Land of the Free

In the not-too distant future, a moment in history nearly identical to every other moment in history bears witness to the fresh inequities of legislation exacerbated by intangible digital currencies. Citizens might be sentenced to prison terms for the crime of being in possession of a shopping cart. Municipalities transform wary strangers into law breakers for seizing a nap in public spaces. The poor are uniquely responsible for wasting the limited resources of the planet’s richest nation.

An unlikely champion emerges from within a classic green dumpster behind an unremarkable tex-mex restaurant somewhere in Iowa.

“Our next guest is the author of the best selling audiobook promoting the latest in minimalist sustainable living. He was crowned the 2024 Hobo King. Please welcome, Stan Cheezies!”

A notably tall dreadlocked man with a bushy beard and rosy cheeks wearing a tophat makes giant strides across the set in mismatched sneakers. The left shoe, a red Chuck Taylor, is wrapped in duct tape. His filthy pants have patches and holes. A striped parka conceals whatever grime lives on the top half. His smile is large and genuine as he waves to the cameras, exposing his missing two front teeth.

Stan turns to the windows behind him where an eager crowd clamors for a chance to be on TV. A busty woman smothered in tattoos holds a cardboard sign to the glass “Chez 4 Prez.” The unconventional Tuesday morning crowd has come to see one of their own. His outstretched arms form an air-embrace. He blows them kisses and extends a peace sign.

With a callous fling, his oversized stained, mended and re-mended bag bangs against the side of the chair before taking a seat across from the already seated hostess.

“Thank you for joining us. Stan…What is a Hobo King?” Inquires the well manicured celebrity blonde.

The lanky man rises out of his chair, steps around the comfortable coffee table and leans down closer to the hostess squinting at her face, “You have absolutely no pores or wrinkles. Not a single blemish or sag. Remarkable, truly.” Stan returns to his seat the way he came. “You smell edible.”

“Well, thank you? Can you share with us your process for writing your book?”

“Yes.”

A few seconds of silence pass as the mismatched pair glance from camera to camera.

“Great! Please, tell us about how life has changed for you since writing your book?”

“I didn’t write a book.”

“Stan, it’s a bestseller. What do you mean you didn’t write a book?”

Mock handwriting gestures trace thin air with blackened fingernails highlighting his condescending tone, “I. Did. Not. Write. A book.”

“Would you elaborate on that for us?” The hostess’s practiced smile now slightly strained.

“Things have gotten pretty annoying in America if you don’t live in a proper house, or collect dollars. You people throw our stuff away at four in the morning while we’re trying to sleep. I don’t have a desk in here, and I cannot reasonably keep important papers crinkled up in this sack, now can I? How is a bum like me gonna write anything when you come along at disrespectful hours and throw my work away?”

Stan scoots to the front of his seat and looks directly at the middle camera.

“One day, I was catching a ride with a bunch of hippies in a schoolie. I think we were somewhere in Utah, trippin on shroomies. These guys started recording me talking about how hobos live the most earth friendly lifestyle. We do! Those people out there!” Stan turns to wave again at the windows. “We have the smallest carbon footprint, simply because we choose to exist outside of the games of Babylon.”

“Stan, you have tons of money, now. Why do you choose to wear worn out pants and a shoe wrapped in tape?” She gestures to Stan’s feet. A large camera silently stretches in closer.

Leaning over in his seat, Stan reaches behind and presents his wallet.

“Hey kids, wanna play America’s favorite game? Counting money! One dollar ah-ah-ah. Two dollars ah-ah-ah. Thrreeee dollars! Ah-ah-ah and a McDonalds gift card somebody handed me on the street this morning. Thanks family! I love you!” Placing a hand over his heart he makes sincere eye contact with the center camera, then the one to his right.

“Maybe you aren’t understanding, Stan. Sources tell us you are a multimillionaire.”

“I haven’t seen any of that.” Nodding to his hand holding three dollars and a gift card. “How much money do you have?” He leans back into the stylish chair, legs spread, tucking his hands into the pouch of his parka.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think, last tax season, our family accountant said we were doing quite well.” She casually replied and shrugged.

“You have as much as I do! Wonderful! Would you like to save our planet with me?”

“As lovely as that sounds, I don’t actually have that kind of fortune, Stan.”

“You just told me you don't have any money at all!” He suddenly pops out of his seat removing his hat revealing a green and yellow bird. He easily bounds toward the studio audience with those long legs, bird bobbing where a hat used to be, singing a catchy jingle.

“Magic hat. Magic hat.

Place your love in the magic hat.

The more that I give, the more I have to give.

It’s the way that I live and that’s what livin’s for.”

Stan darts among outstretched hands as they drop items into the tophat extended to within their reach before sliding back into a spot beside the uncomfortable beauty, slightly winded. She recoils, but quickly recovers.

“Eat the rich. Magic hat. Bitch.” says the bird.

With a dainty hop the bird rests on Stan’s hand held out for the cameras, “This is President Gore. I call him Al for short.”

“After the break, we’ll find out what else is inside Stan Cheezies’ Magic Hat!”

With the cameras off, crews rush in to touch up her hair and makeup. The talk show hostess drinks deeply of her oversized glass of wine and scowls towards Stan. “I’m trying to help you promote your fucking book. A little cooperation from you would really help move this shitshow along.”

As she replaces her glass with a side-glance, she adds, “That bird just shit on your leg.”

We’re back in three, two, one…

Her genuine fake-smile renewed, “Welcome back. Our guest is the bestselling author of “The Hobo Way. Saving Earth.” Stan Cheezies! Are you ready to show us what’s in your Magic Hat?”

The houseless man, strangely comfortable sitting in the hot lights of a national television broadcast and livestream, pulls the little coffee table towards himself and upends the hat – a pile of green cash tumbles out. His dry crusty hands deftly smooth and sort the notes despite Al’s best efforts to help.

“Oh wee! I should come jugging around here more often! Lookie these hundies!” Stan holds a one hundred dollar bill up for the camera. He sticks out a yellowed tongue, and licks the length of the greenback smearing Benjamin's face in thick slobber, “Oh! Tastes like somebody’s gonna fail their drug test! Hope my parole officer isn’t watching. Good morning Mr. Walters! Hope Suzy and the kids are well.” He waves a big full arm wave.

“This. This is real. It’s absolutely worthless, sure. Yet, I can taste it, I can burn it and I can wipe my *bleep* with it. You see?

"This wealth you tell me you possess through your false teeth, is nothing but your score in the entirely made up game of finance. It exists only in your imagination. Most people aren’t even playing this game. It doesn’t make any damned sense. You refuse to appreciate our disinterest. Your “money” is the same as owning the high score on a pinball machine. It only matters to other pinball players.”

The smile has disappeared from the hostess' poreless mask, “I see.”

“Freedom! Your pretty faces in these boxes tell us how FREE we are in this country. How great it is here. Free?

"More people are imprisoned in the United States than Communist countries. Without any of the benefits of Communism.”

Stan takes a big breath, understanding that his arguments, however factual, are futile in this apathetic atmosphere and continues with his point in vain.

“People like you, grow your high scores using the slave labor of the poor YOU imprison for the crime of having the audacity to sleep where you can see! We eat your thrown out foods, own no vehicles, and we have no homes to heat nor cool while comfortable climate-controlled mega churches and mansions sit unused.

"Does a bear *bleep* in the woods? Where should a Stan take a *bleep*? Even when I buy a cup of your *bleepy bleeping* coffee that contributes to our society’s disposable lifestyle problems, I am still prevented from relieving myself with dignity. That is the level of freedom you pander.”

“Take a shit. Eat the rich.” Al interrupts beyond the reach of the censoring beep.

Stan sighs and softly looks over to the speechless well-manicured hostess reeking of convenience and comfort. The glimpse of hostility gone from his demeanor.

“I see how you avoid looking at my face.” He forces an exaggerated jack o'lantern smile. “Come on, camera guy, zoom in on this grill. My teeth are the perfect representation of how our system doesn’t work for the masses. They pull them out and don’t put anything back because cosmetic treatments are deemed unessential. Unessential for whom?

"You take our teeth, throw away our homes and then berate us because we are unable to “get a job” in a system that requires teeth and addresses.”

With righteous indignation, Stan stands up, shouldering his dirty bag. He stoops to the short table, cramming the cash back into the Magic Hat. Al flutters in, too.

“Love!” He abruptly declares, “It has always been the only way! Come see.” He gestures to the man with a camera perched on his shoulder, beckoning him to follow. Stan jovially skips, leading the way backstage, down a fluorescently lit corridor and beyond green exit signs. He shoves open a heavy door to a wash of cheers and whistles boiling in from thousands and thousands of hippies, hobos and weirdos overfilling Times Square.

The camera man scans the unexpected throngs as he follows the tall hobo with Al now looking out from on top of Stan’s head riding well above the converging masses, capturing cardboard signs like “Stan’s the Cheeziest!”

“Wait! Here’s somebody you have to meet!” He embraces a curly-headed man in a worn 1980’s-style jacket turning him around to face the camera, arm kindly around his shoulders, “This is my brother, Roadrunner! He lives by the Hobo Code. A true American!” Cheers ripple out from Stan’s proclamation. “This beautiful man, right here! For over forty years he walks our roadways waging war against litter. Find him online at Trash Bags n Things.”

Reaching into his tophat, Stan hands Roadrunner a bill. Then, he hands one to an elderly woman, then a kid in ill-fitting clothes, a woman with a baby, and a man in a wheelchair. He hands out all of the 2,442 Magic Hat dollars.

With the bills dispersed and the onlookers’ appreciation registering on the Richter Scale, Stan replaces the tophat, turns to face the camera with his goofy toothless grin. Shouting above the din, “I only agreed to come here today to announce that I’m running for President of the United States of America! Let freedom ring!”