Me vs. "the Homeless," Pt. 9

Homeless sparring continues. I went out around 11 tonight, and encountered a crazy, drunken, lovelorn dood almost immediately. He was pretty well-spoken, and made frequent gestures to his cell phone, which led me to doubt whether he was actually destitute or not. Either way, he wouldn't shut up during my songs. Evidently his girlfriend had just dumped him (this guy had to be at least in his 40s), and he was coping with his grief by calling her voicemail and leaving her messages that basically consisted of me singing whatever song I was in the middle of, accompanied by his pointedly angry background vocals. I'm not sure if she got the messages, or if she even existed. But if she did, she's got the very first bootlegged live Rob Morrison performance in history.

This dood also served as my spokesman. In addition to applauding overzealously after each song, he petitioned passersby for money for me, going so far as to say, "God bless you," to those who donated.

It's not that I don't appreciate that. But as with the drunken gross woman from my last post, the presence of a dubious person so near to me tends to freak people out. I make less money. And I definitely don't appreciate that.

I was surprised he knew so many of the songs I played. After a while, I thought I'd shake him off by playing an original, instrumental piece. About thirty seconds in, he was quick to enlighten all of us that he was "sick of it." This catchphrase was repeated incessantly until my masochistic side yielded and I gave myself a break by playing some Neil Young.

This dood informed me that I'm lucky to be young; he got dumped because his girlfriend thinks he's getting too old. I think he might be overlooking the fact that he hangs out in subway stations suspiciously late. And doesn't wash his hands. And doesn't donate to kind buskers who inexplicably tolerate his antics in consideration of karma and in hopes that he'll prove he's not completely bankrupt and toss in a quarter. That didn't happen.

I'll close this post with the first interaction we had tonight:

Dood: (pointing to my harmonica yolk) That's a cool device.
Me: Yeah...thanks.
Dood: (reading my sign)...Rob...Morrison. Is that a real name?
Me: It's as--
Dood: Pssh, it's gotta --
Me: What?
Dood: .....
Me: Yeah, it's --
Dood: Rob. Morrison.
Me:....It's as real as they get.
Dood: Sounds like it. Not many people have real names.
Me: Hmmm. Well, not even Bob Dylan's name was real.
Dood: Yeah, but he was a jew.

Great.