But if you had listened to the other guys that Spring, you would have assumed the opposite. To them, I was a born hobo-drifter. They said things like, "Lou, you are a born hobo-drifter. Keep up the good work!" And it's true, I did look the part. On the oft chance I saw my reflection in some nearby muck, I would have certainly agreed: I was the driftiest damn hobo anyone had laid eyes on.
Sure there were hungrier people, there were crazier people, both of which were important and appealing parts of the hobo-drifting lifestyle. But I had something people identified with, even after I scared them off with whatever blunt instrument I was clutching at the time. With a beard that natty, with pants that soily, it was no wonder I had their respect.
As I mentioned I never did see myself as a hobo-drifter, at least when I was a young man. I'm not sure what my plans for the future were exactly, but I'm near certain they didn't include being a nest unto myself and owning nothing but a few tattered jackets and various forms of chlamydia. But like a fresh raccoon carcass, plans have a way of vanishing without you realizing it. Mainly due to other hobo-drifters.
I had my chances growing up. I made a small fortune in my teens stealing radios and selling the parts to early incarnations of NASA on the black market. For a time I rented an apartment in West Hollywood above a lawnmower repair shop. I guess you could say I tasted the good life for a little while.
As I grew older, things started to look sour. I had a few lovers, and a few pets, neither of which tended to hang around very long. I remember taking that pretty personally at the time, until I realized animals needed to be fed if you expected their affections. I was never too good at reading people.
Then came an economic collapse. At least that's what I was told when I was asked to leave immediately from a string of job interviews. I survived mostly by the skin of my teeth during that time, which I was fortunate to have a decent amount of compared to other hobo-drifters who gummed pretty much everything they got their hands on.
After a few years of getting by impersonating various forms of law enforcement at the mall food court, I decided it was time to move on, maybe head back home, find the wife and kids I was pretty sure were were somewhere waiting for me. And can you believe I was that close to abandoning the whole lifestyle and turning my life around when the guys and their lady-friends went ahead and nominated me for Mayor of The Bridge. Left me no choice but to start with the 'once-a-hobo-drifter, always-a-hobo-drifter' rhetoric instead.
That's where we live, The Bridge. It is and isn't a misnomer. Firstly, there is no one bridge, but the rule goes that only when the people assemble is under a bridge can we consider ourselves a proper collective. But then there's never just one Bridge, is there?
Not that I could try to clarify this paradox publicly, although I would have loved to. When I found out I was nominated, I didn't bother asking who my constituents were. Since there were no committees or regulations or records of gerrymandering or any of that, it was difficult to say for certain which bridge's underbelly I was running for mayor under. Or was it within? Either way, there always seemed to be some confusion about which bridge anyone was talking about, to a point where 'the bridge' just came to mean 'some bridge' then eventually 'anyone on, near, or under something that makes a physical connection between two things over something difficult along the stretch of highway between East Carondelet and the fenced off school-bus parking lot by Pier 2.' That meant four city bridges, six consisted of four bridges, three shanty bridges, and about twenty dried sand-bars. And that was just the beginning of the list of confusing things about running for Mayor of The Bridge. I decided right then and there that no matter which bridge I happened to be under or on or near, I would speak for all bridges.
Of course I had to consider that some bridges had Mayors already. I made a number of enemies pretty quickly with my "one bridge for all, all bridges for all" talk. I didn't let that stop me. The threats came in, the shadows lurking near my box became more muscular and defined, but I had my protection. A democracy cannot thrive unless everyone has their fair share of protection. I had my discarded hose, they had their well-trained posse. It'd be a tight race.
***
I announced my candidacy for the mayoral election with what the local pundits considered a "risky" move. To begin, I moved my office out of my circle of trust, a hallowed section of cracked cement known for its high concentration of ancient occult mana, sectioned off by an immutable ring of ossified cat turds. But that wasn't even the risky part. I needed risky. Like, really risky, the kind of risky that made headlines. I had to think outside the bridge, which is what I did. I moved headquarters out from under the bridge so I could greet people as they came down the slope towards the main squatting area. I could tell they were put off by being greeted as they entered a place that warranted no greeting, by a man few had ever seen before. People tend to respond to change with suspicion, and in this case alternating vulgarity and spitting.
When I came back later that afternoon and found the turds near the edge of the river, some floating, I suppressed certain impulses and instead found myself setting the other turds afloat, joining them with their brothers. It caused a sensation when it was reported by the only witness, Pedantic Phil, local reporter and cardboard-shanty interior decorator.
The thing was, I had to make myself visible. I couldn't rely on showcasing my platform in bridge's shadowy underbelly. I had to do it in the open, under the street lights.
My platform really wasn't very stable, although the history books may say otherwise. I laid it across two cinderblocks and invited people to sit down and chat with me about their problems, about what could be done to the bridge to make it more habitable. Those who had heard of the impending election asked loaded questions about my history. Who my parents were, what kind of drifting did they do. They didn't like outsiders, they said, making fists and grinding them out on my new platform. I couldn't afford a new one, so I decided to make use of the new blood stains. I made up a new slogan, like 'Blood-Drifter, Blood-Brother - Vote Lou for Mayor', with a picture of me and my plywood platform board. That just caused my opponents to threaten a blood test to verify the origins of the red smear, to which I had no response.
I was making little head-way, and I needed to focus on my message. People didn't care who I was, how deep my hobo-drifting roots ran, so long as I catered to their egos.
I changed the main thrust of my campaign away from getting more people to live under the bridge, and even keeping the current habitants. My new message amounted to, "the people who we don't like don't get to stay.' This was a very popular stance, especially since I was holding out about who I didn't like and who I did. The more people who agreed with me, the more everyone got on their best behavior.
The campaign was going well. I had Snowflake and her gang of misfit runaway children on security detail, Gas-Grill Steve doing polls, Handicapable Rob on herion. Once they saw how much I relied on their help, everyone, especially Steve, started demanding immediate compensation at extortionist rates, even though I promised them each positions in my state-department after the election. They had me by the coin purse. The tabloids apparently considered it to an old 'boxspring switch-a-roo,' referring to a legend known in certain circles about a hobo who, awoke from a twenty-four year nap, put wheels on his box-spring and went on to win eight consecutive box-car derbies in the lower Kentucky circuit. I suppose I was the box spring, and my staffers were the hobo. It was an inspirational tale, as well as a cautionary one.
With the kind of pressure, I was going to need some executive level help.
