cleveland onionpockets

Cleveland Onionpockets lives in Morongo Valley, California just north of Palm Springs. His yard ain't got no grass. His home is a hollow metal cylinder laid on it's side. He don't got  windows or heat or air. It smells pretty bad in there what with his staph infection and all.
Cleveland raises spiders. Big spiders. He skins them, tans the hides and makes fur jackets for Barbi Dolls. He sells these in Quartzite across the border in Arizona at the flea market. He rides his old Schwinn 3-speed bicycle over there once every three months. After he tops the valley it's an easy ride. Spider skins are light.
The jackets sell for $40 apiece and Cleveland usually sells out whatever he's brought along. Money in pocket and a song in his heart Cleveland tools back down one hill into the valley and up the other into the mountains hosting the grand city of Morongo Valley. He buys a carton of straight Pall Malls and a case of Keystone Light beer. He sits outside his cylinder in a purloined patio chair and roasts a potato over a cardboard fueled fire. The streetlight overhead lights up his piece of the world.
Cleveland used to ride bulls on the southern Cali circuit, pining for the PRCA NFR in Vegas. But, dang if he didn't get thrown hard against the steel of the chute, smashing his elbow and injuring his brain. The doctor said,  Cleveland, your brain is broken. You ain't the same.
He felt the same, except for the elbow, but forgot where he lived and just wandered off, winding up in Morongo. He had followed a spider through the Mojave and was struck by lightening next to a Joshua Tree. He didn't eat and he didn't have any water, but he was never tired, hungry or thirsty. He had no money and had worn through the soles in his shoes. He was taunted by the Trickster,  Iktomi, but he did not yield.
Forty days later, Cleveland emerged from the Mojave and came upon what was to become his home. The cylinder. It was built to divert flood water but was large enough diameter-wise for him to stand up in. He inspected it and gave it a nudge. And another. It groaned and rolled. It kept on rolling, rolling right across Paradise Lane and coming to a stop in a weed-choked vacant lot. His broken brain told him he was home.
He was. And he's still there, raising spiders under the streetlight.