The Ballad of Harry Squatter
I had only been dating the Viking for a few months when I had my first encounter with Hobo Harry and here, six glorious years later, he's still in my life. Still a hobo, still horrifying.
It was a sunny morning in May, and the Viking and I were going to breakfast. The Viking lives so far out in the boonies that you need a banjo and Indiana Jones to find his house. His neighbors are few and far between and his property is quite wooded. So it came as a complete surprise when a heavily bearded man in cammo came running down the hill on his property, towards us. He looked like a tiny sasquatch standing there. Dirty...menacing.
My elbow quickly found the door lock and pressed it down. Upon seeing us, he produced what looked like a thumb form his mud caked, cammo jacket. I about leapt out of my skin when the Viking stopped the truck and the Sasquatch hopped in the back, but I knew from the beginning my Viking had a big heart to go with his big frame.
Then, without a word the Sasquatch hopped out of the back of the truck at the first stop sign we came to and that was that. Neither the Viking nor I made any mention of it.
A few months later we were driving to his house and I could see a broken down Mustang on the side of the road. It was a newer red Mustang, with a propped up hood and steam bellowing out from the engine compartment. I could see that the driver was under the hood, but his face was obscured by steam. As we approached he stepped towards us and I could see that the driver was non other then Jesus. A halo glowed a bright yellow around his head and giant wings protruded from his shoulders. He had a large beard and I could tell he had bright blue eyes even as far away as we were.
However, as we drew closer, my awe turned to disbelief as I realized that was not a cammo clad Jesus working on his hot rod, but the sasquatch. His halo transformed into a dirty yellow beanie with flies buzzing about it, and his beard seemed especially long and dirty. His mustache curled over his lips so when he spoke in his high pitched nasally whine, I literally could not see his lips move. My elbow quickly found the door lock and pressed it down.
As it turned out, sasquatch Jesus needed a ride to the store a mile or so down the road. Once again he hopped in the back and once again hopped out at the stop sign by the store.
'OK. I gotta’ know...who the Heff is that guy?" I asked after a long and awkward silence.
"He used to be my buddy way back in school. He's changed a lot." And that was that.
After asking the Viking a few questions here and there, I was able to piece together the sasquatch's story. Of course being the bleeding heart I am with a natural flare for the dramatic, the story I was able to manufacture from the tiny pieces of information the Viking would give me was horribly tragic.
Queue the violins and gimme’ some accordion, hold the cowbell.
So I found that Harry was his name and he suffered from the worst case of ADD known to the human race. His father was strict, his mother was neglectful and after being bounced around between his divorced parents for most of his childhood, he developed a few psychological disorders that are hard to pronounce. Unable to find employment that will let him work at one task for 45 seconds at a time, he now earns his living by doing odd jobs, sells pot, and picking mushrooms. None of these jobs require that he bathe regularly or groom. I felt bad for him. I imagined he went days without eating, and spent a lot of time cold and hungry. I promised myself when I saw him again, I would invite him to the Vikings for dinner.
Well...I did run into him again and I did invite him over for dinner and have been trying to un-invite him ever since. Harry isn’t evil, but he is the kind of person who can and will make every wrong choice possible. I once asked him, “Harry, if you only had five dollars on you and needed dog food how would you spend it.”
A question so easy a tomato could answer it. I practically gave him the answer.
“I’d buy a lottery ticket and prolly win five bucks, cuz then I’d have six. I have really good luck with those.”
Sigh….
At first, his visits were far and few between. This is mainly because at the time, the Viking had a roommate that hated Harry with a burning passion. Apparently he and Harry had once lived together and Harry's girlfriend at the time had robbed the roommate blind. So I figured the malice and tension was appropriate considering.
Then, a year later I moved in and the roommate moved out. What I didn't realize at the time, was that by my moving in and the roommate moving out, was that the gate keeper was leaving. As long as his roommate was there, visits form Harry would be limited, but with the gate keeper now gone, Harry was free to make a nuisance of himself.
It took a few months for Harry to realize the roommate was gone, so his visits were blissfully short, but he soon found out and his visits became daily. He would show up at the most inopportune times.
When we're getting our groove on.
While we're getting our clothes on.
While we're getting our clothes off.
While we're in the shower.
While we're in the middle of a good movie.
In the middle of a bad movie >.>.
Whenever he felt like popping in, without warning. He was less predictable than an earthquake.
Now, I was raised in a family of foodies. My grandmother can't go 20 minutes without trying to cram food in your face, even if your insist you're simply not hungry. In my family, if you were at our home when food was being prepared, being though about being prepared, or being served, you had to eat or be shunned. That was the law and anyone in our life knew this. If you were within block of our house around dinner time and did not stop, you had better not let my grandma stop by lest you face her wrath. This was a very serious rule. In fact, my grandmother hated the Viking when we first got together because he did not come in for a spaghetti dinner when he had dropped me off. I tried to warn him. I pleaded and begged, but the Viking is stubborn and he met his match in my grandmother.
Anyway, some of this food cult has rubbed off onto me. I do feel offended when I am cooking and someone pops by and does not eat. I am also offended when they do not finish their food and or sing my praises afterwards. I am insecure about a lot of things and I need constant reassurance that my cooking can somewhat compare to my grandmothers. (not even close)
It did not take long for Harry to catch on to my weakness. Soon he began showing up around dinner time on a constant basis. Some days I would make dinner much earlier or much later to throw him off. Still, he would wait until food happened, or I'd relent and send him away with leftovers. This went on for two years.
Me: dramatic sigh..."Why can't he go somewhere else for a change?"
Viking: "You fed the puppy."
Me: "What do I do?"
Viking: "I'm gonna’ go out on a limb here and suggest that...I don't know...maybe..stop feeding him?"
Me: "You're a genius!" (he is)
Now when I tell you that Harry has the worst case of ADD ever, I want you to understand exactly what I mean. Harry has more energy than a hamster on meth. I am certain that if we put Harry on a giant hamster wheel he could generate enough electricity to power all of downtown Vegas. However, because he is bored easily, he'd only be on the hamster wheel for 30 seconds tops. His energy seems relentless. He is able to leap small trailers in a single bound. He is faster than a speeding lawnmower, and though he can't fly...he is always very high. Unfortunately, he can not move faster than the speed of smell. Harry is a stinky hyper, talkative, mass of mud and beard and dog hair. I often wonder how fast he'd move if he wasn't always high. Would we even be able to see him at all or would he simply burst into flames from the friction.
So I found him one day, in my kitchen at dinner time, stinking up the house, talking loud about some deal that went bad, or some hobo fight he got into over a mushroom. His voice grated on my ears, his constant movement irritated me, his smell was extra potent as he had been living in his car with three dogs.
I burned dinner.
I burned dinner so bad, the pork chops were so black and so hard they were like jerky, charcoal and could be used for writing utensils or weapons.
The mashed potatoes were lumpy.
The salad was wilted.
I burned the rolls.
I served Him up a heaping plate of charcoal, weeds and mutant potatoes and to my horror...he replied. 'Oh thanks Oz, I ate already."
That’s when I snapped for the first time. I say first time because...there have been many times since.
To be continued.....
