tech review: some headphones I bought off a homeless person
Because why not?
I once owned this pair of first-generation Samsung galaxy buds that I acquired from a homeless person. Frankly, I forget what this homeless person’s name was, but I will call him Benji for the purposes of this article.
Benji was, or at least referred to himself as, a “Gay boy gangster“, which is apparently some sort of prison gang made up entirely of gay people. (I know. Please make this a Netflix show) It was never explicitly told to me, but what I was able to gather from Benji is that these men, while gay, fancy themselves pretty badass. I suppose you have to be, as a gay man, to survive in prison. Though I have to say, I think that this gang may only have existed within Benji‘s mind, as the incarcerated population that I’ve known through the years would probably not look too kindly on an organization of this sort. Good or bad, it’s just reality. If somebody was claiming “gay boy gangster“ affiliation, they almost certainly existed within protective custody, or PC for you hardened criminals.
But, I digress. Benji was a gay boy gangster, and also a prostitute. He slept with other men for money, most likely for meth. He was a pretty greasy fellow and liked to carry around an ax or a large machete, probably for the same reason that his gay boy gangster persona was so in your face. This whole attitude of “yeah I’m gay, but I’m the baddest motherfucker here, so try me“, was really all just an act. Benji wasn’t badass. But he was, of course, a filthy little thief.
So, one night, one of Benji‘s Johns caught Benji stealing from him after they had their pre-arranged exchange of finances for flesh. Through my many years, I’ve learned that this is a reality for people who sell their bodies, and for those who pay. Theft occurs, and quite often. This is for multiple reasons. Very often, the procurers of prostitutes are in a state of mind not best defined as sober. They are often quite drunk, or high. Sometimes they’re able to f*ck, sometimes they aren’t. Sometimes they pass out the moment their back hits the bed, and sometimes they f*ck and fall asleep directly afterward.
This means the poor sex worker who just gave them their body is faced with a decision — leave empty-handed, their body once more violated; stolen from them, without recompense…or, they could wake John up out of his drunken slumber, and try to demand money from him. But for your average sex worker, this is a very dangerous proposition.
What if John wakes up angry? What if he forgets who you are, and forgets that he was the one who called you? What if he’s drunk and just finds it easier to swing at you than to pay you? So, very often sex workers do not take this choice. Instead, rather than leave empty-handed or awake what could be a sleeping monster, they take the third route.
This method is usually to leave silently but to look for a few things of value on the way out. Some will surely take more than they’re due, but many will only take what’s fair. Why not take them for all they are worth? Well, escorts, prostitutes, whores — whatever you want to call them, live in a state of fear. Most of them are drug addicts — my people. They have enough to fear already, from a society that views their medical condition as criminal and fails to treat them properly.
These people are, through the logic-defying force of addiction, forced to perform these acts that they do not want to perform. It’s as though they are a leukemia patient that is forced to sell themselves for a daily vile of pure red blood cells, delivered through a spike in the vein, to placate their cancer’s appetite for one more day. The cancer is growing and getting worse. But, you can’t will your way into remission from leukemia. Similarly, in absence of medical intervention, addiction just says “I THE CAPTAIN NOW” — and this new captain isn’t exactly a thinker. Their ship is propelled by two of the world’s oldest occupations — theft, and sex acts for money. They are degraded in the most base way.
But so anyways… they live in fear, these people. Police are already always on their tails, and they know they don’t need a John coming after them too. So, they tend to be fair. Though, sometimes not. Benji was probably not being fair, because he was a filthy little thief. So, when his John awoke to Benji rummaging through his drawers, he was upset. Very upset.
According to Benji, the John grabbed his bedside lamp, a mid-century brass type of piece, ripped it out of the socket, and ran at Benji with the force and war cry of a banshee. Understandably, Benji sprinted pretty quickly in the other direction. The problem was that Benji‘s pockets were rather full of John’s possessions. So stuffed were his pockets, that through the fabric of his sweatpants the goods slapped his thighs and balls in alternating rhythm like two old leather police blackjacks. They were weighing him down.
Plus… He figured that if he emptied his pockets on the sprint out, his John would have less of a reason to continue chasing him and/or call the police. So he began scooping his pockets out with swimmer-cupped hands, as fast as possible. But, Benji was not the type to leave empty-handed. He intended to shed enough of the watches, jewelry, etc to the point where the John thought he had all of his possessions back and would stop chasing him. But Benji still very much wanted to leave with something in his pockets; he was ‘sporting lint’ on the meth front.
Sure enough, the John pulled up at the door, and began collecting the discarded possessions off the ground. Meanwhile, Benji scampered across his lawn, through a couple of bushes, and slid into the planter’s dirt, sure that he had been unseen. Benji caught his breath, back on the dirt, in the nightshade of a shrub.
As Benji fingered through the remaining items in his pockets, he spun through the mathematical conversions required to calculate the amount of meth he would soon have on hand. On this first appraisal, he figured he could get at least a ball of dope for the remaining contents of his pockets, even if he went to his cheap-ass Viet plug. So, as Benji lay in the dirt, he stared through the leaves of the shrubs into the fog above and felt a sense of relief.
But the fog began to shine dull shades of blue and red, and Benji knew the cops were about to be arriving on the scene. No sirens, which was a good sign. But, the dude called the police. Benji couldn’t believe this, as his John was insanely drunk and had just solicited a prostitute, which was illegal. But, if Benji were caught, it would be his word against the John’s. And the man with the mansion usually wins in a battle of words.
Benji lay flat as a board, perfectly still, hoping his shoe’s bright colors wouldn’t betray him against the beam of a flashlight. He slid his hands slowly out of his pockets and began to dig small holes in the loosely packed dirt. Into these holes, he dropped a watch, a money clip, an old prescription bottle full of quarters, two rings, and a pair of Samsung headphones. He packed the dirt back on top of these items, concealing them in case he was discovered.
The cops left shortly thereafter, probably figuring to go find the little thief somewhere out there on the streets. Benji had just resigned himself to a long night spent in the cold when the sprinklers went off. There were lines, even for a shrub-sleeper like Benji. And getting soaked by sprinklers while laying in the soon-to-be-mud on a fifty-degree night was one of them. Still, he thought it was probably safer to not have these possessions on him, in case the cops caught up to him. He got up, made a mental note of his location so that he could return in a few hours, and walked sullenly into the night.
Benji did indeed end up successfully exhuming his loot a few hours later, undetected. Such is the impressive commitment and dedication of your severely drug-addicted individual. The headphones were wet and dirty but seemed to still work.
A couple of months later, through a series of unfortunate events, I ended up purchasing these headphones from Benji. We need not get into the nuts and bolts of the how, what, when, where, and why of the matter — we’ll just say that it was not during my finest hour. But the point of the story is that I ended up with them, and used them for quite some time.
Oh, and they were altogether an utter piece of sh*t.
