BAGGY CLOWN PANTS and t-shirt are Mr. Troll Man’s uniform of the day, every day as far as I can tell. The t-shirt stretches tightly over his obese gut revealing a prominent outie. Too much information!

He always looks like he just crawled out of bed in a panic, as if he’s overslept and woke up almost sober. He’s playing catch up on a binge, like Ray Wylie Hubbard sang about: “them old hard boys from the Double A . . . how they ain’t gonna be drinking just for today.” I don’t think Troll is ever coming down. At some point there was probably an outlaw vibe to the process. Now it’s just wretched street theater about how long this suicide attempt is going to take.

I don’t know how he supports the lifestyle. It’s got to the point where he’s too disgusting to successfully panhandle. He was amusing (in a very disturbing way) when he first started working the pavement. He’d walk up to a car and ask: “Got any spare change?” If anybody actually handed him some coins, he’d always follow up with: “Got any of that folding change?”

But then he started heaving up all over cars. Velita had a cow when it happened to her. “You don’t know what’s in that vomit!” she howled. “It’s got to be some kind of corrosive shit in there, like Sterno or Green Lizard aftershave. A bum like that isn’t particular about what he drinks.” Word gets around in a town like this. Most folks give Troll an extra wide berth when they can.

Down at Willard Park, there’s a foot bridge over the drainage arroyo that runs through there. That’s part of how Troll got his name. He crashes under that bridge most nights. He hauls in scraps of wood and cardboard and builds him a little shelter. The city keeps tearing it out, but I guess Troll is more persistent than they are. Some people call Troll a homeless guy, but he seems pretty well dug in out there.

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