This night. A thousand miles away from home. And, I ask the question, where is my home? Certainly not back in Indiana where Midwesterners cling to religion, conservative politics, and pork tenderloin sandwiches with pickles on them. I never felt at home there. Which is why I left at such a young age. Maybe why I tried to kill myself; in and out of psych wards, given a hundred different pills, the questioning and advice from therapists, the ongoing cycling of my mind, who knows?

Maybe Chicago is my home. A town that took me in heart and soul. Women, religion, booze, books, bars, and culture all wrapped in a package with a ribbon on it and a sticker that says corruption; my kind of town. For I am corrupt. I am a sinner. We all know God loves sinners. And, so did Daley; the prophet in the mayor’s office looking down on all of us, saying, follow me.

Perhaps New York will be my home. The land of Miller, Mailer, Breslin,  and others, like Baldwin and Langston Hughes, who placed a dent in America’s shield of shit. These are my heroes. Could be I finally find peace; home sweet home.

Washington Square Park, where I sit watching drug transactions and bums sleeping on benches. There is $500 in my pocket. Do I spend money and get a hotel room for the night? Or, like my fellow derelicts and curl up in the night air? Both are impossible. I’m too wired. Too manic. Move, move, move, I tell myself. Run all over New York. Take it all in. Walk the West Side. Travel the East. Go up to Harlem for some soul food, buy a dirty water dog, a slice, go to Greenwich Village, take the ferry to Stanton Island, just get lost in it all. For I am in search of a home. But first, give this homeless woman $50; she’s earned it.