Cadillac Man’s memoirs

On being homeless in New York:

I expected to die on the streets, a fate I’d seen befall so many of my homeless brothers: Nacho, Old Crow, Joe the Bum, Billy, Petey, Wahoo, Pachunga. One day we’re here, the next day gone, picked up by the meat wagon from the morgue, dropped off at Bellevue or Kings County hospitals, and stored for up to 60 days in the fridge. Then, if our bodies are still unclaimed by relatives or friends, we’re ferried for one last ride across the East River to the potter’s field at Hart Island, where inmates from Rikers Island on burial detail stack our plywood coffins in a long trench and cover us with dirt. I call that place the Land of the Lost Souls. That’s where I was bound.

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2 Responses to “Cadillac Man’s memoirs”

  1. leo Says:

    man! that is a horror story. what is this from…

  2. indeedindeed Says:

    http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/02/garden/02cadillac.html?ref=todayspaper

    he’s got a book coming out.

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