Interview with the Hobo

It was Tuesday, 5:00 PM. I just got off of work moving big cardboard boxes full of office furniture in the LDS Church Office Building. If I may make an aside- the building looks like a gigantic penis,the main section of the building and the globes on either side representing their obvious body parts. I've always liked to think that the design of the building was the result of one architect's gigantic, absolutely amazing prank on the Mormon church, but I've never known for certain. Either way, it gives me joy to know that I work in the giant penis building, but I digress-

I walked out into Temple Square, arms bruised and scratched, knees aching, but filled with that incredible feeling you get after working eight straight hours lifting and pushing and maneuvering big heavy things: knowing that you are finished and have absolutely nothing to do for the rest of the day. I was feeling pretty damn good. I walked up South Temple onto Main Street and sat down at the Trax station (Trax being SLC's light rail system) and waited for the train.

A guy in a green jacket with a bunch of plastic bags crossed the street and sat down next to me on the bench. He was sort of doubled over, moving slowly, his white cross trainers scuffed and torn and worn down. I didn't mind. I think I attract homeless people.The same thing happens with little kids and animals- they are inexplicably drawn towards me. I'd forgotten how much fun homeless guys are to talk to, though, and was pretty tired, so I didn't pay him any heed at first. After a while he glanced over at me, looked down at my shirt, and opened up the conversation:

"Ohio State University, eh?"
I was wearing an Idaho State University t-shirt. He was reading at an angle, though, so he probably didn't see all of it.
"Idaho State University, actually."
"Aaaah, what are they up there, the Bengaaals?"
I was very impressed with his knowledge of the team mascot of a pretty unremarkable Idaho school.
"Yup, the ISU Bengals. This is the second time someone has asked me about the shirt, actually, but they didn't get the mascot right."

A little more time passed, we both sat in silence. I leaned back in the bench, holding my gloves, occasionally peering down the track to see if the train was coming. He spoke again:

"You ever watch the Today Show?"
"Uh, yeah, sometimes."
I don't watch the show at all.
"I was watchin that on them HDs over there. Duh hur."
He had a funny way of laughing to himself after every other phrase or so. He was very pleased with pretty much anything he said. With absolutely nothing to say, I responded with a simple, "Ah, nice," and left it at that. He soon dived into another completely random topic of one-sided conversation:

"A buck 25!!" (referring to his red Gatorade), "Got it over at them Rite Aid.... Rite Aid, duh hur."
"Yeah, I could definitely use some of that right about now." We were sitting in the sun, it was in the mid 90's."
"Yup, made a dollah today! You got a dollah?"
Homeless people use money to buy booze and drugs. I had many dollars, but not for him;
"Nope, sorry."
The Gatorade was turning his mouth into a vibrant shade of red. He smiled at me with his one tooth, his gums and lips slathered in crimson liquid.

"Yup, made a dollah, duh hur. Hey man, you wanna see my wallet? I got a really nice wallet man, all shiny leather, check it out."
For a little while I believed him. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. This wallet was actually a huge wad of 3 by 5 pieces of paper. He flicked through the pages with his thumb to show me his incredible wealth. It could have been a joke --a really bad, out of place joke-- but his characteristic laugh was absent as he showed me his wallet. He seemed completely serious, as if this really was where he kept his money. I glanced in between the slips of paper as he thumbed through them half expecting to see dollars tucked away somehwere, but they were nowhere to be seen.

"Hey man, you want a dollah? Here you go man."
He took a slip of paper and handed it to me.
"Uh, sure... Thank you."
I took it and looked at it. It came from some sort of phone book, with a bunch of numbers for different departments at the University of Utah's hospital. I folded it up and stuffed it in my pocket. He went mumbling on about something; I think in a few places I heard things about Interpol and gunships. I made a mental note to speak more clearly around others. He went on yet another tangent;

"Hey man, I worked at the U for six years, doin janitorial work, got my education up there."
I highly doubted that, but listened on anyway.
"Yup, got two years of college under my belt man, got grant money from California to go to school, duh hur."
I find it interesting that anyone in California would pay for a Utah education, but I listened on,
"Yeah man, I'm fuckin continuin my education, check this shit out man,"
He handed me one of his many plastic bags and held it open. I peered inside- it was full of blank printer paper. This guy has some sort of strange fixation on paper I guess. I admired the vast collection of academia he had in the bag, and handed it back. Before the train arrived he imparted one more piece of wisdom to me;

"I got some real good bread in here man, this is the good shit."
He reached into a different bag and held up something wrapped in black plastic.
"You get some good fuckin bread at funerals, man, that's the one good thing about them."
I decided to get on a different car than him.