh, I have this bag of weed, I have no idea-”

“Dude, don’t care, fucking give it to him.”

“Oh great man, I have to hand the angry homeless man weed instead of cash. Fuck you.”

I leaned into the car and as quickly as I possibly could shoved the weed into his hands.

“Thanks bud, enjoy.”

The way my roommate tells this story seems to indicate that upon “throwing the fucking bag at the dude’s head” that I “ran away as fast as I’ve ever seen him run.”

The next thing I remember was turning on the light and slamming and locking the goddamn door. I have zero recollection of going to bed, puking or anything else. My poor brain finally turned itself off subconsciously thinking, “He won’t want to remember this shit anyway.”

I woke up to a wicked hangover. I walked outside to the living room to see my roommate with both hands on his head, laying horizontally on the couch.

“Did we get a ride-”

He put his hands up.

“Don’t want to fucking talk about it. Never fucking happened.”