Oliver Benjamin
Promenade, its warm rays helping to polarize the random,
disoriented bunch.
Meanwhile, their fugitive former landlord was breakfasting with his
homeless parking deputies—the other army of outsiders. They were
squatting in a condemned old mansion off Hollywood Boulevard,
gorging themselves on quiche, rotisserie chicken and salad niçoise.
“You eat like this all the time?” Partment said to his new hosts.
“These swanky restaurants throw away tons of food,” one said,
“We just walk around every night after they close and scoop it out of
the dumpsters.”
“But you gotta separate it carefully,” said another one, “Nobody
likes chocolate mousse on their teriyaki pizza.”
“Ick,” said someone else, shaking his head.
“So you guys have it pretty good,” Partment said, “I didn’t
realize.”
“Well, we’ve taken what you’ve paid us and set up a collective. We
put the money in a high-yield money market account. With that we
buy booze and pay off the building inspector. Soon we’re going to get
a big-screen television and maybe some cheap hookers.”
“What?” shrieked Partment. “You’re not supposed to do all that!
You’re supposed to be crusty, determined rebels! You’re enemies of
the system! You’re supposed to hate this shit!” Someone offered him
a bowl of seedless grapes. He pushed it away. “What happened to you
guys? I thought you likedliving like nomads. Like hunter-gatherers!”
The sun was coming up and rays of dusty light poured through
the window onto the old exposed floorboards. A fragrant woodsy
aroma seemed to mingle with the smells of the rich food. “I like it
here,” one of them said, “It’s nice. Could use a sweeping, though.”
“No!” Partment screamed. “It’s not nice. It’s the opposite of nice.
It’s the work of the devil. We weren’t designed for this. Human
beings are supposed to live in nature. Not in cities. Not in mansions!
Not even shitty ones! Humility, goddamn it! Humility over all!”
“I don’t understand,” one of the no-longer-very-homeless
deputies said. “If you’re against modern living, why did you run a
halfway house in a big city?”
Partment bunched up his fists and drove them into his eye
sockets. When he took them out he could no longer see clearly and
little dancing stars pirouetted across his field of vision. He groaned,
“Most halfway houses help people return to civilization. Mine was
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