#36a: “Where are you from?" "Wherever I am.” Part 1.
A weekend "Street Cred" story for a change, in which two road warriors appear magically in town.
This is more of short story than an essay. And longer than usual so I’ve split it in two parts. Welcome to the world of “Starflower” and “Richie.”
Note: there’s a short essay below the footnotes about the words used to describe people on the road.
The conventional wisdom is that our town attracts people on the road because it’s the most liberal town in the most liberal county in the most liberal state in this increasingly less-welcoming-to-outsiders country.
But in my unconventional wandering around, I’ve met very few people who are just passing through. There’s the legendary “Backpack Jack” who appears every month or two literally wearing the weight of himself on his shoulders. He’s no taller than me and of indeterminate age. Jack’s pretty protective of his backpack, but once he let me put it on and try to stand up. My legs gave out almost immediately.
Then there was Sebastian and his partner from down South who decided they’d had enough of Vermont after they woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of a raccoon (or, even worse, maybe a skunk) on top of their tent.
However, last summer I developed a far more serious, long-term (±48 hours) relationship with Starflower and Richie,1 who appeared one day like “gypsies” [see sidebar below] on the walking bridge near the Co-op. He was wearing a Celtics jersey and a backwards baseball cap. She wore a black t-shirt and Capri pants. They both looked solid and tanned in a way you get after being on the road for a while. An alpha male and alpha female squaring off, ready to take on the world and each other.
During the time I knew them, their monologues wove and interwove—a tapestry of personal histories, chosen lifestyle, and a vigilante mission to “deal with” anyone who sold dope (opioids) or engaged in domestic abuse. In fact, Starflower claimed to have Narcan’d three people overdosing since they’d arrived a few days before.
Our conversation started innocently enough but didn’t stay that way long.
Me: “So where did you come from?”
She: “Wherever I am.”
Starflower proceeded to explain their basic on-the-road rules: Keep your possessions to a minimum; work only odd jobs; and live on a diet of a little food, regular infusions of alcohol, and the occasional sniff of cocaine.
During our first meeting, as she and I exchanged pleasantries, Richie stood off to the side shaking off what Starflower explained was a reaction to some fentanyl that was supposed to be coke that he’d been given by Jimmy the street dealer.
Even I know that no matter what you ask Jimmy for you he gives you heroin (usually fentanyl these days) because his marketing strategy is to give out as many “samples” as possible to increase his customer base.
But, pretty soon, Richie came over to regale me with his own mind-bending narrative.
Me: “Hey buddy.”
He: “I thought the smoke bothered you,” suggesting that it was the smoke and not whatever Jimmy had given him that was making him a little standoffish.
Me: “Guess you met Jimmy. Everyone knows he’s a dealer. Even the cops. You gotta figure he’s flipping on people further up the food chain. Right?”
He: [laughs] “Yeah, I hear you.”
Me: “You guys just passing through? Where you going?”
He: “Going?” Richie asked like it was a word that didn’t translate in their language.
She: “Anywhere. You could help us out.”
Me: “I bet I could!”
She: “I hate it here….Richie we really need money to get to the f-ing campground so we can relax. Our wallets got stolen.” She said to me by way of explanation. I didn’t need the explanation. There’s a brisk trade in wallets, IDs, cell phones, propane tanks, and just about anything good for cash on the street.
Me: “Well, you can at least get some food with these. Sorry, I’ve already given away all my cash today.” I handed them each a Co-op gift card.
She: “What’s your angle, anyway?” It wasn’t the last time she’d suggest I had powers that were miraculous, suspicious, or both.
Me: “I’m just curious where people come from. You been on the road for a long time?”
He: “23 years.”
She: “I’m never doing 9-5 again.”
Me: “So where were you born?”
She: “Everywhere.”
Me: “How long you been here?”
She: “Few days. Came from Florida.”
Me: “And where are you from?” I asked Richie.
He: “Boston.”
Me: “Guess I didn’t need to ask…” I said, pointing at the Celtics shirt.
He: “Yeah Dawchester, Maaatapaaan, Peebawdy.” He said a few other words in perfect Boston-ese to prove his point. “I know every stop on the T. Been to Yawwwkey Stadium lots growing up. She’s not from Boston.”
She: “I told you I’m from the earth…Flower Child. Flower Power. Star Flower”
They had begun talking in a strange syncopation, their words rolling over instead of interrupting each other’s.
He: “I was at Yawwwkey for George Brett’s last home run.2 Way back. Before Sweet Caroline.3 Sox against Royals.”
She: “In 1988. I went to a Michael Jackson concert.”
Me: “’88? How old are you now?”
She: “43.”
He: “I was born 2/18/83,” Richie said somewhat belligerently as if daring someone to dispute the claim.
Me: [To her] “You saw Michael Jackson? When you were like seven? Where’d you see him?”
She: “All over.”4
He: “Sox got smoked, but everyone stood up and gave George Brett a standing O. Last game of one of the greatest hitters of all time. I was little. Didn’t get the significance of the game. My dad told me to stand up and clap. One of the only good memories I have of being with that scumbag.”
“Jim Rice did a stint as a batting coach at my high school, you know…”
I didn’t know and could tell his baseball career was about to take off, so I took advantage of the pause to say, “Well, good luck you guys. Be around for a while?”
She: “I hate this town. We gotta get back to Florida.”
Me: “Why Florida?”
She: “We have jobs there.”
Me: “You said you quit 9-5. But when you’re back in Florida you got jobs?
Both: “Oh absolutely.”
She: “Yeah. I quit 9-5. It could be 10-8 for all I care.
He: “I do Marina work.”
She: “He’s got a Bachelors and Associates.
Me: “You go to college too?
She: “Went to half a college and dropped out because I was getting straight A';s and doing nothing.
He: “I made a lot of mistakes in my life, man but you know what? I trying to change. I’m a street vigilante. I support women and shoot your local heroin dealer. I’m sorry, it is what it is. Co-op response times suck.”
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1 I can’t actually remember if her name was Starflower, Sunflower, Starpower or some other marriage of heaven and earth. But, whatever it was she insisted it was her real name and always had been.
2 Well, it was his last against the Red Sox, his 313TH. His last was against the Angels 3 weeks later.
3 He’s right here: According to radio station WROR: Sweet Caroline was first played at Fenway Park in 1997 after a Red Sox employee in charge of music at the park played the song as a tribute to a friend who had given birth to a baby named Caroline. The song caught on and has played before the bottom of the eighth since.
4 Michael Jackson was on his “Bad” tour in ’87 and ’88. He didn’t play Boston but he played all over the world including Rome, Vienna, Paris and dozens of other places where Starflower could have been at any one time.
Hobos, Vagrants, Homeless, Roma (Gypsies), Vagabonds, Travelers. Tramps
A week or so ago I was at a panel discussion about homelessness in our town. At one point, a woman used the word “vagrant” and immediately corrected herself as a little murmur started from the people at the event.
Living in that liberal town in that liberal county in that liberal state, we often refer to someone as unsheltered instead of homeless; on-the-road (in a Kerouac kind of way) instead of transient (or a vagrant) and, since the word gypsy is considered insulting, we try to remember to use the term “Roma”.
I don’t see this so much as political correctness as respect for anyone who identifies differently from “old white guys” whether in terms of gender, nationality, or, in this case, culture.
Regardless, most of us do have knee-jerk reactions to these words. To me, “hobo” is somewhat romantic. I picture someone during the Great Depression with a small sack on their back willing to do odd jobs before moving on to the next town. Whereas the words “vagrant” or “vagabond” suggest someone who’s up to no good and you hope leaves soon. A “bum” is said to be someone who lives in town and doesn’t work. I’d never use that term. Because by that definition, Melvin was a “bum” before he traveled back south. Melvin wasn’t a “bum.” He had a full-time job being Melvin and everyone loved him for it.
I prefer the word “traveler.” It’s accurate, gender/nationality/culture neutral and still has a bit of mystique.