The Long Sidewalk Goodbye. -monologue.

Just above my spot on the sidewalk, I was held up in another run down hotel room, and my past was jabbing at me again, as it had everyday since she left.

"I miss my wife, I miss my wife," would spew from my mouth uncontrollably every now and again and at least once a day, for seven years.

Mental scar hiccups, nagging shame, but not as bad as it used to be.

Shortly after she left state and took the kids, I would wander around New Orleans with outbursts of frequent screams and sobbing. I couldn't leave the city, because anywhere else, the police would have taken me away. The fifth of whiskey a day, did little back then. So at night after the fifth, I'd go out drinking.

Even travelers have a home, for me it's cheap hotels that let you smoke. It's a never ending search for a spot on the sidewalk and a hotel that'll let you smoke cigarettes.

Sometimes days and nights sleeping on buses and trains searching.

Sometimes a good spot, but no cheap hotel.

Sometimes cheap hotels, but they wont let you work the spot. So back on the bus to another city, so I can sleep on the bus.

It's a gamble.

In the winter a thick tough suit jacket and fedora, cargo pants and slip on sneakers, not white ever.

In the summer cargo Capris, sandal flip flops and a vest I make out of a jacket coat. After the winter the fedora has usually thinned out enough for the summer heat.

I buy as I go, I don't lug.

One bag is all I need, it holds my rig, and personals.

Working outta the pockets, sleight of hand is the gimmick, for the quick ten minute show, for the curious, or for those with time to kill, ten fifteen minutes, then the hat is passed. Usually the first

show pays just less than the price of a room.

Four or five shows could get me through the day. But if I can, I work all day to forget my problems.

In the states I would prefer to live outta my van. Driving hundreds of miles, from pitch to pitch. Truck stops with cheap private showers in the morning, and a cup of tea.

I come from a long line of sidewalk, shifty eyed losers.

When I'm in a crowd, you can find me, I'm the one who looks like trouble from your grandpa´s past, maybe your great grandpa's past,

maybe worse.

I remember when I was younger, looking at old guys like that downtown, and thinking, That's what I'll be!

Well here I am.

For us it's harder now, private property regulations, and less foot traffic in the states, and the spots in Europe are closing up.

Cops and shops and bad guys, are the setbacks of the job.

Cops and shops, wanna shut you down, and the bad guys, are looking to take what they saw you make.

So here I am, on my back, looking up, and staring at the cheap neon lite on the ceiling of my room.

It's lonely, but it´s less trouble than a woman.