Rough Living: Tips and Tales of a Vagabond

The Start of the Tales

One aspect of this site is to share my work as a writer through the years. For example, I’m sharing the audiobook version of Notes from Nowhere (2020) in weekly installments (episode 1 here) for paid subscribers. I’m also sharing some new and experimental (and quite explicit and graphic) fiction with paid subscribers on another day - Here’s the first part of The Ghosts of Intimacy.

Today, I continue with a series of posts are from the first book I wrote, Rough Living: Tips and Tales of a Vagabond (2003 & 2012 revised) Here is a link to Part 1 of this series - the Introduction. In a sense, the success of this book set me on the path I’m on, or the failure of this book - depending on how you look at it.

In the paid subscriber section - I offer expanded content- as well as links to where you can get the full PDF versions of the book for free. I’ll offer commentary on the parts of the text we cover. In addition, paid subscribers have already gotten valuable updates on new ways to do things more than two decades after first publication because keep in mind, I wrote this in 2002 so much of it has been absorbed by the world and some of it simply doesn’t work any longer. The world has changed dramatically since that time. We may not see it clearly, like a person who looks in the mirror every day and doesn’t see themselves aging - but the change is profound. This is one more reason to become a paid subscriber - you will get the value of modern perspectives and tools. Your subscription will pay for itself.

This week in the paid section - some never before shared commentary on the tales shared in the free section - and - how I turned $500 to $15,000 in a couple of months - and how you can potentially do the same. If you aren’t a paid subscriber - upgrade today. It’s worth it.

Don’t worry though, free subscribers will always get pieces of the original 2003 text itself, delivered weekly. Share it with a friend. Allons-y!

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No Baba, No Bobo 

My mom was working as a waitress and my dad was painting houses, playing music. I was almost two and my brother was about seven. One evening Dad was watching us because Mom was working and he had no gig that evening. Mom and the baby sitter followed a similar routine in making me a bottle (ba¬ ba), ensuring that I had a pacifier (bo-bo), and then tucking me in my crib (night-night) before helping my brother with his homework. Dad threw all of that out the window and propped me on the couch watching TV while my brother did his homework at the kitchen table. 

It was at this point that I first heard the haunting melody of what might lie beyond. Obviously, I recognized that something lay outside better than what the talking ape heads on the magic box were babbling about. Dad's first clue was a whoosh of cold winter air blowing my brothers papers from the table. 

He looked up and realized that I was gone as the screen door slammed in the wind. He ran outside and saw me running down the road next to two busy lanes of nighttime traffic. He sprinted after me and though I ran as fast as my tiny legs would go he caught me as I attempted to dart between fast moving cars. 

He picked me up and shook me asking, "What are you doing? Where do you think you are going?" 

It was then that I spoke my first sentence as I tried to explain it to him. "No ba-ba, no bo-bo, no night-night, bye-bye." If I had been a bit more articulate I might have explained the call of the road like 
this "You're not giving me what I need, so I'm outta here." I knew there was something better down the road. I always have known that. 



My $100 Volkswagen Bus 

The bus I lived in as I wrote this, was broken down on the side of the road in Seattle with a 'For Sale' sign listing $400 as the price. As I was wistfully looking at her, her owner came running out of his house 
explaining that he would give her to me for $100 right that instant. He looked like a drug addict.

I was with my friend Kevin in his car and between the two of us we were able to come up with exactly $100 when we found some change under the back seat. We towed the van to the house I was already planning on moving out of. 

The bus wouldn't start. My next door neighbor, a VW enthusiast came over to and within ten minutes had diagnosed and fixed the problem - a cracked vacuum hose. All he did was layer it with duct tape and tweak a few wires. I named the van Turtle, since she would be my shell and didn’t move too fast. 

The next day, I paid $30 to get a temporary registration for the bus. That left me nearly broke. I was unemployed and a week from homeless, but I had a home to move into now. 

I drove to South Center (about a 60 mile round trip) to get inspected by the State Patrol to make sure Turtle wasn’t stolen before I could get her registered and licensed. She drove like a charm on the way there. I’d fixed the stereo and I was pretty happy on the trip down listening to Rusted Root and Phish. I was nervous that the bus would be stolen because I’d only paid $100 for it and it had no title, but she passed the State Patrol’s inspection and I was now free to get a new title and registration. 

I was driving on a three-day trip permit, which allowed unlicensed cars to be driven for three consecutive days. I was jubilant on the way back and that’s when Turtle broke down. First she refused to go beyond a 
a busy intersection. I finally got her to go only to have her die alongside Highway 99. I pushed her onto the small shoulder wedged between the highway and the railroad tracks just South of Seattle. 

A busy shipping yard was on the other side of the tracks. Shipping containers stacked four high. I tried to get Turtle started for twenty minutes. No luck. I would have to call a tow truck. 

I hopped over the tracks. I ran through the yard and looked for an exit, a payphone, or an office. 

Finally three rent a cops in a company pickup pulled up next to me and demanded to know what I was going. They wouldn't let me use their phone. They threatened to call the real police and wouldn't let me leave. A crane pulled up and the driver yelled at me “This is private property, you’ve gotta leave.” He seemed to have a little more of an idea of what was going on than the boys in the pickup who had begun muttering things like 'stupid fucking hippie.' 

“My car broke down on Highway 99 and I need to find a phone to call a tow truck.” (This was before cellphones were common.) 

“Take him to the office and let him use the phone” he bellowed at the pickup boys and then sped away in his crane. 

The ladies in the office were nice if not comforting. 

“Sure, use the phone, you’re not the first to break down out there. It happens all the time. Most of the time the cars get hit by other cars while they sit on that road.” 

I used my mom’s AAA card to call a tow truck ( Thanks Mom! By the way, other people's AAA cards are great because AAA never seems to check and never charges for limited distance towing.) 

Now I had to get back to the car but I couldn't get back to Highway 99. They wouldn’t let me go through the yard again. I tried walking to an on ramp, but there wasn’t one. I walked north hoping for an off ramp.. .no luck. 

I wandered into a tiny alley and found a crazy looking old man wiping bird shit off of his Honda Civic with a dirty handkerchief. I said hello as I ran past while he looked at me curiously. I stopped and turned back.

“Hey could you do a stranger a huge favor?” I asked.

He wiped at his windshield then ran to a puddle to dip his handkerchief in before responding in a Sigmund Freud accent “Vhat do you vant?” 

He eyed me suspiciously. 

“My car broke down right over there on 99 and I need a ride to it.” 

“Vhy don’t you valk?” 

“They won’t let me through the yard.”  

“You’ll have to ride in the backseat. I’ve got a bunch of stuff in the front.” 

I was so grateful to that old German dude. He drove me to my car while telling me stories about how he hitchhiked all over America 30 years earlier when he first emigrated from Germany. He said he still picked up hitchhikers, but there were far fewer of them in recent years. I guess I counted as a hitchhiker. He dropped me off and I waited for the truck to tow Turtle back to the house. 

It took me a day and half to figure out that my ignition points had closed. It took 15 minutes to replace them. Volkswagens are like that. My future home was running strong again. 

I drove to register the bus at the Licensing Department. I told them it wouldn’t be driven so that I wouldn’t have to get a smog check. They didn’t ask what I’d driven to the licensing department. 

Once I had the plates, it was time to do some maintenance. I replaced the plugs, rotor, air filter, and cleaned her up a little. I started her up. Perfect. 

I took a trip to the junkyard. It was incredible. Dozens of VW buses lined up and ready to give up whatever I needed. I felt like a kid in Candyland taking things apart and digging through the waste. I 
love junkyards. Infinite possibilities within a budget. I bought a folding table from a Westphalia Weekender, a latch for the engine, a glove box, and a few odds and ends that the bus needed like taillight covers and door handles. 

Later that day I adjusted the valves, put in the table and christened my bus with some sage since, after all, I was a stupid fucking hippie. 

Suddenly the bus felt like home. Visions of nomadic life lit up my brain. I became aware of the possibilities. I could go to Mexico. I could go to the Southwest. I could go anywhere. By the end of the 
month I would be free. The New Year, 2001, would begin for me without chains. I started dreaming of the wonderful things I could do in the next year. 2001 was going to be great, I just knew it.

Inside I had made Turtle warm with the rugs, pillows, and quilts. I made a pot of coffee and rustled up some pretty good grub before laying  down for a nap and dreaming about my coming adventures. 



Tarps in the trees 

I drove out dirt roads and hiked up a well-worn trail. It was raining, a mist drifting through the giant trees. Suddenly, like Mirkwood, the far off tinkling of laughter came from up high. I took a wrong turn down a trail, backtracked, and finally wondered into the encampment. High above three log and tarp forts hung in the mist. Connected by ropes and pulleys. Banners hung between them proclaiming, “This Land is Our Land” and “Save our Forest.” There was no one on the ground. 

There were signs of people all around. Rain gear, buckets (used to haul shit and piss), tarps, and even a mysterious tent with a smoking fire still going nearby. The people vanished into the wood. 

I gave a halloo up to the nearest tree fort. A male voice called down. “Who is it?” 

“It’s Chris, you don’t know me, but I’ve got food for Lucky.” While I was eating breakfast in Eugene, my friend, The Ole’ Reptile, had asked if I would bring a bag of dog food out to the Fall River tree sit 
for a dog he knew. I, of course, agreed. 

“I’ll just leave the bag down here.” 

“Great. Thank you.” 

I continued to look around and examine the curious tarpatecture of the feral folk who live in and among the ancient Douglas Fir that were threatened by imminent logging. Random stick, shit bucket, and rope 
creations blocked the roads to keep trucks and vehicles from approaching. A large compost bin and what would probably become a garden occupied parts of the road. The eerie laughter came from 
everywhere. Lightly. From nowhere. The tree sitters have their own culture. It was spooky how nobody came out to meet me. I was relieved to return to Eugene. 



Unemployment 

Filing for unemployment was one of the hardest decisions of my life. I’d always taken pride in not receiving any ‘handouts’ from the government. One of my roommates decided for me when he pointed out that it was me who had paid for the benefits I would collect. I decided to take back my ‘donations’. 

I filed by phone, answering the questions the computer on the other end asked. It struck me as funny that the computer’s elimination could have provided at least one job to a person who was unemployed. The mechanical voice told me I had to apply for three jobs a week in order to collect my benefits and gave me an appointment so that I could attend ‘orientation.’ The state required that I attend “unemployment orientation” before the benefits of joblessness began. 

I woke up late for unemployment. I got there 45 minutes late. It felt nice letting my body sleep as long as it wanted and the receptionist told me I could attend the next session. 

The first thing I noticed in the classroom was a sign that said “ Please turn off your cell phones.” I suppose it is a problem keeping the unemployed off their cell phones in Seattle. The facility was called 
‘Work Source.’ It was a typical institutionalized place with white and yellow walls. Classrooms. 

It had lots of literature encouraging the poor to quit breeding. There were people with disabilities, older folks, and people of color. Nobody looked really down and out. Nobody seemed like they were going to die if they didn’t find employment soon. 

People seemed to be pretending they wanted to find a job. That’s the difference between the homeless and the unemployed, the homeless don’t bother pretending they want a job; they just don’t have one. 
Both groups share a degree of dirtiness though. It’s just a little more obvious on those without houses and showers. 

I was nervous but it was a cake walk. Three people had been selected to turn in their search logs, showing where they had applied for work so far. The telephone computer voice had told us about this requirement. I was one of them. The woman looked to be sure my logs reflected applying for at least three jobs this week. They did even though I hadn’t. I just wrote down some big corporation names and addresses. 

The workshop group was made up of older housewives, dropouts, and freaks. One guy in his forties was wearing a leather jacket covered with rainbow colored beads. He had matching beads in his hair that hung down a little past his shoulders. He was distinctly birdlike and kept pecking the instructor with questions about job services on the internet and the waiting period to hear back from Boeing. 

The instructor went to great pains to describe the ways we could avoid applying for work and still meet the required three job applications per week. Things like coming to ‘work source’ and working on our resumes, learning how to use the computers, or taking a typing course. Bedtime material. Pure Sominex. It was all about how to make your resume dynamic and answer interview questions the best way. 

There were several interesting programs where the state would pay for a college education, I thought about doing that, but already had a useless Associates Degree and didn’t really want more. The whole ‘orientation’ lasted a few hours. 

As I walked out of the Unemployment Department, I felt happy to know that the orientation counted for the three jobs I was supposed to apply for that week. My check arrived a few days later. All I had to 
do for the next eighteen weeks was to call in every Sunday to the phone computer and answer a serious of questions using ‘ 1 ’ for yes and ‘9’ for no. It took six minutes the first time but got quicker as I 
memorized the sequence of answers. 1, 1, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, #. 



Recycling and Garage Sales 

I helped Aquillo Mallot do his rounds at Western Washington University when it was time for the students to go home. We hit every dumpster on the campus twice a day for two weeks. The students had bought things to make their dorms more comfortable. Things like microwaves, stereos, 
posters, books, artwork, clothes, and computers. Tons of stuff. They had to leave the dorms empty and most of them were driving home and didn’t want to rent a U-Haul to take along all their possessions. 

So, in the true American way, they just threw everything out. 

In two weeks we filled a friends garage to capacity with just about everything you could think of. I was wondering what we were going to do with it all, but Aquillo had a plan. Every weekend throughout the 
summer we would box everything up and have garage sales in the yards of people we knew. 

For the first four or five weeks Aquillo and I were pulling $300-$400. Towards the end of summer it was between $10 and $100, but then a funny thing happened. The college kids returned and in two weekends bought back almost everything that was left (plus the things we had found during the summer) and gave us both close to $500. You see? Recycling can be profitable. 

I know another guy who used to buy rejected textbooks from schools in Texas and sell them to other school districts that were still using them. That gave him enough dough to support his family. But then, 
one day he was driving his pickup past an oil refinery and saw stacks of tools and equipment being carried out by the workers. Having an eye for value, he stopped and asked if they were throwing the stuff away. They said yes and when he asked if he could take it they said yes again. So, he loaded everything up in his truck and took it to a drilling supplier in Houston where he sold all of it for close to $90,000. True story. 

What was happening is that the big corporations work just like the government does. They operate on a concept called a fiscal year. All budgets run for one fiscal year (usually October to October.) At the end of the fiscal year, the Chief Financial Officer and his accountants figure out where they can slash budgets so they can put money elsewhere. 

So, if individual departments have not maxed out their budgets, their budget gets smaller. To prevent this, departments will review their own budgets before the end of the fiscal year and figure out how to spend all the money they saved over the course of the year (and usually a little more.) A good for instance would be throwing away $90,000 worth of perfectly good tools. 

Another ‘recycling’ tale worth the telling is the story of my friend Sam. Sam is a rug dealer from Chechnya who moved to America about forty years ago. He moved into a cheap tenement apartment in Los Angeles and got a labor job. The building he was living in was condemned not long after he moved in but because so many poor people were living there the city allowed that those there could stay for a period of five years but no new tenants would be accepted. This left a lot of apartments empty over time. 

Sam had noticed that people in America threw out all kinds of useful things and began picking stuff up on the way home from work each morning. Soon his apartment was full and he asked the manager if he 
could store things in some of the empty ones. The manager didn’t seem to mind and so over the next few years Sam filled up most of the empty apartments with just about everything you can imagine. 

At the end of the five years, the city took action to evict the last 15 residents, giving them one month to leave. Sam ran his own publicity campaign with the newspapers and television stations saying that he 
and the rest of the evicted had lived there for years and had no place to put all of their ‘valuable antiques’ and ‘ancient family heirlooms.’ He further complained about a city ordinance that forbids garage sales on the street in front of the building. He really worked the angle of evicted senior citizens and immigrants. 

After lots of pressure from the public who read of the problem in their newspapers and saw stories about it on their local news, the city granted a special permit allowing the citizens of the building to 
have a special garage sale to sell off their valuables. 

Sam tells me that for two days he and the other residents nearly continuously carried his accumulated trash downstairs and for ridiculously high prices sold it to the predators that were hoping to prey on the misfortune of these poor people. 

It was a three-day permit and at the end of the second day Sam had nearly $200,000 in cash. He got spooked and left the rest of everything to the other residents. 

He flew to the Caucus Mountains and bought a huge inventory of beautiful rugs and then returned to America where hebought a small ranch and an RV with his legitimate profits. He still sells the rugs and he still picks through the garbage despite being a millionaire.