[ WP ] Tell me the story of your local homeless man real or not .


 No one ever dared to take the garbage out after dark. If it was absolutely necessary at our small, slightly run down dance studio, we ’ d draw straws. The two unlucky ones would go. I remember the ritual quite well, even though it only happened a handful of times every few months. The two would be chosen. They ’ d try to argue, insist it wasn ’ t fair. Obviously, everyone else sided against them. Nobody else wanted to have to go in their places. 
 
 After that failed, they ’ d grab the garbage at a deliberately lazy pace. At first they ’ d pretend like they weren ’ t the least bit worried, strutting over to the door. As the darkened alley came into view their smiles disappeared. One would open the door, sticking his or her head out like a turtle from its shell. Ready to pull back in at the slightest movement. 
 
 If nothing happened - it never did when I was there - they ’ d slip out slowly, trying to move quietly. When they got to the dumpster at the end of the alley though, they ’ d abandon any pretense of calm or stealth they had left. They ’ d hurl the bag into the dumpster and take off racing for the door. When they reached it and flew in, they ’ d slam, triple lock, and sometimes barricade it. 
 
 What were we all so scared of, you wonder? The answer was short: Hobo Joe. The raving, nocturnal homeless man who sometimes hid out in the dumpster. There were all sorts of terrifying legends of this figure. They ranged from the mundane - he once asked me for money -, to gruesome - he ate my cat ’ s kittens for breakfast -, to supernatural even - his eyes turned red when angered and he had hooflike feet. I doubt the truth the the majority of these tales. Either way, it seemed like most every person at this dance studio had something to add. Even the receptionist claimed he ’ d appeared on the stage once, doing some strange solo step dance before vanishing. The receptionist needed to cut back on the nightly drinks. 
 
 I was never even sure if Hobo Joe wasn ’ t just some figment of everyone ’ s imagination until one night. The night I was chosen to take the garbage out. There were only four of us left, and I somehow ended up going alone. 
 
 I fell into the old ritual, smiling in false bravery as I opened the door. I began walking down the alley. This wasn ’ t so bad, I thought to myself. No devil hobos. He probably didn ’ t even exist, I decided. Just as I was becoming sure of this, I heard the cough. Peering through the darkness, I saw something crouched by dumpster. My heart began to race as it dawned on me this wasn ’ t just a bag. 
 
 There was only one sane thing to do at this point. Throw the bag on the ground and dash for safety, before I was ensnared by his hypnotic eyes or something. However, I found I was frozen to the ground. The figure stood up. I was sure I was about to die. They were going to find my blood less, mutilated body in a few weeks. A few weeks because he would hide it crazy well. As I shrunk back in my spot, the figure spoke. 
 
 “ Want any fries? ” His voice was raspy, but not demonic. 
 
 “ What? ” I said, confused. 
 
 “ You want any fries? ” Hobo Joe repeated, holding up a slightly grimy container of McDonald ’ s fries. I tried not to wrinkle my nose. 
 
 “ I ’ m okay, ” I replied. 
 
 “ Suit yourself. ” He shrugged. I dared a glance at his feet. They weren ’ t hooves. And he was eating McDonald ’ s french fries, not kittens. Plus, his eyes weren ’ t red. They were a dull grey, from what I could tell in the dim lighting. 
 
 “ Any food in that bag? ” He asked after a moment. I followed his gaze to the bag at my feet. It was just filled with old cups, mostly. I shook my head, then thought. 
 
 “ Hey, you know, I ’ m going over to the Icecream Palace after this. You wan na come? ” I ’ m not totally sure why I asked the guy I was sure was a terrifying creature a few moments before if he wanted to come get icecream with me. He didn ’ t seem dangerous at all, actually. Maybe just a little lonely. 
 
 “ Sure. I ’ ll pay, ” He said. My eyebrows shot up. He snorted. 
 
 “ I ’ m homeless, not broke girl. I ’ ll pay for mine anyways, ” He replied. 
 
 So that ’ s how I ended up getting ice cream with Hobo Joe. 

