jasongthompson365

[jasongthompson365]

1988

[jasongthompson365]

The Time I Was Charged With Grand Theft Auto

Several decades ago, I still had my old walker I.D. in my wallet. It was expired, and cut open, so it was invalid. A runaway friend of mine, who's identity I won't reveal, I'll just call him "Joey", because everyone called him Joey, used it to avoid getting identified. Back then lots of people had nicknames, or fake names, and you might not ever know their real name anyway. I knew his, but we never used it, because he was 16. Joey, who was from Richmond, used my walker I.D. to get a job under my name. He picked one up at the Subway sandwich shop on P Street in D.C. It was the same one I would later sleep on the roof of. Joey was a good worker, but had a knack for misadventure. So did I, and we would constantly escalate our troubles, feeding off of each other. It was Joey who was with Danny and I when we had to beat a guy up to recover my knife. It was Joey and I who spent an evening flattening cop car tires in Georgetown, being chased by police, and playing football with a dead, frozen rat. It was also Joey who hit someone in the head with the rat, spilling it's entrails all over the guy. I ended up leaving D.C., to go and clear my head after a bad relationship and a mental breakdown. I never got my walker I.D back. I went back to Dale City, where I found work. I was getting 40 hours a week, but was barely surviving. It was going to be another week before I got a check. One day I noticed a slow leak in my tire, so I had it plugged. That didn't work, and every other day it would be flat again. I didn't have the money for a new tire, so I went out one night around 230 in the morning, looking for another car like mine. I eventually found one in a nicer neighborhood, so I pulled over. I got out, jacked up the car, and took a tire. Then I lowered the jack, put it on my car, and took my tire off, before replacing it with the newer tire. To prolong discovery, I jacked up the other car again, and put my leaking tire on it, then I drove away. I'm not proud of that moment, but I had to be back at work the next the day. After things normalized, I fell into the routine of work. I started picking up odd jobs there and ended up working 45-53 hours a week. My driver's license needed to be renewed, so I planned a trip to the DMV on my day off. When I arrived, the line was ridiculously long, with an hour and a half wait. I went to the desk, got the the papers I needed, and stood in line. An hour and a half later, and it was my turn. I got to the window, only to be told I needed another paper. Mother fucker! I thought. "Mother fucker!" I said. I went and got the other paper, then drove home. I filled out the paper, and grabbed a dining room chair. It was made of solid wood and fairly heavy. I put it in my car and took it to the DMV. I brought it with me inside, and got back in line, where I sat and stared at the people staring at me. I probably looked ridiculous, but I didn't care. The noise of the people laughing and commenting drew the attention of the lady at the window. She saw what was going on and decided that I didn't have to wait. I knew she was perfectly content with me waiting, but they didn't want a disruption, so they caved. Good. I went up to the window and handed her the papers, nervous that they were going to say I needed something else. She started typing information into her computer, and then got a funny look on her face. She seemed embarrassed. "I'm sorry, sir. We can't renew your license." " What??!" "You have a uhm..." "What!!??" "You have a charge for stealing a car." Her face was red from the embarrassment. "What???" "In Richmond." "You're fuckin' kidding me! I haven't been to Richmond in a year!" "Sorry, sir." It took me a day or two to piece together what may have happened. I called up to D.C to get a hold of Joey. Sure enough, he had stolen a car and been busted. The only I.D. he had was my old walker I.D., and the cops thought he was me, so they booked him under my name. He had tried to tell them he wasn't me, but they weren't having it. Once I had all of the information, he assured me that he would straighten it out. True to his word, he did. I returned to the DMV and got everything done, after a lot of explaining and few phone calls. I made Joey promise to get rid of my I.D., and never use my name again. As far as i can tell, he never did.

[jasongthompson365]

24 Hours

I woke up in the dark, cocooned by cardboard boxes. I sent signals to my toes to wiggle, as I breathed in deeply. My arms were across my chest, vampire-like, not for any effect, but out of need within the cramped space. My combat boots were by my feet, removed to prevent sweating and rot. I had propped my head up the night before with my duffel bag, full of clothes, and had fallen asleep with a knife in my hand, but it had since dropped by my left side. For warmth I had my leather jacket, and the garbage bags lining the cardboard boxes that I had fitted together, like a kid would connect straws, forcing one end inside of another. I grabbed my knife before I crawled out of the boxes, slithering and jerking to free myself, seeing the gray light of morning and feeling the fresh, crisp air on my nostrils and in my lungs. I stood slowly, stretching out the stiffness, a by product of sleeping on the hard surface, and then grabbed the boxes, shaking my boots loose and onto the rooftop. I had a very simple philosophy when it came to homelessness; disappear. Rooftops, storm drains, abandoned buildings. Any place where people tend not to rest their gaze, or even consider. I stayed away from the shelters because of the thieves and violence. I kept clear of the tent cities, as I liked my privacy. I had been squatting with a couple of other people in an abandoned building, but everyone had moved on, so the solo methods kicked in. Not that I minded. I needed some alone time to clear my head, to revert to a more natural, animalistic state, where the only concern was survive. Any other thoughts were subsumed by a primal directive-be invisible as much as possible. I put on my jacket and the boots, then broke the boxes down. I had the boxes the night before, from the Subway sandwich shop on P Street. They kept them behind a gate in the alley that I had to climb over to get to, but I was fairly agile, and light. I had scaled more than one rooftop, shimmying up pipes and ladders. After I had thrown the boxes over the gate, I raided the trash cans, looking for fairly clean garbage bags. The garbage bags kept the heat in, and the rain out. I had used a dumpster to climb onto the roof with the boxes and bags, then assembled my makeshift hotel. Now I had to reverse the process. Leave no trace. Become the Nowhere Man. After I had surveyed the ground around the roof I jumped down to the dumpster, then the hard concrete of the alley. I was not a great jumper, and always felt the jarring impact. I threw the boxes back over the gate, and shoved the garbage bags into the dumpster. I was ready to start the day now. I walked out of the alleyway, looking for signs from the traffic to tell the time of day. The sun was creeping slowly, illuminating the top floors of the buildings more than the streets, and the traffic was intermittent. I knew the flood of the morning commute would come quickly, bringing the attendant foot traffic. I had successfully grown in tune with the environment, waking in time to get what I needed. I had a couple of minutes to get across Dupont Circle and start panhandling. Dupont was slowly coming to life, with a few cars making their way and a couple of walkers, spread out and moving in different directions. I stepped across the circle in a matter of moments, heading to my favorite corner in front of Vesuvio’s Pizza. The foot traffic was becoming fuller, so I waited. A commuter bought a paper and I asked him if I could grab one before the door locked shut on the box. He said sure, and as he walked off, I grabbed all of the papers, intending to sell them for less. As the street filled, I began to panhandle. “Spare change? I’m tryin’ ta get somethin’ to eat.” If they said no, or ignored me, I’d offer, “Newspaper! 10 cents!” A couple of the working stiffs laughed at that, but only a couple bought them. I had tested the market and found it lacking, so decided never to do that again. After the streets had quieted again, outside of the steady motor traffic, I had made about 15 bucks. Not bad for 45 minutes of work, but not as lucrative as the day before. I was happy to disengage, to end interaction with a different world than my own. To them, I was an anomaly, a misplaced piece of gravel, rough and broken, on a pristine walkway. To me, they were a horde, in pressed shirts, with the alcohol smell of mouthwash covering their base nature. I didn’t hate them. I didn’t like them. They were one of several currents in the flowing river of the city, useful for fishing out a few dollars in the morning. I needed a shower. The heat of the day before, plus the natural oils my body produced in the evening had left me with that not so fresh feeling. My working friends who would let me shower and often crash, were out earning the money that gave them the ability to afford such things as showers, and shelter. I needed something more immediate. The hotel. Getting in required waiting for the lobby to clear. There was a single bathroom behind the front desk,  near the restaurant, that I had used before. The odds of getting caught were high, which I didn’t like, but I didn’t want to compound the stench I was developing throughout the day, plus I had to brush my teeth. The lobby cleared, and I walked quickly through the glass door, and made a bee line for the bathroom. I opened the wooden door for the toilet, then closed and locked it behind me. I had to move quickly. I ruffled through my bag to find my toothbrush, and a set of clean clothes. I stripped naked and shoved my dirty clothes into a plastic grocery bag before putting them into the duffel. I had to keep them separate so the odor would not transfer. They would be washed in a bath tub or a laundry mat later. I ran the toothbrush under the water, then the soap dispenser, and shoved it into my mouth. I scrubbed my teeth vigorously.  I put the toothbrush back into the ziploc, and tossed it into the duffel. My heart rate was elevated, so I took a deep breath. “Move precisely, but calmly.” I told myself, forcing my heart and mind to slow down. I took a step toward the paper towel dispenser.  It was full of the stiff, brown paper, in a single roll. I started hitting the lever over and over, creating a long trail of paper. I took the paper and ripped it into several pieces, which I balled up. I grabbed one of them and got it wet in the faucet, then put it under the soap dispenser. I rubbed the soap into the wad, then washed myself. I had to repeat the process several times to get everything, then had to do it again sans soap, to wash the soap off. The final step was cleanup. Leave no trace. The whole process probably took 10-15 minutes. Before I could get dressed someone knocked on the door. “Who’s in there?” “I’ll be done in a minute.” I said, as calmly as possible. I had almost made it, and didn’t like the intrusion. I started dressing quickly, happy to at least have gotten clean before being discovered. “Open the door! You don’t belong in there!” “Hold on.” I said as I put my boots on. I knew I had to open the door, and didn’t know who I was going to face. I laced my boots up, listening to the voice on the other side of the door become more angry and demanding. I stood up, took a breath, let it out, and opened the door. The man on the other side stared awkwardly. I stood there, in my boots and leather jacket, with my bag over my shoulder, staring back at him, every sense alive. He was blocking the doorway. “You don’t belong in here!” I walked toward him, silently, without hesitation. He stepped back, not sure what to do, which created the space I needed to walk past him. I could feel his presence as I brushed by, and it was inconsequential. He wasn’t going to do anything. I headed for the door, my momentum carrying me into another moment devoid of the encounter. The man screamed at my back, but his words had no meaning. I hit the bright street, full of sunshine, and made my way to Habib’s. I can’t remember if the store was actually called Habib’s, but Habib ran it, and he never carded any of us. He also sold the cheapest vodka in town. I bought a pint for later, and hid it in my leather jacket, the inside pocket. I had some vodka at Johnny’s, but I needed a pint bottle, and 2 bucks was nothing. Next was breakfast. I walked over to the McDonald’s and grabbed a couple of biscuits, and water. The spot in front of the grocery store across the street was a good panhandling spot, if you didn’t get booted. I could make 30-40 bucks in a couple of the afternoon hours, but I had what I needed. I wandered the city for a few hours, making my way down to the record shop. I flipped through the CD’s, records, and books, staring at the things I would never buy. Back on the street, I stared at faces that had their own stories, or non-stories. Vacant eyes and lives. I couldn’t fathom being them. I headed downtown, hoping to hit the food truck. I was now in full public territory. None of my friends were close by. This wasn’t my neighborhood. The bums and assorted crazies were out in force, so I knew I had to watch my back. Years ago, I felt more at home on this side of town. I had been running with a crowd of around ten homeless kids. I say “around” because people would come and go. As a pack, we were unstoppable. The other homeless weren’t organized, so weren’t a threat. The crazies were always a threat, but ten beats one. Tourists were harmless, and we would either find ways to amuse ourselves by tormenting them, ignore them, or we would panhandle. One of our favorite methods for getting money from them was to charge them for pictures. If we caught one taking our picture we would turn our backs to them. If they persisted in trying to photograph us we would surround them and tell them they didn’t have our permission to take our pictures. This was a lie. They didn’t legally need our permission, but they were usually compliant when we told them it would cost them a dollar. One nice guy actually bought us lunch, and we sat eating with his family. Now, here I was alone, surveying the congregation, waiting for the food truck to deliver the life sustaining Eucharist. The disheveled masses, dirty and unwashed. A veritable Babylon of humanity, muttering to each other and themselves, all hoping for more than the normal sandwich. If we scored a cup of soup we were lucky. The sandwiches were anemic at best, and tasted better dipped in the soup. The problem with the soup was if they ran out. The guy in line when that would happen would inevitably raise hell. I didn’t give a shit. It wasn’t like I was paying. I got in line. A dirty  rasta guy got in behind me. He started talking shit almost immediately, and my hackles raised. I turned my head to him, only to discover that his vitriol was directed at my jacket. He was having a conversation with the words on my coat. “BLITZ. THE FINAL SOLUTION. RAZORS IN THE NIGHT.” Blitz was an Oi! band from England. The other words were titles of songs. I decided to ignore him, but stayed on the alert in case he decided my coat was shit talking his mother. I finally got my food. It consisted of a flimsy peanut butter sandwich, and the treasured cup of soup. I walked away from the group, wanting to distance myself, not just from the potential issues, but the smell. I wanted to eat without gagging on the air around me, so I chose an isolated spot in the grass.     It wasn’t isolated for long. A native American guy sat down to the right of me, which piqued my interest, as I’d always been fascinated by American Indian cultures.  He was shirtless, long hair, mid 20’s, from what I could tell. He had a tattoo that read, “DOG SOLDIER.” I knew the Dog Soldiers were a warrior band, but I didn’t know which nation they belonged to, so I asked. “Cheyenne.” he answered, focused on eating. He was soon followed by a black man, who sat to his right. Things looked like they might get interesting. I was looking forward to whatever conversation followed. It didn’t happen. We were interrupted by a large black man screaming. “You ain’t homeless, cracka! You just takin’ from us!” We all looked at him, as he stared at me. Shit. “Why you muthafuckas sittin’ wit’ that white boy?” The black man who had sat with us told him to shut the fuck the up. I started to devour my food. “Lookit him eatin’ our food!” The black man near us got up. “I told you to shut the fuck up!” As they started fighting, the Cheyenne and I got up, and left in different directions, with me shoveling food into my face. I watched the fight as I left. It wasn’t too serious. The interloper was afraid of the man who had sat near us, and kept backing up, out of distance. Either way, I didn’t want police attention, so just kept walking back toward Dupont Circle. I appreciated the man standing up, but it seemed that they knew each other, and a lot of it had to do with him being tired of hearing his shit. I didn’t need the complications or chaos. Once back, I lazily panhandled, more to occupy my time until John came home. When he did, I walked over to his apartment. I drank some of the vodka and orange juice I had left there, until I felt loose and warm. Our evening plans were simple, a regular routine. Hit the club two blocks away and drink the night away. This meant listening to shitty industrial music all night, probably played by DJ Mohawk Adam. There was a dirth of punk clubs in the early 90’s, and very few punks living in the city. Most of the clubs played industrial. The goth and industrial folks were nice enough, and some of them were cool, including Adam, but I hated that fucking music. I had watched a live video of Ministry’s, and liked it well enough. It was a good show. My problem was the problem all people have with the music that follows theirs, it seems like it all sounds the same. Either way, open bar was open bar, and people usually bought me drinks afterward. The bartender would throw some free ones my way, plus I had my pint of vodka in my pocket. I had no fear of being searched by the bouncers, and usually got in on the guest list. I was going to drink my mind away. We spent the night glued to the bar. When open bar ended I ordered some water, chugged it, then went into the bathroom and filled the glass with my vodka. When that was depleted, I had some drinks sent my way from various people, and finished the night earlier than usual, tired of the noise, and physically drained from walking all day, and a poor diet. On my way out, someone told me about the Rodney King verdict. Rodney King was a criminal, and had led the police on a chase, before being apprehended and thoroughly beaten on the street by them. The police were acquitted, which set off rioting in L.A., and apparently there were roving bands of blacks causing mayhem all over D.C. “Be careful.” Red Steve said as I left. I was only going a block over to my rooftop, so wasn’t too concerned. I hit the street and breathed in the night air. It wasn’t fresh. The smell of smoke lingered, and a helicopter was flying low nearby. My senses came alive. I was instantly sober. I passed one alley and saw a group of about 5 black males on the other side of the block. One of them yelled, “We gonna fuck up some white folks tonight!” The proclamation was met with shouts of approval. I hurried past the alley before they could see me, and ran down the street to the alley where I slept, where I accessed the roof. I jumped the cage and gathered my boxes, stopping periodically to listen for trouble. The helicopter was closer. I knew I couldn’t get trapped in the cage and had to get to the roof. I climbed back out, grabbed some garbage bags, without the care for cleanliness that I normally used. I threw everything on top of the dumpster, climbed up, then threw it all on the roof. I assembled everything quickly. My bag was at John’s, so I used my jacket for my pillow. For added warmth, I tucked my arms into my shirt. I listened to the noise of city; the traffic, the shouting. I closed my eyes, and let the sound of the helicopters rotors sing me into a fitful sleep.

I woke the next morning, hung over, and in need of water. I was exhausted from not sleeping well. I crawled out from the boxes, and sat there for a moment, restoring needed oxygen to my body. I stared at the gray light, slowly brightening, looked at the sky, and wondered what was waiting for me today.

[jasongthompson365]

Astral Double

When I was 13 or 14, I astrally projected. It was an involuntary, unintentional act. I had not studied the phenomena, or practiced any spiritual exercises to bring it on. I had fallen asleep, with my dog Rascal by my side. Rascal was a black mutt, with a dash of white on his chest. He slept with me every night, sharing his warmth. I would often drape my arm over him, and hold his paw, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was comforting, and made sleep come more easily. I understand that my being asleep during the occurrence will raise immediate objections to the validity of the experience. I have no desire to sway anyone’s views on spiritual phenomena. Such endeavors are a waste of time. Like all experiences in this sphere, those who have had similar ones will more readily accept it, those who have not, will not. On the extremes are people who obviously think one spiritual experience backs their entire world view of all others, or who are obviously delusional, and those who refuse to accept the very idea of a spiritual reality, with no proof themselves of the contrary. In the middle realm of the doubters are the agnostics, who reasonable require proof. That said, I also have no proof for others, only for myself in that time and place. I cannot scientifically recreate the phenomena and the circumstances. I can only say that I was clear headed, drug and alcohol free. The event itself happened quickly and without warning. I found myself above my body, as if I were horizontal with the ceiling and facing downward. In that brief moment of vision I could see every detail; the position I was lying in, how the sheets and blankets were draped over me, that Rascal had moved, to sleep curled up at my feet. Then I felt instant fear at being separated from myself, the strangeness at how explicitly real it was, and the need to get back to where I belonged. As soon as the fear came upon me I felt a rush as I descended, saw myself on the bed coming closer at an incredible speed, and then I felt the impact of shooting back into my own body, which startled me awake, not like a dream would, but like the continuity of action, movement, and adrenaline does. I immediately sat up, at once glad to experience corporality and yet still fearful at what had transpired. My heart was starting to speed up. I took a second or two to re-orient myself, as I looked about me. Everything was as I had seen it from above. The position I had risen from, Rascal at my feet, in the same spot, curled up. The sheets had shifted, but were still in a semblance of what they had been. I spent some time considering what had happened before I could fall asleep again. All of this led me to research. I read everything I could find on the subject. Some of it was ridiculous, some of it made sense. I had seen no golden cord, or luminescence, as is often reported. I did, however, find that many cases occurred during the years of puberty, as these are years of great chemical and psychic upheaval, and that they were often unexpected. It has not ever happened again, even when I have tried to engage the exercises meant to make it occur. I have, however, had many other strange experiences since then, but have not determined whether to tell of them.

[jasongthompson365]

Summer Lights

That summer we ran the streets, a pack of feral children in heat. Our days and nights were consumed with drama we created, hungered for. Broken hearts and broken bottles, blood mixed with tears and laughter. Who were our masters? The selfish, the distant? The abusers, the neglectful? Out here, they had no say, no influence, outside of the occasional psychological break, the crying heard in another room at some party house, or a friends apartment. Who could control us? We couldn’t even control ourselves. Our foundation was stimulation, the accelerated heart. Speed, acid, sex, conflict and love. A blurred, wandering foundation, shifting continually under our quick feet as we were constantly off balance and in a state of recovery. Don’t ask me what days, dates, and times. I didn’t give a fuck what time it was. The seconds moving on a watch were a personal hell that I had shed, along with the rest of society. The consciousness of time was my enemy. “Live for now!” Yesterday couldn’t have me, and I didn’t have tomorrow, so the moment was all that mattered. We were wolves in training. We were breathless, but kept moving and screaming. The ones who didn’t, faded away in the distance, or died. “Live fast, die young”- an ethos that consumed minds and bodies. We wrote history on young flesh, the burning pyres of civilizations waste, illuminating the summer night. We burned bright that year.

[jasongthompson365]

Just published by Red Fez.

[jasongthompson365]

I wanted to live with you forever, but something changed amidst my constant changes. Now, as I stare at the cigar smoke, illuminated by the television in the dark, I can taste my aloneness with every heavy exhalation.