[ WP ] You are a Homeless wine connoisseur that enjoys the finer things in life ...

Most people give me dirty looks as they pass me by, huddled in my makeshift cardboard tent. I ’ m sure, to them, I look like a mooch, a leach on society, someone who will waste their precious dollars on a cheap drink, or, worse yet, an addictive drug habit. Truth be told, my addiction is no less real. No less costly. 
 
 Some look at me with sympathetic eyes, but hurry onward without giving me a second thought. They must suspect that I ’ ve had a streak of bad luck, perhaps an injury or illness, perhaps been laid-off for cheaper, overseas labor. They ’ d be wrong. I have a college degree. A steady job. A reasonable, though not large, salary. Health insurance. 
 
 Still fewer look at me and are moved by my condition. Most of those throw a few coins my way. Not enough to buy a pack of gum. Maybe a couple hand me a fiver. Rarely, a particularly generous person hands me a twenty, or even a hundred, dollar bill. If they knew, they would turn from me in disgust and keep walking. But they don ’ t. I thank them. And I have all I need for the night. 
 
 I reach into my backpack for my daily cash allotment, now depleted from the $ 150 to around $ 110 after the purchase of lunch, my laundry bill, and dinner. I add to it the $ 136.45 from the evening ’ s begging, which gives me around $ 245 I can spend on my addiction. I begin my trek—hopping onto the 6 train to Astor Place. 
 
 Before I ’ ve reached my destination, I pop into a McDonald ’ s bathroom to change out of my ripped Dickies and my safety-pinned-together punk-rock hoodie, into one of my two complete work outfits—basic tailored wrinkle-free chinos in navy and olive, slim-fit dress shirts, and a handful of different ties, a single tan sports jacket, as well as my high end tan loafers. All purchased at thrift stores over the course of a few months. All kept in good condition, since they ’ re folded neatly in my backpack. And no one at work notices my lack of variety. I ’ ll wear these clothes again tomorrow, as I plan on changing out of them on my way back to the park where I set up camp. 
 
 I put my grubby casual clothes into a plastic sack ( easy enough to find lying around on the street ), tie it up, and toss it in the backpack with my clean clothes. Then I walk. It ’ s only a few blocks to my wine store of choice. When I arrive, I ’ m greeted by one of the faces I know all too well. They, like those I work with, do not suspect my secret life and welcome me warmly, each day. By now, they know what I like, and pull a few bottles from behind the counter. There is a particular wine, a 35 year old Spanish rioja, that I will buy at the end of the month. They ’ ve promised to hold it for me, one of their favorite customers. But today, I settle for a 2004 Bordeaux, costing me just over $ 100. That leaves me with a surplus of around $ 100, after taxes, that I will put away for the $ 750 rioja that will be mine in no more than a week ’ s time. 
 
 I place the bottle into my backpack, thank the clerks, and head out. I walk back to the McDonald ’ s, change into my jeans and sweatshirt, and begin my brisk trek to the park. I see a discarded, broken pallet along the way, and carry it with me. The spring sky is dark, the air crisp and cold, and I am shivering by the time I reach my makeshift home. I ’ m pleasantly surprised that none of the drug addicts who frequent this place in the dark hours of night have disturbed my nest made up of plastic shipping crates and cardboard boxes. Some nights I have to start from scratch, delaying my pleasure until I can procure the needed materials to shield me from the cold wind. On the night that I buy the rioja, I will find a nice, indoor location to enjoy it—perhaps the Starbuck ’ s, in a discreet corner, after I ’ ve purchased a mocha-latte-frappa-whatever that I will not actually drink. 
 
 But tonight, this will do. It ’ s much less cold with the wind blocked. I ’ ve barricaded myself up against some taller rocks, building up almost a cave. I ’ ve got a lighter, so I start a small fire with the pallet I found, warming me considerably. I pull the Bordeaux from my pack, and dig around the bottom until I find my corkscrew and single wine glass, wrapped in newspaper. I expertly open the bottle, bringing the cork to my nose to smell the enchanting aroma. I pour the deep burgundy liquid from the bottle, perfectly pouring it without a drip ( not that the ground would mind a few drops of heaven ), and as I finally raise the glass to my lips, I inhale deeply. Its warm, spicy aroma is enough to make me forget this troubled world and my place in it. And, troubled as I may be, I am happy.
