Ragged In Brownsville: Homeless, I Cry For Help, Settle for Huevos a la Mejicana...

Well, I woke up Sunday morning 
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt 
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert... 
- Sunday Morning Coming Down, Kristofferson

By REY BUCKINGHAM
Staff Writer

BROWNSVILLE, Texas - It wasn't until I ripped-off my old, smelly Ropa Usada coat & hoodie and threw the sonsabitches into a dumpster on darkened Central Boulevard that I made my way to The Toddle Inn here, where I waited til they opened and then walked in to order a breakfast of Huevos a la Mejicana and a pot of black coffee that came one cup at a time. It was Sunday morning and I'd slept on the streets the previous night, scared shitless and feeling the cold of the bordertown with no heart.

I'd asked to do the story, so I won't cry.

But, man, oh, man what a time it was. Brownsville at night is a trip, as they say in most travel agencies up north, especially like on Spring Break. It is colorful in harsh language and brightened drama. I saw an old mangy dog chase a drunk after the guy left a downtown bar. If that fucka wasn't Jesse Owens looking like a fast Mexican, well, then I was seeing things. Somewhere near the federal courthouse on Elizabeth Street, a cop stopped me to ask for some ID. I handed him my Florida driver's license and he said, "Oh, you're from outta town?" I said, "Just moved here, sir," and he said, "Well, check out the Borders Apartments. Saw a sign out there that said they have a special on studio units." I thanked him and pocketed my wallet after making sure my cash was still in there.

I know. Homeless in Texas sounds weird. I mean, all that fuckin' land! Homeless? Wifeless, I could understand. Yeah, wifeless in Brownsville is likely the best way to go. Here's why: I was on Addams Street, paralleling Elizabeth, walking up the sidewalk when this guy in a forest-green Ford Taurus drives by, makes it a block past me and then makes a U-turn. I stop and hold my grocery cart, thinking these guys are about to roll me. Naaaaah. They were two faaaaaaaags! I'll bet homeless dudes get a lot of attention from ambulant fags during the night hours. Queers in Brownsville? Who would have thunk it? Of course, I'm The Tribune's Gay Affairs Writer, so I was sure I'd be able to handle myself.

I grunted something about having AIDS and the two mustachioed Mexicans laughed and then the battered car roared-off. Strange that it worked, I told myself. Most Gays know it as a handy throwaway line, or code for yeah, come blow me right away, right away. I wheeled on up ahead. It was bar-closing time and, at Market Square, a line of brown-skinned, beer-bellied men walked out of a handful of bars at bizarre angles only the drunk know as upright if upright is with your legs wobbling and your head wanting to hit the pavement as soon as possible. Fuck you, I said aloud and one of the guys said, "What, is that my wife talkin'? - Hey, I heard sumpin, Gawdummit! Sheeeeee-it, that you Leticia?" And then he puked a super-sized pizza outside a finance company's front door.

Life is hard here, they say. You're either a drunkard or a player. You either bury your feelings in booze or your peter in someone else's old lady. The homeless know, they know who is fooling around. They walk up on parked cars in a gentle sway and they hear the soft-moaning, the romantic Spanish. "Ay, damela, damela toda!" is a popular one apparently. Who knows? The sounds of the streets at night are something else. Between the hilarious transvestites and the brazen cheaters, you get a rolling corrido of pain, regret and disgust. I dunno, I dunno. Brownsville is not what I expected.

The homeless know. They know the rotting innards, the tamale-heavy bowels, the killing dungeons and the most horrible of secrets. It is not a pretty story, as they say about rape and military killed-in-action notices.

I whistled an old song while I put away my breakfast, a warm rolled tortilla in one hand and my cup of coffee in the other. "Usted es homeless?" asked the young, roly-poly, fresh-faced waitress.

"No," I said in return. "Yo era homeless. That's my white Lexus convertible out there...going home after this to get some Zzzzzzzs." My hyena-like laughter sent her off. She kept looking back at me as she walked toward the kitchen, over her shoulder, eyes wide-open, lips pursed, mind telling her something was wrong with the picture, with the imagery she carried of what a homeless person was or said.

I left a $10 tip, no doubt breaking the record in town...

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