They kicked out the philosopher junkie (SAN FRANCISCO)

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He was one of those guys who never left the classroom. Waxing high-brow on counter-culture ideals and abstract notions ad nauseam is his signature brand of conversation which, it should come as no surprise, makes him very bad at socializing. This, in effect, only further convinces him of his intellectual superiority; not that he would ever so blatantly admit it -- even to self. If I know one thing about such people it is this: for all their shininess they are as worthless as a wooden nickel.

An intelligent individualist such as he merited the socially maligned narcotics of marijuana and ecstasy and LSD

We met in a hostel in San Francisco over the Christmas and New Years holidays. He was playing video games on his laptop and drinking. (Turns out, he was always getting high and playing computer games against his virtual friends.) And as it was San Francisco, intoxicants weren't limited to drink. Oh no. An intelligent individualist such as he merited the socially maligned narcotics of marijuana and zoinking drugs like ecstasy and LSD -- at the very least. He said stuff like: We don't need government; All recreational drugs should be legalized and taxed and regulated (the contradiction painfully lost on him); America should be more like (INSERT ENEMY COUNTRY); et cetera. One evening he was congratulating himself on socializing with the homeless junkies and weirdos who roam all over downtown San Francisco like zombie extras in a horror film. 

(my previous stay in USA Hostels San Francisco)

"They're really smart people. They have an invaluable insight to share," he insisted. "They're lonely. They just want somebody to talk to." "Other than themselves?" I said. Undaunted, he laughed it off. "I always stop and talk to them...I like talking to them. They're people, too. It enriches my life." I wasn't buying it. "They have people to hear them out," I said. "Counselors, social workers, their dealer, each other. For me to stop and talk to them would be to piss away my time. But," I conceded, "don't let me stop you. Knock yourself out." I've met these Good Samaritans before. His sermon outpaces his conduct.

Then it happened that he came up short on his bill. He came up short on his bill because he had no more money. He had no more money because he spent it liberally on drugs. And he had no one to turn to because he'd burned his bridges with friends and family owing to the habit of spending liberally on drugs and routinely coming up short. The hostel was a big place with many social spaces and nooks and corners. The darkest of these was the movie room replete with large wall-mounted flat screen monitors and rows of cinema chairs. Without a legitimate claim to a bed the perpetual philosopher cum addict had taken to hiding out in the movie room and conveniently "dozing off." But the curtain came down on him on New Year's Day. On the afternoon of January 1st I happened to cross the passage just as the manager and another member of staff marched him out of the cinema and up the hall. The manager was pissed. "Take whatever you have in the refrigerator and get out!"
The look on the boy's face was sad. I turned away to spare him further embarrassment. 

I've met these Good Samaritans before. His sermon outpaces his conduct

But inwardly I was chuckling. Not because of his shame in being given the boot nor from any personal dislike of the man, per se. No, what struck me as wickedly hilarious was the fact that he was forced to practice what he preached. Now he would have all the livelong day and night to chat with his fellow homeless junkie brethren. Irony is a bitter dish to swallow.  

Have you ever experienced a deadbeat or brawl in a hostel/hotel?