or, How to Live in Santa Barbara
on Less than a Dollar a Day
The
Art of Couch-Surfing requires having a home base. Having a home base can
consist of a bar where I tipped the bartender reasonably well when times were
good, paid my bar-tab in a timely manner and, always and under all
circumstance, remembered the two cardinal rules of behavior in a bar:
Rule
#1; never piss-off the bartender.
Rule#2;
never forget rule #1.
I
had an instinct to know and understand the way these things work. I also
understood what is surprisingly blind to most who find themselves in this
situation. My first principle was to keep my camp as though I was a Boy Scout
in the woods.
The
Rules:
1.
Remember that you are a guest and do all you can to be a most welcome one.
Never expect to be entitled to anything; you are a guest after all.
2.
Bring something to the occupants like a twelve pack of beer, a line of coke, a
joint or even a bag of chips if that’s all you can get.
3.
Do the dishes… hell, the laundry too (it is an opportunity to do your own while
you are at it).
4.
Volunteer to be the designated driver. Be the gofer for groceries and other
errands.
5.
Bring your own douche bag with razor, tooth brush soap and shampoo. Never use
your host’s personal hygiene items. Your hosts resent running out of shampoo
before all else.
6.
Clean up your camp like a good Boy Scout. Even if you don’t smoke, empty the
ashtrays and dump the beer cans on the way out in the trash before you move on.
Never allow yourself to sleep later than your host. Get up and out before
anyone else in the household.
7.
Never wear out your welcome. Rotate, Rotate, Rotate: timely rotation is
crucial.
I
used the bar as my office. I ran errands for the bartenders for a few free
drinks but, more importantly, to keep my bar stool without having to buy
drinks. I found work here and there, picked up day labor jobs and cultivated
future couches. It was my diligence in doing these things that kept me out of
the bushes most of the time. The Rescue Mission and Salvation Army were the
only year-round crashes in those days and the National Guard Armory was open to
the homeless when the temps dropped in the winter months.
I
did try to get in a sober-living home, New House Two. I was asked; “Are you willing to go to any
lengths to stay sober?”
Not
realizing that my answer would be a standard qualifying one, and thinking
honesty would get me a break, I answered, “Hey now, my friend, I don’t have a
drinking problem. I might have a few after work, or whatever, but I promise not
to drink if you let me in.”
I
was not given a bed.
At one time or another I broke every one of the Seven
Rules of the Art of Couch Surfing and still got by okay. Yet, I knew it was
impossible to go hungry, without shelter, or without a drink, in Santa Barbara
as long as I paid attention to the Advanced Art of Couch Surfing, and
cultivated and applied the rules even in a half-hazard manner.
Chapter 15. An Angelo of GAWD (1991)
With Rubber Bumpers
and an MG
I did a gig at Pal’s as bar-back/doorman checking I.D.’s and acting as a
laid-back quasi-bouncer. I was offered a bar tending job but I didn’t want the
responsibility. Bar-back wasn’t miserable work at all and it gave me access to
enough beer to keep the edge off the day. Customers or friends sometimes bought
a drink for me now and then to give me that edge. The pay was minimum wage but
the bartender cut me a little off the top from her tips. It was a holding
pattern because having a job of any kind more than that required that I have an
address and telephone number other than Pal’s.
I
eventually tired of barely scraping by. I shoved my situation up to the Cosmos in the form of a prayer. I wrote it down in my journal… date and time…
to see how long it took to be answered if there was anyone was up-there that
cared;
"C’mon,
O Great Whazoo, I need a break here." I pled, Give me some direction and I’ll take it."
It
was at this time something inexplicable happened that I was unable to
explain. It had to be the work of the Hand of Gawd. These Whazoo moments are
rare and usually come out of the blue. It’s like the old adage that says: “When
the student is ready the teacher arrives.”
The
next day, while I was holding on to my bar-stool, Claire slid a beer over to
me, “This one is on the guy down there.” She leaned over the bar to whisper,
“Lucky he calls himself. Whew, he
stinks.”
That
name sounded familiar. The stink did too but something always fogged my memory
whenever he made an appearance. I turned to thank Lucky. He’d slipped out
the door just as an old acquaintance, Laura, (a former Vegas show-girl
blackjack dealer, forty-ish, transgender, boob-job, long legs and all), entered
the bar not knowing anything of my situation. I hadn’t seen her since before
leaving Santa Monica for Nicaragua.
“Max,
Myra said you might be in Santa Barbara.”
I
had to think a minute to remember where I knew her from. I got off my stool
regardless for a Southern California hug and cheek-kiss before it came to me,
“Laura? The Beach Committee.”
“Sure,
you read my Tarot. You were spot on.” She took the stool next to me. “I heard
all about you… You’re famous for yelling at a statue.”
“Yeh,
it’s my claim to fame lately. All the way to Santa Monica?”
“I
was visiting an old friend, John, at his place. The bartender was telling this
story about a guy he knew named Max that did some shit at a statue or
something. I said I knew a Max that lives somewhere in town. He told me Max
hangs out here.”
Claire
piped in, “This is his office. Do you want anything to drink?”
“Sure,
I’ll have what you’re havin’. What is
that?”
“It’s
one I made up. I call it a Woo-Woo. After you drink one, you have to shout, woo-woo!”
“I’ll
have one of those and one for Max too.”
I
laughed one of the first laughs I’d had for some time. Laura
was sexy the way a real good looking tranny can be, “Oh, Laura, if only you had the right
plumbing.”
She
smiled seductively, “Say, Max, are you looking for a place?”
“Well,
lookin’… but I have to make more money than I am making here to afford one in
this town.”
Laura was almost a woman and I was halfway hoping she’d let me crash
wherever she was staying. Really, I considered having sex with her if she
didn’t have a dick. Or maybe she might know of a job that would pay enough to
rent a flop.
“You
know John, of John's Jon, don’t you?”
“Yeh,
but not very well.” Hell, I knew every bar owner in town. In fact, my list of
bar owners and bartenders were the only phone numbers I kept in my head. That
was what enabled me to get out of jail on O.R. the last time. However, John
wasn’t one of them on that list.
“You
know his house on Anacapa Street?”
“Yeh?
I sure do.” “
“I
figured you’d know Alex.”
“Yeh,
sure do. Alex, the distinguished looking gangster. He was always a gentleman.
I’d hauled him around town a lot in my cab. I know the place. John’s his
landlord?”
“You
know; Alex is doin’ time in Texas. His apartment’s four-hundred a month and one
in back of his place is available too… more of a shack than anything… it ain’t
much but it’s cheaper.”
“How
cheap? I haven’t much.”
“I
think $180 a month … or so.”
“Shit,
my VA check almost covers that,” the light turned on. I hadn’t a break like
this in a long time.
“Well,
let’s go up there. I’ll introduce you to John.”
The
Claire, Laura, and I downed our drinks and shouted in unison, “Woo-Woo!”
It
was settled. We checked out the place. It was small. A shared bathroom and
shower. The kitchen amounted to a fridge and sink with one small cupboard at
one end of the place and room for a dresser, couch or bed at the other. There
was also a closet big enough for a single sized bed and some room for hanging
clothes. The place smelled of mildew and we found a petrified rat when we
inspected the closet but it was a palace if compared to the streets.
A
handshake was all that men like John required for a lease and security check.
Laura dropped me off at my new digs and sped off into the night. I never saw her around town since then to thank her . Truly, she was an Angel, the Hand
of Gawd, to me.
Up
to this point in my life I’d made plenty mistakes, errors of judgment, and downright
crimes… misdemeanors and felonies… but I’d always acknowledged something more
powerful than anything my imagination could conjure was available to me. It
seemed at times arbitrary, fickle, and at times, cruel. But the timing was
always perfect and it was always there when I needed it. I didn’t like to call
it God because the word God had been sentimentalized to the point where it had
become meaningless. I didn’t know what to call it: The Great Whazoo, the Hand
of Gawd, or what… maybe just, Hey You! My whole life seemed to be constructed
around this minimal faith and some people noticed it.
Marley,
the wife of Denny, the owner of Pal’s, commented once while I was washing
glasses behind the bar, “Max, there’s something special about you. I don’t know
what it is but… well, it’s easy to see that you aren’t just another what… bum?
… like you know something others don't.”
I
knew I was a low level charmer. I tried not to manipulate people… if so, I did in
the least noticeable way. Instincts told me I was somehow protected by an aura
and did feel deeply that I knew something very few others did.
She
continued, “People, at least I do, know you’re a good man when they meet you.”
I
wondered if she was trying to score on me. Then she added something that poked my pride, “But something’s missing, Max. My God, you would be either rich or a
saint if you weren’t such a fuck-up!” Then she smiled a gorgeous Marley smile,
“Or, maybe you’re on your way to sainthood because you are such a fuck-up.”
One
way or another, it didn’t matter to me. I recalled that Celeste once noted,
long before that day, that something was missing: “Max, I wish I had your luck.
You’re the luckiest man on earth, but, given a chance, you always turn that
luck to shit.”
“I
don’t know what it is, but it ain’t
luck.” Examples of my luck go back… crimes and misdemeanors, errors of judgment
consciously and unconsciously perpetrated… yet I always walked away seemingly
unscathed.
I
had a sign that a change of fortune appeared before my eyes. I saw my new place
as a manifestation of that fortune and I was determined to hold on to it no
matter what. It was my castle and it had become a symbol of cosmic grace. I
was generous with my new fortune too. If another addict or drunk needed a place
to crash, I had a couch for them out of gratitude for escaping the disaster I’d been
through. I was soon to find out that most drunks didn’t know the Art of Couch
Surfing nor did they care one way or the other for learning it. On more than
one occasion I had to throw one out after the sot had lodged himself on the
couch like a barnacle. Most often they remembered a part of one of the
principle rules of the Art of Couch Surfing but forgot the rest. They would
bring a taste of tar, a twelve pack of beer, a sandwich and chips etc. as an
offering. That was their share of the rent as far as they were concerned and
then they would attempt to become cohabitants… move in with bags. Some even
tried to make it their base to sell drugs and, for all practical purposes, take
over the place.
Finally,
I put my foot down. I put both feet down on one of them to get him
out the door. I had to throw the guy’s bags out onto the gravel driveway and
pry his hands off the door jambs. Putting one foot on the poor guy’s chest, and
pushing him out the door, was all I could do to get rid of him. After that
incident I made a house rule. No more drunks or addicts unless they were
female. Uh-huh, females, as long as they put out something.
Oh,
yes, there would be no trouble there!
Amusing, the introspection!
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