Ridin’ the Rails

The Diary of Cruisemaster B’

By Ben Benchin

What’s up my Holmes, what’s up? I’m sorry that it’s been so long since I last talked to ya’ll, but a lot of interesting things have happened to the Cruisemaster since we last rapped. A direct result of those aforementioned things is my having to write this little entry with a pencil about the size of my thumbnail on an old pizza box that I am also using as a blanket. That is a process that takes some serious time and effort, man.

All this shit started up the other night when me and Jim were out crusin’ the freeway in his Prism. There is no reason to point out the flaw in that last statement I made, as I do realize that a Prism might not exactly be what you would call a crusin’ car, but sometimes you just got to cruise with what you got. There ain’t no keeping me off the open road man, even if all I got is a Geo.

We were all fucked up on some hydro buds that I had gotten the night before from that wetback that lives in the apartment next to mine. That shit was wicked; knocking me flat on my ass after we had only split like three bowls. I gotta make sure to keep relations with the wetback good, as he always seems to have access to this killer hydro bud. That and he’s willing to trade his bud to me for fucking fruit and shit. Seriously, I got a good twenty sack from him for like four dollars worth of oranges. I guess that where he comes from oranges are all like gold and shit, but hydro bud grows in every back yard.

We smoked our bowls and then set out on the freeway. Jim’s a god damned pussy and didn’t want to smoke up in the car, so we just sparked in his back yard and I ditched the pipe behind his garage. He was blasting that techno music shit on the prism’s system but I was too preoccupied to bitch at him about it. I had the munchies real fucking bad.

I hadn’t had anything to eat in like three days. The last thing in my house that was even close to being food was those fucking oranges and I traded them for the bud. A man without a job is usually a bit pressed for cash, and when you add on the cost of repairs for the Dorado’s windshield (which, by the way, is still in the shop) you end up with little or no money left for munchies. This logic may not make a lot of sense to some readers, I realize. But let me tell you man, Ben Benchin puts crusin’ and the sake of his ride above all else, even if it means going hungry for a few days.

Anyways, me and Jim was out crusin’ and I was really fucking hungry. I’m not allowed in Jim’s house anymore when his mom’s there, on account of some unfortunate shit that happened a few months ago at Jim’s Dad’s funeral. She doesn’t it like it when he comes over to my place. Man, that bitch just won’t let some shit go.

So since I knew that Jim’s mom was gonna be home all night ‘cus she had the flu I also knew that getting any food at Jim’s house was almost entirely out of the question.

I was real fucking hungry.

The night before I was so hungry that I ate some of them red things that are growing underneath the front steps to my building. They weren’t dangerous mushrooms or anything; these things had roots. As a matter of fact they didn’t even taste bad. Still, though, eating shit you find growing underneath your steps isn’t the most dignified thing old Ben’s ever done. I was just too fucking hungry to care.

So we were out driving and I was real fucking hungry. I decided it would be best to just tell Jim that I was hungry and have him stop at a BK or something. Once there I would place my order and then just pretend that I forgot my wallet and shit. Since I was kind enough to smoke Jim up earlier in the evening, he would probably be more than willing to return the kindness by floating me a few bucks for my meal. Jim was that kind of guy, if you know what I’m saying.

“Dude, stop somewhere so we can eat. I got the munchies real fucking bad.” I said to him. I said it in the perfect fucking voice, too. You would of thought that I had a wallet full of cash.

“Naw’ man. I don’t really got any munchies. I just ate.” He said to me.

I wont bore y’all with the rest our conversation, just let me tell you that Jim can be a real fucking pussy faggot ass when he’s high. Everybody gets the munchies after smokin’ hydro, if even just slightly. I don’t care if you spark a bowl right after Thanksgiving dinner: turkey, potatoes, pie and all that shit, you’re gonna get at least a small case of the munchies. It’s simply the way of the hydro.

I finally got that fucking queer to stop at BK, but I had to promise him that we wouldn’t be in there too long and all he was getting was a drink. He went well out of his way to stop at the BK down by that Chink laundry place in the ghetto just because he knew it would piss me off. That’s where my bitch-ass ex girlfriend Sharon fucking works.

So we go inside the BK and she’s standing right there working at the counter. As soon as we walked in she looked up from her cash register and gave me a fucking stare that scared the shit out of me. It looked like she was trying to get inside my mind so that she could kick my ass mentally and shit. I averted my vision and ran up to the counter.

She welcomed me to BK and then asked what she could get me in her pissy little “I’m a whore” voice. I wanted to tell that bitch what she could really get me, but instead I just kept looking at the floor and told her that I would like a two cheeseburger value meal, king sized.

She punched up my order in her keyboard and then asked Jim what he would like. He told her that he just wanted a drink. She gave us the total price and I started rooting through my pockets, trying to look all genuine and shit. I was just opening my mouth to ask Jim to float me a few bucks and that bastard went and beat me to it! He said that he assumed that I was going to pay for his drink because I had dragged him there and he told me that he didn’t have any money on him. Sharon thought that that was just the funniest thing she had ever heard, and then she threatened to call the cops if we didn’t get out of there right now. I fucking hate Sharon.

We ran out to the Prism and drove off. We didn’t even make it five blocks past BK when the car just sputtered out and died. I got under the hood and found the fan belt just flapping this way and that because it had been cut in half. I don’t want to go pointing fingers or anything, but I know that fat shit that Sharon is going out with now also works at the BK and I’m pretty sure that he was taking out garbage when we were inside. I fucking hate Sharon.

So we were on foot and neither of us had any money to call anybody. It looked like we were gonna have to walk all the way home. I didn’t like that too much because I was getting all weak and shit from lack of food.

Jim was whining like a little baby about having to walk around in the “ghetto.” The cruisemaster fears not the ghetto, man. I may not have grown up on the street but I know more about it than your average nigga, man. The ghetto is my natural element.

Me and Jim were a good mile and half from the overpass, which was where we were walking. I figured that we could just hitch hike home once we got on the main road. I may be street and all, but I wasn’t at all prepared to except a ride from someone down in the ghetto. Hitchhiking ain’t too smart an idea unless you’re on the freeway.

We didn’t get too far before I saw a guy who was wearing a big sign that said “Will Work For Food.” I rationally figured out that the guy must have had some food to spare, seeing as that’s what he got paid in. Maybe he’d take us to his box and let us do some yard work in exchange for some Doritos or something. I was real hungry and figured it was worth a shot.

I talked Jim into walking over to the guy with me but he was being real shaky and shit. I don’t know what Jim’s problem is with hobos; these dudes are my people. We got up to the guy and I asked him if we could do anything for him and get some food. He told me that he didn’t have any food to spare, but there was a mission right down the street with warm beds and hot soup. I told him that I liked the sound of that and went walking toward the mission; it was only like a block away.

I got to the door of the place and realized that Jim was no longer with me. I guess he just got freaked out by the bum or something and ran off. Oh well, I figured that would just mean more soup for me.

Inside the mission there was indeed warm beds and hot soup. The dude with the sign forgot to mention all the stinky fucking bums and dudes with bibles, though. All in all, the time I spent at the mission (which turned out to be three days) was pretty cool. It was kind of like Kindergarten, three square meals a day, story time (though most of them were bible stories), and there was even some sing a’ longs. This one bible dude named Kevin could really whale on an acoustic. That dude knew a lot of fucking chords.

Alas, however, my short stay at the mission was not meant to be. My new friend Legs (called so because he don’t have any legs left after the war) let me drink some of this wicked shit he had called “Night Train.” Take it from the Cruisemaster, the black coloured shit fucks you up the hardest, I don’t care what you’re drinking. I downed a couple bottles of that shit I must have been making too much noise or something because one of them bible dudes came over and started getting up in my face. I had been putting up with his shit the whole time I had been there: him pushing his fucking god down my throat and telling me to repent and stuff. So I decided to tell him a little something about my religion: The Way of Cruise.

“The way of the cruise is simple.” I told him, “There are three rules: Cruise hard. Drink Hard. Rock hard.”

Some of the homeless dudes started to cheer pretty loud when I said that and then they started to break shit. It ain’t too hard to get homeless people all riled up.

The bible faggots told me to leave after that, so ever since then I’ve been sleeping on and around this bench with Legs and some of his buddies. They like me, and they’re pretty nice and shit. We got a good racket going on over at the Dumpster behind the BK (I’m just waiting for the day when myself and that fat fuck meet again). Believe it or not, there’s a lot of little shit that goes into being a proper hobo. I seem to be catching on to the whole thing pretty quick. The new guys I’m hanging with are good fucking guys. I just wish they’d stop calling me ‘Slim Shady.’