vacation equation

Boulder's street corners usually host at least one ragamuffin dreadlocked hobo with a sign that says he is just traveling through and could use some dough to get to his next destination. This always used to piss off a buddy of mine in college, to the extent that he would roll down the window of his big-ass SUV and berate the wayward wanderer.
"You only get to travel if you have money, asshole! Get a job."
Needless to say, our young friend with the sign would be no match for such open hostility.

This college buddy (who just happens to have a bunch of family money), has a specific notion about the process of things. In his world (and basically in everyone else's) travel is a privilege that only comes with savings. I can see how this is generally the way of the world, but the more I go to The Creek to climb, the more I see exceptions to the rule.

On my last trip out there, I met a guy named Dave who was staying in the adjacent campsite. I would say living, but "living" typically infers a long term, rent paying arrangement between landlord and tenant. Given that the camping is free and entirely unregulated, Dave's situation fails to meet those specs.
Regardless, Dave would swing by our camp each morning and night to say hello and shoot the breeze. We'd tell stories, talk about our goals for each day, and relive the aches and pains of jamming our knuckles against rock. Dave even had a mutual acquaintance with my climbing partner for the trip, and they talked about "Dirty Tony" like he was a favorite soothsaying uncle.
"Remember how he had 12 plates at one time that he nicked from the trash?"
"Did you know he eventually got arrested for it?"
I don't think this Dirty Tony was related by blood to Dave, but the more time we spent with him hanging around our camp, the more I wondered if Tony had a weighty influence on the worldview or our new neighbor. Especially after we gave him a ride into Moab.

Dave was in the Creek without a car of his own, so he hopped in with us on our way back to Boulder. We offered to drop him off in town on our way through, presumably so he could get some groceries, take a shower, shit in a real toilet, and resupply before hitching back to his dusty tent.
"Just drop me off by the gas station. The City Market has the dumpsters pretty much on lock-down."
"What do you need gas for?"
"No, the Texaco's dumpster has way easier access."

What came out over the course of the next several minutes was that Dave's town priorities differed greatly from most people's. While the first thing I would do in town is bathe, Dave's main priority was finding an edible garbage stash. He explained that it wasn't like he would swim to the bottom, or plow through the wet trash bags, but if something was new enough looking and close to the top, he might as well grab a snack.

This brings us back to our corner beggar. I assume that this guy suffered a tongue lashing at the hands of my old college friend with some sort of plan.
"I have $600 bucks, and I want to get to California. I can hitch to Omaha from St. Cloud, and stay with my cousin, and then maybe score a ride with a buddy from Creighton when he goes to Colorado for spring break!"
So Mr. Beggar finds himself in CO, now down to 30 bucks, but he still really wants to get to the urban wasteland that is San Diego.
What the hell for? Who cares. He's on the way.
Now his vacation equation is going to need a bump in cash, so he heads to the corner of Pearl Street and Broadway to see if the hordes of Audi driving 19 year olds can "spare a buck for a bro'." Enough bro's spare enough bucks, and Mr. Beggar finally gets to San Diego, the Whale's Vagina, only to end up in a ditch in a drug deal gone wrong. Drat.

But Dave isn't in a ditch, he's in my car, funking the unholy hell out of the back seat's atmosphere. Further, he has his own vacation equation to work out. If he grabs enough expired Little Debbies from enough Texaco dumpsters, he can wait it out in the Creek for an extra few days. Maybe he planned it, maybe that's just how the whole situation evolved. But I know Dave's vacation equation called for something akin to standing on Pearl and Broadway.
My vacation equation? I had to get back to work. Even if it was a few days earlier than it could have been given begging, depravity, and a suspension of mild germophobia.