Confessions of A Peanut Butter Junkie

Becoming homeless was a lot like turning 40. I dreaded it for a while and then it just happened.
The lease was up at 12480 Rose Street Apt. 1 Seminole Florida 33772, and it was time to go. By this time I had no insurance, so I couldn’t drive. The minute I stop paying for SR-22 insurance, my drivers license is suspended, and so it was. I had no job, no car, no license, no where to go, and worst of all; I had no way of getting all of my stuff out of the two bedroom apartment my brother had rented for me. He was not willing to go through the hell of helping me move again. His advice: call my father. He even suggested that I ask a stranger, the man that was the caretaker at Rose Tree Gardens; the pretty name for the apartments at 12480 Rose Street Seminole Florida 33772.
I did neither of these things. I could not count on my father because I had never counted on him in the past, well not counting that time that he came out with AAA to help get my keys out of my locked car, that time he called me the trashcan man. In fact in all my life I have only really had two conversations with my father. Beyond, “Pass the salt,” or “Can I have some potatoes down this way,” my father and I had never really spoken. The other conversations I had with my father were merely interrogations. I was not about to ask the help of a stranger.
I did try to rent a U-haul, they always try to sell you insurance. But I asked the guy and he said they do not sell the kind of insurance that I would need to actually drive one of the trucks.
So on or about June 30, 2006 I loaded up my little cart, the one I had bought for doing laundry when I lived at 810 1st ave NW apt. 1 Largo Florida 33770, and started taking my stuff out to the dumpster. Everything I owned went in except the few things I could carry.
People came out of their apartments and hauled my stuff back to their apartments. My T.V., my DVD player, my Xbox, my Game Cube. Every Stephen King book published in my life time, most of them in hard cover. All my stuff. In about 1 hour and 45 minutes
my life was reduced to 5 pairs of underwear, 3 pairs of jeans, 4 t-shirts, 2 pairs of shoes,
some socks, towels, and a wash cloth.
I had no idea where I was going or what to do. I did have money though. So what did I do? I took a trip. That’s right. I was all packed up and I had nowhere to be. So I got out of Florida for the first time in more than 20 years. It was a nice trip. It would have been perfect if some candy ass federal agent hadn’t approached me in Montana and tried to get me to by dynamite from a “Friend of his.” I swear I am not making this up. You should have seen this pathetic excuse for homeland security.
“What are you, planning to blow up an abortion clinic?” I quipped.
Otherwise it was a nice trip. Coming home was the hard part. Tough to come back when you have nothing to come back to.
I think I hit Pinellas County on July 11, 2006. And the first thing I did was call my parents. My mom was curt.
“Call the Salvation Army,” she said.
So that’s what I did.
I wasn’t in the worst shape ever, but my situation was way beyond desperate. At this point I still had over $800.00, and what I really needed was a place to stay and a job.
I wound up at the Salvation Army in St. Petersburg Florida. They provide emergency shelter, but not for very long. They would not or could not let me in. They did give me a meal though.
So I wound up flopping in a cheap motel. The next day I went back to the Salvation Army and tried to get shelter. They had nothing for me.
So I wound up flopping in a cheap motel.
This went on until my $800.00 was reduced to about $75.00.
And then someone finally told me about a place in Clearwater Florida called C.H.I.P..
Oh! Oh! Wait. I have to tell you about “The People That Love.” I swear I am not making that up.
What is “The People That Love”? It’s kind of a sad little cult with a little house and some
rooms located at 817 5th Ave N St. Petersburg Florida 33701.
If this is what passes for church in America today Christianity has fallen on some really hard times.
I’ll give them props, they did take me in. They let me get a shower. They gave me some kind of meal. And they let me sleep on the floor of that creepy “Church” of theirs.
I’m lying there on the floor covered under some filthy blanket that has been used by countless homeless guys before me, my head on a filthy pillow that has been used by countless homeless guys before me (these things have never been washed) and what am I thinking?
“Guess I’ll never work with Spielberg or Lucas,” I’m thinking.
Here is a homeless man with some priority issues.
They make you sit through a service at “The People That Love.”
They play some of the worst Christian music I have ever heard at “The People That Love.”
It was the music that got me into trouble. It was the music that got me kicked out of “The People That Love.”
And the Lightning.
I was sitting on the front porch in the stifling humidity watching as a storm approached.
I’m sitting on the front porch at “The People That Love” and I see the storm coming and I say, “I hope the power goes out so we won’t have to listen to that horrible music.”
They march us over to “the chapel”, four or five of us homeless guys, it’s starting to rain, the lightning is really intense. A cop car screeches to the curb, siren warbling, lights flashing-all just to see which one of us homeless guys is going to run. None of us does.
I’m a broke, homeless, hungry, convicted felon, but I haven’t been in trouble since the DUI arrest. Cops annoy me, but they don’t scare me.
I take a seat in “the chapel”. In it’s early years “the chapel” had been someone’s living room. It’s small. Whoever decided to convert it to a place of worship didn’t do much of a job. It’s like someone took a shit on tacky and called it a church.
Thunder. Lightning!
The power goes off.
Someone looks at me and says, “You’re the devil.”
“No,” I say, “I just don’t like the music.”
They kick me out. Just in case. In case I am the devil.
Or maybe they kick me out because by now the guys in law enforcement including John the caretaker from 810 1st Ave NW apt 1 Largo FL 33770 are calling me a pedophile.
Yeah, that’s what they are saying behind my back. They won’t charge me with anything. Probably because they can’t. And the reason that they can’t is because it is just one GIANT lie.
I told you that I worked for Mercury Insurance at 1901 Ulmerton Road Clearwater FL
33762, and that I had fallen in love with someone there. I also admitted that they were too young for me. Yeah, they were too young for me. But the person I fell in love with was
Well over 23 or 24 at the time.
I told you that they started dosing me with boner juice. Night after night as I worked at Transitions Optical and was living at 12480 Rose Street Apt 1 Seminole Florida 33772,
that I would rush home each morning and look at porn and masturbate.
You know how many times I looked graphic depictions of children having sex? Exactly none.
I am not now, nor have I ever been a pedophile. Period. But the same sorry ass scum bags who had bugged my house, my phone, my car, and my computer could find nothing to arrest me for. Nothing to charge me with. So they decided to make something up.
I think they got the idea from Mike Murphy. Mike Murphy hated me so much he was willing to tell the cops that I was a pedophile. Did I mention this guy was the milk of human kindness?
I love kids. Who doesn’t? They still have all that wonder and that innocents. But do you know how many I have fondled or fucked? You guessed it! NONE! Do you know how many I have wanted to fondle or fuck? NONE, again.
Would I jump into the sack with a willing 20 year old? Probably. Am I saying it’s right?
Of course not. But I’m not married. Not dating, and it’s perfectly legal.
That’s it. That’s my sermon on pedophilia.
Now back to our regularly scheduled programming:
…So I get kicked out of “The People That Love.” Apparently they only love so much.
I’m on the street in St. Petersburg Florida, and I’m lugging my huge gym bag and a back pack around. I’ve got about 40 lbs of crap and I’m riding buses and humping from point A to point B with all of it on my back, and I have know idea where I’m going.
So finally someone at the Salvation Army tells me about C.H.I.P. It’s in Clearwater Florida.
I find myself at the Park Street terminal of the Pinellas Sun Coast Transit Authority.
In other words I’m at the bus station in down town Clearwater. It’s pretty scuzzy, but not as bad as Williams Park in down town St. Petersburg.
The reason I’m at the Park Street Terminal of PSTA is I’m looking for an address:
1339 Park Street Clearwater Florida 33756. This is the address for C.H.I.P.
The Clearwater Homeless Intervention Project.
I’m wandering around down town. I see Park Street. Hell I’m standing at the Park Street bus terminal. I’m carrying 40 lbs of shit on my back sweating, dehydrating, looking for some kind of salvation, but the only thing I can find down town are The Scientologists.
I swear I am not making this up. Clearwater Florida is the spiritual headquarters of The Scientologists. They’re all over the place down there. I think they own just about every inch of everything in down town Clearwater Florida. I’m afraid to speak with any of them. Don’t get me wrong. They’re not scary or anything. Hell, they’re clean, they’re shaven, and they’re definitely not homeless. But they’re always bustling around down there like they’re getting ready for Word War III, or global domination.
So I finally crack and I ask some young black guy if HE knows where C.H.I.P. is?
I asked him not because he was black, I asked him because at the time he was by far the cleanest dude standing at the bus terminal. Counting me.
I was in luck. He knew just where it was. He gave me perfect directions.
That’s how I got to the CHIP center the first time.