The Homeless Chick

"So where do you live?," I asked of the woman whose number was given to me by my friend, "Shmegs" - an unfortunate nickname bestowed upon him well before I met him in college.

Shmegs is the type of guy who can set you up with a whacko or someone really cool, which makes sense given that Shmegs himself is both a whacko and really cool at the same time. Regardless of the mental stability levels of the women he's hooked me up with, they've all had one thing in common: they were all knockouts. I don't know how a guy who gets introduced at social gatherings as "Shmegs Bernstein" has access to these women, but he does. And when he offers me a number, I take it...superficial bastard that I am.

"I don't really LIVE anywhere," she responded.

"What do you mean?," I asked.

"I kind of stay with people. Like now I'm staying with a friend on the Lower East Side," she said matter of factly.

"I see."

"I guess you could say I'm homeless," she said, giggling.

"Really? You have your own shopping cart, and everything?," I said, knowing that this one wasn't gonna happen.

"No. I'm really just in between places right now," she responded. "It's been impossible to find a place that's reasonably priced."

"How long have you been looking?," I asked.

"Three years."

The conversation ended with me telling her I'd "be in touch" - not with her necessarily, but I had to say something.

I'm not that demanding when it comes to what I'm looking for in women I'd like to date, but possessing permanent shelter is a must.

I told Shmegs the story, and he emailed me her picture so I could see what I was missing. She was hot. But I kept envisioning her with dirty, scraggly hair, and those fingerless gloves that are all the rage amongst the homeless set sleeping on my sofa for the next 6-8 months.