(h  b)n. pl. ho·boes or ho·bos
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Brett Easton Ellis presents :
American Hobo
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My name is Patrick Barton
I am thirty two years old, but look older. I am a stockbroker, or used to be until I lost my job. My job now is to sit outside netto drinking cider from a bottle.
Scruffy Ted walks up, he’s wearing a sweater by george from Asda. His hat is by quicksilver and is dark wool, with a logo on the front. His trousers are Marks and Spencers, but are quite dirty and frayed. He has no style or deportment, and the smell coming from him is revolting. I wretch inwardly and try to concentrate on my cider. I don’t want to speak to him. He staggers over and looks at me without saying a word
Eventually I look up, immediately I notice that his shoes are brown suede loafers from Clarks. Very smart. Where did he get those, I wonder? All the while eyeing them for myself. I stand up and kick him in the balls, he falls over. I kick him until he dies with a gurgle and I pull the shoes off him. I put them on. Not my size, they pinch slightly around the toes, so I put my old ones back on, and set the body on fire.
I catch sight of myself reflected in a shop window as I walk through town. I have a full beard and red face. I wear a knitted hat by Oxfam, and a large dark green overcoat by Blacks. I steal two pasties from Thomas the Bakers and run away through the town. I bump into a group of fellow tramps and sit with them for a while by the fountain. We drink cider and groan for a while.
We couldn’t secure a table at McDonalds so we sit in the park and share out our cider. The tramps all talk about the murder of scruffy ted earlier in the day, and are all worried about it.
‘I murdered him and stole his loafers’
The other tramps ignore this statement and carry on talking between themselves. I stand up and leave.
I find Stinking Joe lying in a field behind Waitrose. He is wearing a coat by Helly Hansen, and a tight, black pair of trousers by Burtons. They are slightly pleated toward the waist and have a zip-up fly, which is undone. His shoes are stolen from Next and I notice a Top Shop shirt under his Helly Hansen. I wake him roughly.
‘Have you got any cider?’
‘MMnnnnnerrrghhh’
‘Do you understand? I need some cider’
‘Bllllluuurghh’
‘Listen to me, I want some cider! Do you have any?’
‘Mnnnuuurgh’
He groans and falls asleep again. I pick up the plastic wrapping from a four pack of cider and I strangle him with it. I cut off one of his fingers, and leave it in Thomas the Bakers with the crusty cobs.