They call him yellow jacket. He’s always buzzing around the same corner begging for goodies. His says his name is Henry but he really doesn’t remember. He’s been out on the streets since we went to the moon. You can smell the broken dreams and stale memories on him when you pass by. His matted hair and holey shoes tell of the many roads he has taken, the many miles he has traveled always arriving right back at the same place. Lonely, cold, and hungry.
Henry was always the black sheep of the family, but then again the whole flock was a bit off. He was unconventional in his speaking and thinking, a real circle in a world full of squares. On his first day of kindergarten the teacher sent him home because she found a Heineken and a bottle of Vicodin in his backpack. When he got home his Mother cracked open the bottle and shared it with him. The floodgate had opened.
Henry became a professional vagrant after that. He left at age five and never looked back. He took his school uniform and all the change he had collected from previous birthdays, tooth fairies and holidays. He had intended on going back to school, but instead decided to donate it to the local thrift store; he had a slight streak of generosity in him from time to time. Henry hit the road and many adventures and absurdities followed. Jack, Jim, and Jose became his three best friends and his family never came looking for him again.
Henry sits on the same corner by the same garbage can at the same time every day of the year. He has complete freedom, no responsibility, lives in a dream world completely void of reality and meaning and has an amazing social life. He speaks to hundreds of people a day, granted half may not even acknowledge that he exists. He has dedicated his life to being dirty and drunk and if you ask Henry if he is happy, he ‘ll reply,”Yes” and the funny thing is I believe him.