19 July 2008
93. The Naked Man
Atlanta Full Moon H3 - 17 July 08
It’s easy to take Peachtree Creek for granted. As creeks go, it’s not that spectacular. It’s not wildly deep and it’s not the most pleasantly fragrant water in metro Atlanta. But it’s a liquid goldmine for hares trying to put together a shiggier hash inside the perimeter.
Red Breast and HoPo were the latest hares to take advantage of Peachtree Creek’s prime location, for Thursday night’s Full Moon hash. And that’s where we saw the naked man.
No one’s positive when the naked man first appeared in the area. In fact, most of us have never seen the guy. All we know is that at some point we started seeing his makeshift home underneath a railroad trestle on Peachtree Creek’s south branch, just north of I-85. The trestle is actually a large concrete bridge, and the underside is curved at the top. If you’re in the creek and look up, you’ll notice a long ledge on each side, stretching the entire length of the bridge. They’re not that far up, but to get on top of them, you have to be on the ends of the bridge where the dirt and rock piles give you a boost; getting to it from the middle is almost impossible.
The naked man’s makeshift home is on the south ledge. On the other side is some sort of colorful mural facing the water. So on one side there’s beauty; on the other side there’s crap. Now, this guy doesn’t have a whole lot of crap, but as far as under-the-overpass-living homeless dudes go, he’s got more junk than most. Blankets, stuff to sit on, a largish igloo cooler, some sort of pads to lay on, and a bunch of little shit that’s hard to focus on while you’re deftly avoiding stuff underfoot, but you can still get the feeling all that crap would come in handy for a such a wayward gentleman. Yes, he has clothes, too. Let’s not forget that part. He just wasn’t wearing them when we came through.
I think only one unfortunate hound saw the man’s cash and prizes. Slim Jim and the Twins. His own personal full moon, if you know what I’m saying. Niplets came around a corner of the creek and noticed the clothesless guy hurriedly trotting out of view. He reappeared while trying to slip on pants and then disappeared again. That’s when Niplets heard something you don’t want to hear when you’re slogging through a creek… the sound of rocks hitting the water and cracking on the exposed boulders. He quickly got to one side and climbed up to the tracks, trying to find the guy by peering through the shiggy. No sign of him. This now-half-naked guy was in some strategic spot hidden from view, somewhere at an elevation between Niplets and more approaching FRB’s. I was among this group, but was far enough back to have no idea who was ahead of me. So when I saw the rocks hitting the water, I initially thought some hound was fucking with us. But the rocks were coming too close. And these weren’t little pebbles. Some of the splashes were getting rather large, and when the projectiles connected with the boulders, the sound echoed through the creek’s entire miniature valley.
One of the rocks landed right near me. I wasn’t panicked, but urgently found it necessary to find out where Mother Nature’s missiles where coming from so I could dodge them if needed. Rocks that big could fuck someone up pretty bad. We had just come from a beer stop at Sweetwater Brewery, and maybe it was the full pint I had just chugged, but I let out a thundering bellow that belies my normally (pleasant?) demeanor:
“IF YOU KEEP THROWING THOSE ROCKS, WHEN I GET UP THERE, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
Knowing I had not laid eyes on the rock-thrower, making such threats was not the best idea. Especially looking back, realizing we might have been dealing with a psychopath. But some psychologists and hostage negotiators will be quick to point out that my exclamation carried some weight. Instead of the more vague “You will be killed” or “You are going to die,” I had yelled in the first person: “I am going to kill you!” Apparently that means business. At least to people who don’t know that my only idea of killing is killing a six pack.
The shower of rocks stopped.
Several of us made it up the slippery kudzu hill to the tracks and looked around. No one. Niplets was gone by then, and my attempt at peering through the shiggy was only partially successful; I was only able to see enough of the creek to know no one else was right behind us.
We all got to the end in one piece, and your humble scribe received a warm down-down for the boisterous Rule 6 violation. So I either drank for stupidity, drank for my creepy Jekyll-and-Hyde outburst, or drank for scaring some poor homeless dude who was simply trying to protect his scant, filthy property.
If I ever become jobless and indigent, I already have my living quarters scoped out. It’s underneath the Paces Ferry bridge at the Chattahoochee River. It’s fabulous unclaimed property, although not nearly as impressive as the ledge the naked guy calls home. Hey, the other ledge is free. I could always crash there. I’d just have to supply our friend with some softer stuff to throw.
My name is Lost and Fucked, and I most solemnly swear that the above information is only partially based on fact.
May the Hash Get a Piece
It’s easy to take Peachtree Creek for granted. As creeks go, it’s not that spectacular. It’s not wildly deep and it’s not the most pleasantly fragrant water in metro Atlanta. But it’s a liquid goldmine for hares trying to put together a shiggier hash inside the perimeter.
Red Breast and HoPo were the latest hares to take advantage of Peachtree Creek’s prime location, for Thursday night’s Full Moon hash. And that’s where we saw the naked man.
No one’s positive when the naked man first appeared in the area. In fact, most of us have never seen the guy. All we know is that at some point we started seeing his makeshift home underneath a railroad trestle on Peachtree Creek’s south branch, just north of I-85. The trestle is actually a large concrete bridge, and the underside is curved at the top. If you’re in the creek and look up, you’ll notice a long ledge on each side, stretching the entire length of the bridge. They’re not that far up, but to get on top of them, you have to be on the ends of the bridge where the dirt and rock piles give you a boost; getting to it from the middle is almost impossible.
The naked man’s makeshift home is on the south ledge. On the other side is some sort of colorful mural facing the water. So on one side there’s beauty; on the other side there’s crap. Now, this guy doesn’t have a whole lot of crap, but as far as under-the-overpass-living homeless dudes go, he’s got more junk than most. Blankets, stuff to sit on, a largish igloo cooler, some sort of pads to lay on, and a bunch of little shit that’s hard to focus on while you’re deftly avoiding stuff underfoot, but you can still get the feeling all that crap would come in handy for a such a wayward gentleman. Yes, he has clothes, too. Let’s not forget that part. He just wasn’t wearing them when we came through.
I think only one unfortunate hound saw the man’s cash and prizes. Slim Jim and the Twins. His own personal full moon, if you know what I’m saying. Niplets came around a corner of the creek and noticed the clothesless guy hurriedly trotting out of view. He reappeared while trying to slip on pants and then disappeared again. That’s when Niplets heard something you don’t want to hear when you’re slogging through a creek… the sound of rocks hitting the water and cracking on the exposed boulders. He quickly got to one side and climbed up to the tracks, trying to find the guy by peering through the shiggy. No sign of him. This now-half-naked guy was in some strategic spot hidden from view, somewhere at an elevation between Niplets and more approaching FRB’s. I was among this group, but was far enough back to have no idea who was ahead of me. So when I saw the rocks hitting the water, I initially thought some hound was fucking with us. But the rocks were coming too close. And these weren’t little pebbles. Some of the splashes were getting rather large, and when the projectiles connected with the boulders, the sound echoed through the creek’s entire miniature valley.
One of the rocks landed right near me. I wasn’t panicked, but urgently found it necessary to find out where Mother Nature’s missiles where coming from so I could dodge them if needed. Rocks that big could fuck someone up pretty bad. We had just come from a beer stop at Sweetwater Brewery, and maybe it was the full pint I had just chugged, but I let out a thundering bellow that belies my normally (pleasant?) demeanor:
“IF YOU KEEP THROWING THOSE ROCKS, WHEN I GET UP THERE, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
Knowing I had not laid eyes on the rock-thrower, making such threats was not the best idea. Especially looking back, realizing we might have been dealing with a psychopath. But some psychologists and hostage negotiators will be quick to point out that my exclamation carried some weight. Instead of the more vague “You will be killed” or “You are going to die,” I had yelled in the first person: “I am going to kill you!” Apparently that means business. At least to people who don’t know that my only idea of killing is killing a six pack.
The shower of rocks stopped.
Several of us made it up the slippery kudzu hill to the tracks and looked around. No one. Niplets was gone by then, and my attempt at peering through the shiggy was only partially successful; I was only able to see enough of the creek to know no one else was right behind us.
We all got to the end in one piece, and your humble scribe received a warm down-down for the boisterous Rule 6 violation. So I either drank for stupidity, drank for my creepy Jekyll-and-Hyde outburst, or drank for scaring some poor homeless dude who was simply trying to protect his scant, filthy property.
If I ever become jobless and indigent, I already have my living quarters scoped out. It’s underneath the Paces Ferry bridge at the Chattahoochee River. It’s fabulous unclaimed property, although not nearly as impressive as the ledge the naked guy calls home. Hey, the other ledge is free. I could always crash there. I’d just have to supply our friend with some softer stuff to throw.
My name is Lost and Fucked, and I most solemnly swear that the above information is only partially based on fact.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 6:46 PM 
