A Letter to the Hobo Living Under My Bed
Posted 12/02/2010 by Amy Kristen in Labels: amy kristen, fiction, hobos, humor, letters, literature
Dear Hobo/Homeless Man/Bum/Tramp/Vagrant/Whatever you preferred to be called (I don’t want to offend you, really),
I feel like we haven’t been communicating effectively, so I’m writing this letter out of the hope that we can work out our differences. Every time I’ve tried to tell you how I feel, you’ve merely grunted or bared your teeth at me. Mostly, you’ve chosen to ignore me. I’m not sure if maybe there’s a language barrier problem (It’s hard to tell what ethnicity you are, to be honest, because your skin is covered in a thick layer of dirt and excrement… the bathroom is just through that door, you know), but for whatever reason you keep giving me the stink eye instead of listening to me.
I know we haven’t gotten off to a great start. It was really hard for me, at first, when I woke up in the middle of the night to you clawing at my window and ratting my doorknob. I live in a studio apartment on the first floor in the middle of a fifthly, overpopulated city, so I’m used to normal distractions such as gunshots, thumping bass lines, and wailing cats, but I’d never been awaken by an intruder before. I was frightened, and groggy, and I couldn’t hear very well because of my earplugs (necessary to drown out the sex noises of my next-door neighbors). I also really couldn’t see, because, you know, it was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t find my glasses. Without my glasses, I am almost legally blind. So, you see, it really wasn’t my fault that when you shattered the glass of my window and climbed inside my first reaction was to scream and start flailing around at you with the handle of my Swiffer Sweeper. I didn’t mean to hit you in the head and knock you out. Again, I was disoriented and scared and it was the first time someone had tried to break in. I hope you'll forgive me.
I probably should have called the police right away, but I really wasn’t sure if you were dead or not. Plus I had taken a rather large sleeping pill that evening and wasn’t thinking clearly. I may or may not have had a couple glasses of wine on top of that, as well. Yes, the warning labels say to avoid mixing the pills with alcohol, but I’m single. Lonely. Nights are hard. It’s a cold, cruel world: a fact I’m sure you know all too well.
When you suddenly started crawling towards my bed, I got even more frightened and picked up the nearby can of Febreze to try to divert you away from it. I guess I thought it was a can of bug spray, which would have made your eyes sting like a poor-man’s mace, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t since my apartment smelled a lot like Spicy Autumn Harvest when I woke up. I guess my plan sort of worked, since you decided to go underneath my bed instead of on top of it. That was okay with me. My bed’s just a twin, so we both wouldn’t have fit in it. Plus I flail around a lot when I sleep. After that, I couldn’t bring myself to kick you out of my apartment. It was a cold night, and, like I said, I was lonely. It was nice to have a bunk-bed mate of sorts. Also, you’d stopped breathing again, and I still wasn’t in the right state to try to dispose of a dead body.
When I heard you mumbling to yourself in the morning, I figured you’d come to your senses and would finally leave. After all, the window was still wide open. But no. You stayed. You were still under the bed when I came home from work, and you’ve stayed there for the past two weeks.
Yes, I’ve enjoyed having you as a house guest, but I think it’s finally time that you moved on. There’s a Carl’s Jr. down the street that seems to be a popular hangout place for many people who share your lifestyle. Perhaps you could join them? If you’d be willing to split the rent with me, we can talk about our options, but I think it’s pretty clear you don’t have any money besides what you keep stealing from me.
I need my space. I think I’ve realized through all this that I actually prefer to be alone. Also, you’re making my place reek. Really, the bathroom is not off-limits. Febreze can only do so much.
Anyway, I’m going to leave this letter here on the floor next to this plate of toast (okay, yes, it’s moldy, but you’re not picky, right?) in the hopes that it will lure you out from under my bed. Please try to consider my point of view. It would mean a lot to me.
Also, even if you decide to stay, I would like my stuffed monkey back. It was given to me by my now-deceased grandmother, and it tortures me to listen to you masturbate with it.
Yours truly,
Amy Kristen
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