Crazy Ramblings of the Homeless II

By Ettare

As it turns out, the genie wasn’t just some hunger induced hallucination. Or at least I don’t think he was. Oh well, it’s not really my problem anymore. All the same, I was currently perched in my brand new, five-by-five plywood home under a bridge when that freak-show, all purple and orange and infinitely strange, appeared in front of me. Holy trash men and dumpster diving. A week had barely even gone by before that thing showed back up.

“May I help you?” I asked as politely as I could while scrubbing my teeth furiously with the end of a stick. Having hoards of money in the bank suddenly spurned me to be a little more hygienic.

“You need to go on a quest,” the genie said briskly. Well, isn’t he a blunt one? I wasn’t really inclined to do anything for anyone else; it just wasn’t my style. In fact, I was just about to deflect his curious demand when I caught sight of those deep violet lips frowning down at me. His face didn’t really leave room for options.

“What’m I s’posed to do?” I cringed while caving. The sun was already high overhead signifying to me that it was around noon, just about the time I’d go down into the sewers and look for fat rats. They weren’t all that tasty unless you scrubbed the grime off ‘em, but they filled the belly fine.

The genie didn’t seem to care whether or not I ate lunch, however. “I need you to go pick up a new bottle for me. Since you,” he paused to glare, “emptied my last one and carelessly threw it away,” here I didn’t bother to correct him in that I had in fact kept the bottle in my secret treasure stash, “I need you to get me a new one.”

“Where is this bottle you want me to get?” I had to ask. Knowing my unscrupulous luck, I’d come back with the wrong bottle if I didn’t.

“I’m afraid that the bottle I want is currently in the hands of another hobo. He’s living in an abandoned dumpster a few streets west of here.” And how exactly was I s’pose to get the bottle? I couldn’t just steal it. That would be wrong. I may have once been homeless, but even I have morals. When I told the genie this, though, he didn’t appear too pleased. Actually, he kind of puffed up like an overripe berry with some funky, orange fungus growing on it. My mouth began to salivate just thinking about it.

During my inner recollections, Mr. Purple-and-Orange seemed to have disappeared. Hmm, perhaps I should at least go and try to reason with the dumpster hobo. I’ve heard that in the past their kind has been known to be quite affable. So off I went in hopes that my journey would not be in vain.

By the time I found the guy I was looking for, the sun was just beginning to set. Glorious, vivid colors reflected off the silver parts of the dumpster where the cheap, brown paint had been scraped away. I stood there in my loose, holey pants and shirt and was filled with a brief sense of envy. Now this guy knew how to live. Every inch and space around the site was filled with bobbles and riches. I even spotted a slightly bent bike wheel hanging off a piece of piping. There was no mistake that this was the hobo that held the genie’s desired new home.

Rapping my cracked knuckles twice against the hard steel, I waited. When no one bothered to answer, I bit back a sigh and let my eyes roam the heaps and piles of goods in hopes that I’d spot the bottle. Ah, there it was—I could see the cap. It was situated on its side to the far right, just underneath a stack of old newspapers. Those certainly looked cozy.

I shook my head to get back on track. The dumpster hobo didn’t seem to be home. He was probably rat hunting, I thought bitterly, and decided I’d just take the bottle. He wouldn’t miss it anyway. Climbing over what appeared to be a rusted out ferret cage, I secured the bottle under my arm. Now I just had to head back home. Before I could turn, however, I caught sight of the bicycle wheel again. Oh how I wanted it. The spokes were just so shiny; I couldn’t resist reaching over and nabbing that too.
Not a second had gone by after I’d grabbed the wheel that I was tackled from behind. “Blast!” I screamed and tumbled recklessly into the side of the dumpster. Apparently the dumpster hobo just got home and he wasn’t too pleased at finding me going through his stuff.

“I…” he wheezed and pointed a long, crooked finger at my hunched figure, “I challenge you! You have no right to take my things!”

Oh, this was all just getting too ridiculous. The dumpster hobo had to be around eighty. I couldn’t fight an old guy. Even I have that much decency at least. So I did what every sensible, young hobo would do. I took one last look at the man from his long, stringy gray hair to his undressed, hairy feet, and ran. And I didn’t stop running, not even when the calluses on my heels split open and rained a trail of dirt, puss, and blood behind me. I suppose that was my punishment for stealing. Only once I reached the confines of my five-by-five box did I feel it safe enough to rest.

“Do you have the bottle?” and irritated voice drifted lazily to my ears.

“Of course I have it.” I slanted out and chucked the good towards the genie’s oddly lumpy head. Stashing the bike wheel in my box, I crawled out to stare the weirdo in the eyes.

“Are you satisfied now?” I glared reproachfully, “because I’d very much so like not to hallucinate you ever again.”

Several, awkward seconds ticked by and the usual ugly expression on the genie’s face became even uglier. “This isn’t the bottle I asked you for.”