Ballistic Roommate

Good Morning Heartache Here We Go Again


Denver
Oct. 7

As soon as Sally and I climbed into bed, her lesbian
roommate from Louisiana went ballistic. Apparently, she and Sally
had this thing going on. Hearing so much profanity coming from such
an angry southern girl was sobering enough to get me out of the
bedroom, but it didn't get me out of the apartment. I could barely
stand up, and I had no place to go, but that wasn't good enough for
the lesbian spitfire; she wanted me out of the apartment. In
decibels that matched hers, I told her I would sleep on the couch,
but I was not going to freeze my ass on the streets. It was a
standoff; eventually she went into Sally's bedroom and shut the
door. From the comfort of lying next to a warm body, to the reality
of sleeping alone on a cold couch, my `good fortune' had turned into
a horrendous nightmare. Stiff, shivering, and cotton mouthed, early
the next morning I walked out of the apartment into the grit-laden
streets of Denver. Bad as it was, on the street, at least I didn't
have to worry about being back stabbed by an insanely jealous lesbian.

As soon as it was dark, I went back to St. Andrews. There, I
met some cats who were planning to hop a train. I knew it was
illegal to hitchhike in Denver, but, until talking with these cats,
I didn't know just how much of a kick the local Gestapo got from
enforcing this law. Hopping a train sounded like a good idea. There
were, however, some considerations to ponder before jumping on a
train. For instance, I was told never close the door of the car you
are riding in unless you are absolutely sure it is not refrigerated,
and don't let one of the yardmen close the door either. A lot of
unsuspecting riders have frozen to death that way. Never get into a
car close to the engine; when the train passes through a long tunnel
smoke from the engine envelops and suffocates unsuspecting
hitchhikers. And lastly, be careful not to be seen hanging around
the train yard. After finding the right train, get out of the area
until just before the train leaves. The yardmen are usually okay
with hitchhikers, but the railroad hires "special agents" to check
for freeloaders, and those guys get nasty.

I went to sleep that night (on the floor with nineteen other dudes)
thinking about catching a train out of Denver. Waking up to the
smell of bodies in need of a bath, I lost my appetite. I went
outside for some fresh air only to find more snow on the ground and
the temperature hovering at 29 degrees. After talking with some more
dudes, I postponed my departure because I became convinced
hitchhiking was not a good idea; you could sit in jail for days. It
was a good thing I put off leaving, too. Five new inches of snow had
fallen by the end of the day. St. Andrews, as bad as it was, was a
welcome alternative to the street. I promised myself that this would
be my last night with the brotherhood, though. I've hit rock bottom.