"Excuse me, could you leave your bag by the tables?" requested the clean shaven manager of the Love's where I found myself. "No offense," he added.
"No problem," I responded charitably. Travelers were typically assumed thieves until proven otherwise. I chose not to steal not from fear of God or Karma or getting caught, but because if I stole I justified all the prejudice against me. Regarded with an immoral disposition, I held myself to a greater ethical standard now than when I was still a yuppie. Besides, walking into the Love's I noticed a swarm of upper-management looking types with shit in their eyes as they stared at my pariah existence. I assumed this one only aspired to look good in front of them. I wouldn't hold it against him. I was in far too good a mood.
Place to place, gratitude dominated my obstacles. My day started by taking a fat shit underneath the overpass in true homebum glory. To my credit it was my sphincter's decision and my only say was whether it'd go on the ground or my only shorts. After ruining a pair of pants in Portland a month ago, I'd never choose wrongly in that regard again. This may not sound like the best way to start the morning, and it certainly threw my mood off balance, compounded by the sight of another broke traveler using my on-ramp and the fact that the men's bathroom lacked any toilet paper. But maybe these little frustrations arrived to remind me to count my blessings each morning and take nothing for granted. Besides, my spirit was impervious and I retained an awareness of it. I knew I'd find a way. That bum could be a reason to feel sorry for myself, or a provider of no other option than to open my mouth for a ride at the truckstop. Though I faced some initial rejection it took little time for an elderly man to approach me and ask if I needed a ride. In the car we got to talking and it turned out he was an ex-hitchhiker, traveling to California as a kid only to discover he had itchy feet. He traversed the country twenty five times before he settled down again. Things were different back then, he told me.
"At the very least, there were plenty of queers. One of them would pick you up and I never cared so long as they didn't try nothing on me," he joked. "But you show me somebody who's been on the road a while and says they never let a guy suck their dick for a few dollars and I'll show you a liar."
Ahead of schedule for his work in Conway, he took me to a quiet lake occupied by a couple old fishermen out in their little, wood motor boat and we had a couple beers, sharing stories of our travels and a few good laughs. He dropped me off at what he said was a good on-ramp in Conway. A few minutes later a middle-aged woman picked me up saying it was a terrible on ramp and dropping me off at the Loves where I'd be asked to leave my bag at the tables. I bought a beer, slammed it under the overpass, confronted a black widow spider as big as my thumb and headed to the on-ramp where I got picked up by the same clean shaven manager that told me to leave my bag at the door. Now off work, his tattoos stuck out from his rolled up sleeves and an open beer sat in his lap.
"Fucking cocksuckers," he grumbled a couple miles down the road. "This week I've worked two tens, two thirteens and then six today. And today was supposed to be my day off!"
He apologized for being suspicious of me and let me drink the bottom half of his beer. I told him I understood leeriness toward travelers and fed him some bullshit that I preferred to work rather than panhandle and didn't like causing trouble with the management at the truck stops I depended on.
"Yeah like that fucker earlier, sittin' right outside the door with a dog and an empty gas jug, drunk off his ass," he complained. As we rolled into the next truck stop and I tossed the beer, I couldn't help but notice a traveler sitting outside with a dog and a gas jug.
"How's it going brother?" he called out to me. Covered in tattoos with a half pit, half rotweiler at his side he greeted me with a smiled plastered in drunk charisma and explained how he got a ride in a van but the driver couldn't afford gas.
"Excuse me ma'am could you help me out with some gas? I don't need money just gas. That's okay God Bless," he solicited as various people passed us by. "Yep, tonight we're eatin' T-Bone steaks this thick." He held his finger and thumb nearly three inches from each other. He mentioned having three fifths of booze and told me his dog trained for eight months to be an attack dog. Attempting to help me with a ride, he introduced me to his driver, a stout sixty-one year old Navy Veteran named George who trembled from diabetes induced shakes as he shook my hand. He denied me a ride and I left for the on-ramp. His van passed by a few minutes later, presumably kicked and headed for the truck stop across the overpass. It began to sprinkle rain drops. I prayed for a ride before the rain picked up too heavily. Maybe I should have tried to get a ride from George harder, I thought. But faith was my guide, acceptance my reins. Desperation gave me nothing.
Moments later, George's van flew back across the overpass and barreled for the on-ramp. His breaks squealed and his passenger window rolled down. "Quick, get in!" he commanded. I asked where the man and his dog were.
"God I couldn't take it! He was drinking and stealing too much! He stole these steaks right out of a freezer truck!"
The steak turned out to be brisket, not T-Bone, but regardless we cooked it at the next rest stop then drove another thirty miles to a different rest stop at my suggestion after George informed me his previous rider possessed a thirty-thousand dollar katana, just got out of prison after serving twenty five years and George forgot to give him one of his bottles of rum back. Being five years sober, George intended to toss it. "Unless you want it," he added. Slyly, I stuck it in my bag. He had a little weed and we did our best to stretch it over the two days I spent with him. I listened to his stories but mostly listened to him justifying to himself all the reasons his last rider had to go.
Having suffered the loss of his best friend three weeks prior and turned away by his dying brother he traveled clear across country to see, George had little left to live for. Diabetic quivers disabling him from work, his prospects also appeared hopeless. He told me about his time in the war, his time on a shrimp boat and his religious experience during the '99 San Francisco earthquake; about how he'd seen a ghost and fucked up with alcohol all life's youthful opportunity. He reminded me of one of the many Forest Gumps that may be living out of a van trekking the country. When I sat down to write, he often asked me if I wrote about him. "Not yet," I responded, I realized then his despairing grasp for significance in a world that brushed him aside. I wondered how many more were like him, on the steep downhill slope of a seemingly inconsequential life, challenging God to reveal the purpose in it, give them some meaning so they can close their eyes for the final time in peace.
My heart quivered for him worse than his diabetic tremors. I searched for the right words to explain to him that all God wanted from his was a thankful heart and a pair of eyes willing to witness for God everything God conspires to experience. I filled his gas tank, bought him a quart of oil, a pack of cigarettes and thirty bucks worth of food then we parted ways. I failed to imagine his loneliness, and I feared it. Imagine crawling out of a bottle at fifty-six years with a family that won't talk to you and not a drop of love to be found anywhere. I hoped my kindness could fuel him forward like the clerk did for me at the Shell station outside West Memphis. In the end, I accepted that I did what I could. He had to find the path himself.
Meanwhile, blessings continued to rain upon me. Someone gave me forty five dollars and an elderly couple named Scott and Rose housed me up for a couple days near Hinton, Oklahoma. Rose was a kind old woman but her scowl one evening revealed she didn't care too much for me. Perhaps inadvertently I enabled Scott's underhanded cruelty toward her. Scott used to work on the oil rigs and apparently taught Larry Byrd everything he knows. After admitting I was a Laker's fan he proceeded to show me a special on Larry Byrd's fifty best plays. It stunned me, and as teammates commentated on his confidence I wondered if I saw manifestation in action. I found him inspiring, not in skill but in an attitude I envied and aspired to replicate. Scott shared some pot with me, attempted to buy my pipe and talked about how Obama was a muslim, communist, nigerian prince or some shit. He carried a dry, humorous disposition wherein he could offer you something and insult you at the same time. Refusing to learn my name he accused me of being deaf when I didn't answer to the random names he called me by. At night he'd drink whiskey and coke and drivel on about something before forgetting what he wanted to say next. He attempted to tell me how mature I was for my age and I humbly laughed at his compliments to which accused me of thinking he was crazy and laughing at him.
We watched Tombstone together and he ruined Val Kilmer's performance by preempting his lines to display his familiarity with the film. At some point one of the characters used the phrase, "I don't have the words," to express their gratitude to Wyatt Earp and I used the same phrase when Rose and Scott dropped me off to continue my journey. They gave me a coat with a nametag that read "Ray," and sent me on my way. I wondered if this Ray was the son Scott mentioned one night when some outside noises gave him cause to grab a rifle and peak out the window. Apparently his son got caught stealing meth and fled the state. I wondered if his son's predicament moved him to help travelers the way he did. Perhaps something in him believed if he helped travelers his son would receive help, too, wherever in the world he was. Or perhaps Scott simply carried some sympathy. Only those who knew how hard life could be seemed moved to help me, after all. Only experience appeared to surface the kindness through a sea of fear and indifference. Of all the fools hanging crosses from their rear-views, the ones possessing real faith glimmered like stars in a void. Incomparably tiny beside the emptiness that surrounds them, but bright enough to be the only significance perceivable. Even as Oklahoma's frigid wind and rain numbed my legs and frosted my bones I remained supported by nearly invisible strings of compassion and blanketed by a fire that sweeps across my spirit like California wilderness in August. While fear and callousness dominates the majority, evil vastly outweighing good, compassion strikes the darkness like a star born to vacuum. The actions of the righteous, no matter how few, prove profoundly necessary. One clerk arguing on my behalf while the other four want to kick me out keeps me warm in a truck stop rather than out in the cold and free of prospect.
If anything, the road taught me the necessity for good people to act. Even if they act alone they still save lives. And good is not defined by whatever symbol hangs from your rear-view or which building you visit weekly. It is not defined by your political affiliation or the width of your smile. Good receives no material gratification nor celestial pats on the back. It is not the donations you give, it is the sacrifices you make. It is not the number of years you've supported your loved ones but the warmth of your hugs and kisses for them. It is not the heat you can provide someone's skin, it is the heat you can provide their heart. Beneath the harshest winter, the invincible summer beams from within us all but so few notice that every angel weeps for our poor planet. And with doubt plaguing me always, each fear harder to surpass than the last, I wonder if I can make any difference at all. But I know I already have, with every act of kindness as meaningful as the nails that pierced Christ's wrists. The world cannot tolerate my doubt. If any Samaritan I'd come across chose to be indifferent rather than compassionate, I'd have been a goner. That is the importance of kindness, my very life depended on it. And if my life depended on the kindness of others, surely the world depended on the kindness of me.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Absolution
Germ decided to leave the bus and continue with his original plan to go to New Orleans for Halloween. He invited a greenhorn named Zerg and I to go with him. I was sick of the drunk's antic by then and ready to leave. With Zerg being an artist, we;d already discussed making comics together so it seemed ideal to travel with him. To us the choice was simple. While the bus had its benefits, riding truckstop to truckstop was hardly a way to see the world.
Travelling with Germ instantly proved unbearable. While I appreciated his ability to talk to strangers it came with an inability to stop (ever) and even compelled me to grab his throat one especially hung over morning in Memphis.
We never made it to New Orleans. After a weekend in Memphis we found the next truckstop south wouldn't come until Mississippi so we crossed back over the bridge to West Memphis in Arkansas which proved unfriendly to hitchhikers due to its crime problem. Police removed us from every truck stop we attempted to hitch. In short, we were stranded. Stories of New Orleans being the nation's murder capital combined with our earnest inability to guarantee Zerg's safety (or that of his belongings) flowered his doubts to the point where he decided to return home and downgrade his pack and lighten his load before venturing off again. Germ decided to return home, as well, in order to retrieve his ID. While tempted to continue alone, I knew the rule of thumb. You don't go to cities like the Big Easy without people to watch your back. We got so close, too.
Reduced only to my swim shorts and a borrowed undershirt, I carried a leather dufflebag to replace my stolen backpack containing barely more than a deteriorating sleeping bag and a garbage bag that sealed the rest of my clothes away until they were safely lice free. I had already persevered well beyond what I thought myself capable of. While stories of the Devil's city scared Zerg home and the police harrassment in West Memphis pushed Germ into giving up, I remained willing. But not stubborn. New Orleans was always Germ's intention and I felt no need to pursue it without him. Only now I was in east Arkansas with nothing to do but hold a thumb out in the direction of home. Road anxiety set in quickly. No location I set to hitch from could satisfy me, and so I pushed to the next on ramp only to find it worse than the previous. And then to the next. And the next. I walked miles and waited hours. Frustration increased until I found myself screaming at people to cut me a break, declaring Arkansas a state of Assholes and Jaysis the King of them. Fire ants left burning bites up my legs and I exploded, marching to the Shell station to grab a beer and beg for a ride west from its customers.
"Sorry sir we don't sell beer on Sundays, Arkansas state law," the clerk informed me as I counted my change.
"What else could go wrong?" I vented, dropping my change on a table. No beer, nothing to curb this sick irritation. The fire ant bites still burned, and my dissatisfaction with this state fumed. No beer. Because of fucking Jaysis. Jaysis, the bastard son whose name was beaten into my skull by a brainwashing pastor during a pre-bumfeed sermon in Memphis. Jaysis, who I could thank only for tricking those dumbasses into feeding me in the first place. But that hardly excused him for refusing me a beer on a day like this one, just because it was fucking Sunday. How is anyone supposed to enjoy church with DT shakes?
So I ate a sandwich instead and grew coldly pensive. I considered my reasons for hitting the road, puzzled by my inability to manifest a ride, wondering what I was doing wrong. I remembered my resolve, to manifest or die, but now death seemed more likely that a mastery of manifestation. I queried what it meant to manifest properly, recalling Kevin Trudeau's teachings. It starts with a feeling. I felt frustration. I listed complaints, thinking I deserved a break and receiving fire ant bites instead. I recalled one of my aunt's advocacy of the question, "How could it get any better than this?" While earlier I questioned what else could go wrong. But my aunt's question seemed unthinkable. Still, I contained the power to at least list a few things to be grateful for. The sandwich I ate, the table I sat upon, the gas station that allowed me to sit there, the air conditioning provided relief from a scorching hot day, and all the possessions I had left. Then it struck me, all of these possessions were gifts. The more I thought about it, the truer it seemed. The clothes sealed away in a garbage bag were all kick downs. Even my swim shorts, the last piece of fabric I had to protect my lower half from nudity, only remained in my possession because I gave them away to someone that needed pants before my backpack was stolen and my pants got ruined. And my very life, that was a gift too. My body flooded with absolution. As Kevin Trudeau would phrase it, I switched channels. I stepped outside to have a cigarette and ask for a ride, filled not with enthusiasm but at least with acceptance. After a few minutes of rejection, the clerk stepped out to light a stogue up as well and I greeted her. She asked me if the police harassed me and I recounted the abuse in West Memphis that tore my group apart.
"Well if they come up to you just step inside okay? They can't do nothing unless we call them."
"Thank you, I appreciate that."
It wasn't much, but it touched me. After nearly nothing from the clerks but threats of police involvement if we remained on the premises, the kindness dropped my jaw. More than that, it fueled me to hold on a little longer, to keep going. I headed back to the ramp and stuck my thumb out proudly, feeling within me an impervious spirit. If one person could be kind to me in this God forsaken state, someone else could, too. The fire ants felt no more cause to touch me and I got a ride two cigarettes later. My driver even bought me a sandwich.
Travelling with Germ instantly proved unbearable. While I appreciated his ability to talk to strangers it came with an inability to stop (ever) and even compelled me to grab his throat one especially hung over morning in Memphis.
We never made it to New Orleans. After a weekend in Memphis we found the next truckstop south wouldn't come until Mississippi so we crossed back over the bridge to West Memphis in Arkansas which proved unfriendly to hitchhikers due to its crime problem. Police removed us from every truck stop we attempted to hitch. In short, we were stranded. Stories of New Orleans being the nation's murder capital combined with our earnest inability to guarantee Zerg's safety (or that of his belongings) flowered his doubts to the point where he decided to return home and downgrade his pack and lighten his load before venturing off again. Germ decided to return home, as well, in order to retrieve his ID. While tempted to continue alone, I knew the rule of thumb. You don't go to cities like the Big Easy without people to watch your back. We got so close, too.
Reduced only to my swim shorts and a borrowed undershirt, I carried a leather dufflebag to replace my stolen backpack containing barely more than a deteriorating sleeping bag and a garbage bag that sealed the rest of my clothes away until they were safely lice free. I had already persevered well beyond what I thought myself capable of. While stories of the Devil's city scared Zerg home and the police harrassment in West Memphis pushed Germ into giving up, I remained willing. But not stubborn. New Orleans was always Germ's intention and I felt no need to pursue it without him. Only now I was in east Arkansas with nothing to do but hold a thumb out in the direction of home. Road anxiety set in quickly. No location I set to hitch from could satisfy me, and so I pushed to the next on ramp only to find it worse than the previous. And then to the next. And the next. I walked miles and waited hours. Frustration increased until I found myself screaming at people to cut me a break, declaring Arkansas a state of Assholes and Jaysis the King of them. Fire ants left burning bites up my legs and I exploded, marching to the Shell station to grab a beer and beg for a ride west from its customers.
"Sorry sir we don't sell beer on Sundays, Arkansas state law," the clerk informed me as I counted my change.
"What else could go wrong?" I vented, dropping my change on a table. No beer, nothing to curb this sick irritation. The fire ant bites still burned, and my dissatisfaction with this state fumed. No beer. Because of fucking Jaysis. Jaysis, the bastard son whose name was beaten into my skull by a brainwashing pastor during a pre-bumfeed sermon in Memphis. Jaysis, who I could thank only for tricking those dumbasses into feeding me in the first place. But that hardly excused him for refusing me a beer on a day like this one, just because it was fucking Sunday. How is anyone supposed to enjoy church with DT shakes?
So I ate a sandwich instead and grew coldly pensive. I considered my reasons for hitting the road, puzzled by my inability to manifest a ride, wondering what I was doing wrong. I remembered my resolve, to manifest or die, but now death seemed more likely that a mastery of manifestation. I queried what it meant to manifest properly, recalling Kevin Trudeau's teachings. It starts with a feeling. I felt frustration. I listed complaints, thinking I deserved a break and receiving fire ant bites instead. I recalled one of my aunt's advocacy of the question, "How could it get any better than this?" While earlier I questioned what else could go wrong. But my aunt's question seemed unthinkable. Still, I contained the power to at least list a few things to be grateful for. The sandwich I ate, the table I sat upon, the gas station that allowed me to sit there, the air conditioning provided relief from a scorching hot day, and all the possessions I had left. Then it struck me, all of these possessions were gifts. The more I thought about it, the truer it seemed. The clothes sealed away in a garbage bag were all kick downs. Even my swim shorts, the last piece of fabric I had to protect my lower half from nudity, only remained in my possession because I gave them away to someone that needed pants before my backpack was stolen and my pants got ruined. And my very life, that was a gift too. My body flooded with absolution. As Kevin Trudeau would phrase it, I switched channels. I stepped outside to have a cigarette and ask for a ride, filled not with enthusiasm but at least with acceptance. After a few minutes of rejection, the clerk stepped out to light a stogue up as well and I greeted her. She asked me if the police harassed me and I recounted the abuse in West Memphis that tore my group apart.
"Well if they come up to you just step inside okay? They can't do nothing unless we call them."
"Thank you, I appreciate that."
It wasn't much, but it touched me. After nearly nothing from the clerks but threats of police involvement if we remained on the premises, the kindness dropped my jaw. More than that, it fueled me to hold on a little longer, to keep going. I headed back to the ramp and stuck my thumb out proudly, feeling within me an impervious spirit. If one person could be kind to me in this God forsaken state, someone else could, too. The fire ants felt no more cause to touch me and I got a ride two cigarettes later. My driver even bought me a sandwich.
Perseverance
The road is an endurance contest. I am constantly plagued by uncertainty and vexed by choice's necessity. Constantly analyzing while my choices are made thoughtlessly. I cling to fate, forgetting that in this world, I am free to do anything I want, and finished with any burden. But with luck so vital here, I turn to a tool I call destiny and follow the superstitions I build around it.
Body Lice rippled and weeded through the jungle of my Underking and his hanging castles, retreating toward the inner seems of my boxer shorts as I awoke caught in their affliction in the same rare early morning I always found myself. They engrossed me in a feeling of queasy uncleanliness like greasy urchins from a toxic tide pool bubbling with stinky, seeping sweet rot ripe for the eating. And upon my blood they feasted. Alone with a brand new problem to greet me. I attempted to replicate what they had done to Germ. They triple bagged his clothes, showered him, cut his dreads, showered him, shaved his head and showered him again. I found one, single garbage bag left and wasn't cutting my fucking hair.
"This will have to do," in the shower I decided to leave the Teatime Bus. I never meant to stay on that bus this long anyways. I would beg my Mom for a Greyhound ticket and get the fuck back home.
I found Germ awake when I left the bathroom; his head clean bald and his beard trimmed to the style of Mexican thug, donning a sheet in a failure of a toga as if the citizen of a parallel dimension where Greeks invaded the Gulf and built a statue atop Chichen Itza.
"I got them too," I told him. "I'm leaving."
"That's weird," he responded, "I just had a dream where you were leaving. You said your ride was here and told us you'd see us later."
Another precognition. To me, this one listed a choice. Just because Germ's unconscious predicted the procession of events did not mean fate ruled them. Perhaps I faced a crucial life decision. Some of my most important decisions appeared as insignificant as the flavor of jam on my toast (I never take jam) so for all I knew this single choice could dictate the rest of my life.
At first I merely relented if they got into my sleeping bag or back onto me I would follow through with my original impulse to leave. When I found one later that night squirming around my pubes I regained my firmness. I've been choked close to death by a friend over my nickname, robbed of the nothing I had, harassed and punched in the face a far above average amount of times. Drunk road dogs have tried to surround my dick with all four hundred hairy pounds of the glob atop their filthy cunt. My driver choked his wife out due to the escalation of an argument over who had to hold their crying infant. I did my best to ignore their screaming but found the wife with a lasting impression that our driver dosed enough synthetic mescalin to kill five full grown men or more and wandered off to the liquor store. I'd been abandoned on a bus with no one but a crippled felon in flight to help watch an infant, everyone else having fled to hide from the possible incursion of the police. I promised to leave him too, I swore to God I wouldn't go down like that but wouldn't you know it I was hungry and stuck by to make stew. Strings hung around until six up rang from the woods then he disappeared as I spun in panicked circles and turned back to my stew, seeing the truck make the corner and realizing running ceased as an option. So I greeted the cop and stifled my quivers by staring down the meat in my pot, looking at my prop of a fire hopelessly tire trying to boil old water and the random crap I stuck in it. I'd been through that too.
And now body lice. Enough, I decried. I'm leaving. There's nothing wrong with going home and recuperating. Getting a backpack to replace the stupid leather duffle bag I picked up after my pack was stolen, showering, resting, doing laundry, being in California trimming pot where I belong. Not in Buttfuck, Oklahoma.
I meditated over this in the shower. Maybe I manifested these body lice because I needed an excuse to go back home. I kept accepting more and more shit and the entire time all I want is to go back home, smoke weed for five bucks a gram and do some work for a new backpack. I made an impulsive decision to stay on a bus I wasn't even really wanted on. It was a mistake and the longer I stayed on the bus the harder it would be to go back. But as water pressure washed all tension from my muscles and my Johnson leaked blissfully relaxing semen I began to reconsider. Did I just want dependably abundant and cheap weed? Once in my life, I needed to smoke to shit and smoke to get off the pot, and I foresaw a recurrence if weed remained the strongest lobby influencing my choices. And the road wasn't so bad, I'd also witnessed a DXM trip challenged by a jealous alcoholic that taught me the importance of surrender and unconditional love. I'd witnessed kindness, too, and such necessary kindness to cause profound gratitude when I begged a Truckstop Manager for a shower and she handed a ticket over without hesitation. I've witnessed the amazing, the savior and the maker squirm through like roots cracking concrete in the accumulation of this simple kindness, growing trees of hope to burn as fuel for change. I've witnessed to way the world is saved, just as the sign I flew to panhandle read: KINDNE$$ SAVES THE WORLD
Perhaps it's a test, I realized. A magic necklace hangs by my heart as I write this, imbibed with some mysterious power and inscribed with my destiny. Perhaps it chooses for me, and perhaps it chose to stay on the bus. To persevere.
Body Lice rippled and weeded through the jungle of my Underking and his hanging castles, retreating toward the inner seems of my boxer shorts as I awoke caught in their affliction in the same rare early morning I always found myself. They engrossed me in a feeling of queasy uncleanliness like greasy urchins from a toxic tide pool bubbling with stinky, seeping sweet rot ripe for the eating. And upon my blood they feasted. Alone with a brand new problem to greet me. I attempted to replicate what they had done to Germ. They triple bagged his clothes, showered him, cut his dreads, showered him, shaved his head and showered him again. I found one, single garbage bag left and wasn't cutting my fucking hair.
"This will have to do," in the shower I decided to leave the Teatime Bus. I never meant to stay on that bus this long anyways. I would beg my Mom for a Greyhound ticket and get the fuck back home.
I found Germ awake when I left the bathroom; his head clean bald and his beard trimmed to the style of Mexican thug, donning a sheet in a failure of a toga as if the citizen of a parallel dimension where Greeks invaded the Gulf and built a statue atop Chichen Itza.
"I got them too," I told him. "I'm leaving."
"That's weird," he responded, "I just had a dream where you were leaving. You said your ride was here and told us you'd see us later."
Another precognition. To me, this one listed a choice. Just because Germ's unconscious predicted the procession of events did not mean fate ruled them. Perhaps I faced a crucial life decision. Some of my most important decisions appeared as insignificant as the flavor of jam on my toast (I never take jam) so for all I knew this single choice could dictate the rest of my life.
At first I merely relented if they got into my sleeping bag or back onto me I would follow through with my original impulse to leave. When I found one later that night squirming around my pubes I regained my firmness. I've been choked close to death by a friend over my nickname, robbed of the nothing I had, harassed and punched in the face a far above average amount of times. Drunk road dogs have tried to surround my dick with all four hundred hairy pounds of the glob atop their filthy cunt. My driver choked his wife out due to the escalation of an argument over who had to hold their crying infant. I did my best to ignore their screaming but found the wife with a lasting impression that our driver dosed enough synthetic mescalin to kill five full grown men or more and wandered off to the liquor store. I'd been abandoned on a bus with no one but a crippled felon in flight to help watch an infant, everyone else having fled to hide from the possible incursion of the police. I promised to leave him too, I swore to God I wouldn't go down like that but wouldn't you know it I was hungry and stuck by to make stew. Strings hung around until six up rang from the woods then he disappeared as I spun in panicked circles and turned back to my stew, seeing the truck make the corner and realizing running ceased as an option. So I greeted the cop and stifled my quivers by staring down the meat in my pot, looking at my prop of a fire hopelessly tire trying to boil old water and the random crap I stuck in it. I'd been through that too.
And now body lice. Enough, I decried. I'm leaving. There's nothing wrong with going home and recuperating. Getting a backpack to replace the stupid leather duffle bag I picked up after my pack was stolen, showering, resting, doing laundry, being in California trimming pot where I belong. Not in Buttfuck, Oklahoma.
I meditated over this in the shower. Maybe I manifested these body lice because I needed an excuse to go back home. I kept accepting more and more shit and the entire time all I want is to go back home, smoke weed for five bucks a gram and do some work for a new backpack. I made an impulsive decision to stay on a bus I wasn't even really wanted on. It was a mistake and the longer I stayed on the bus the harder it would be to go back. But as water pressure washed all tension from my muscles and my Johnson leaked blissfully relaxing semen I began to reconsider. Did I just want dependably abundant and cheap weed? Once in my life, I needed to smoke to shit and smoke to get off the pot, and I foresaw a recurrence if weed remained the strongest lobby influencing my choices. And the road wasn't so bad, I'd also witnessed a DXM trip challenged by a jealous alcoholic that taught me the importance of surrender and unconditional love. I'd witnessed kindness, too, and such necessary kindness to cause profound gratitude when I begged a Truckstop Manager for a shower and she handed a ticket over without hesitation. I've witnessed the amazing, the savior and the maker squirm through like roots cracking concrete in the accumulation of this simple kindness, growing trees of hope to burn as fuel for change. I've witnessed to way the world is saved, just as the sign I flew to panhandle read: KINDNE$$ SAVES THE WORLD
Perhaps it's a test, I realized. A magic necklace hangs by my heart as I write this, imbibed with some mysterious power and inscribed with my destiny. Perhaps it chooses for me, and perhaps it chose to stay on the bus. To persevere.
Despair
The bottle splashed into shards of sorrow and regret as Strings tore for the bus with the liquor store's clerk close in tow. Our ship peeled out with his feet still dangling from the door.
"God dammit!" Strings sobbed, falling to the floor panting, pounding his fist into the ground. "I just wanted it so bad," he lamented, explaining how that little bottle of Tequila entrance him. Struck by a sense of confidence, he got the Captain's permission and began his mission.
"God why did I have to drop it?" he repeated grievously, torturing himself with shame. Every pair of headlights filled me with a sense of panic as we barreled down the highway towards the woods. Emotions only settled when we finally dropped anchor deep in no where. The dirt road was a bitch to back out of and the dogs kept getting into corpses left by dirty hunters but it was a good spot. We were safe there. We believed our problems to be over.
I remember nothing beyond that point. Supposedly some xanax entered the mix. When I first heard about this I got angry that nobody shared. That's xanax for you. The next morning, the native homebum we picked up had mysteriously disappeared without a trace. Perhaps he called upon some ancient forest wisdom to escape our debauchery. Or perhaps he got drunk and wandered off. Supposedly he had pissed on the bus. I remember Gravity taking a piss on the bus but didn't realize the theme ran common last night.
The Captain remained asleep while his wife and two of our more remorseful crew (including Gravity) discussed a ban on drinking. Meanwhile I received a text from Portland Girl. The first in days. She complimented the photos I sent her and I told her I'd keep sending them but wanted to hear how she was doing.
"My life isn't as interesting though," she replied.
"So tell me boring stuff."
I joined the morning beer and discussion while I awaited her response.
"I cheated on my boyfriend."
I knew she would and said as much. My nightmare the day earlier turned out to be precognition. I remember helplessly witnessing her making out with a boy. I remember the happiness and attraction she felt for him. The expression in her eyes, an expression she never dared give me. She refused me on the grounds she had a boyfriend then ended up cheating on him anyways. The veil dropped. The truth revealed itself. My interest in her was single sided. The feeling was like funeral bells whaling black sadness with every heartbeat. Every beat that I once beat for her now bleeted as hopelessly as a bird trapped in a telephone wire. My body flooded with painful disappointment as thickly as if the oceans had all leapt to steam and the whole world was one fire.
As ably as I could I gathered my belongings together. I was leaving the bus, I decided. Once my belongings were organized, I wandered aimlessly into the woods. Breath occurred rebelliously as the fire faded to a stomach of rocks and resignation curdled from the realization that hope is a cruel luxury for the naive, and whatever reigns supreme in the universe is a savage, cheating bastard by nature. I grew cynical. I grew finished. I'd had enough of this. Enough repeats of the same tragedy, the same trickery, the same worthless longing for the untouchable, and strive for the unquenchable. All I wanted was what nearly everybody else already had. But I couldn't have it. I never got to have it. Ever. My heart's temperature dropped several degrees and my mind grappled hold of a special, resolute wisdom. I was finished splashing in uncertainty, making excuses and complaints, waffling my way through life. I returned to camp as cold and decisive as the knife in my belt just in time to greet a drama that would tear our crew in half. As I watched crew members depart over the explosive argument between the Captain and his wife, and looked at who was left, I realized they needed me now. So I chose to stay, at least for a minute longer.
"God dammit!" Strings sobbed, falling to the floor panting, pounding his fist into the ground. "I just wanted it so bad," he lamented, explaining how that little bottle of Tequila entrance him. Struck by a sense of confidence, he got the Captain's permission and began his mission.
"God why did I have to drop it?" he repeated grievously, torturing himself with shame. Every pair of headlights filled me with a sense of panic as we barreled down the highway towards the woods. Emotions only settled when we finally dropped anchor deep in no where. The dirt road was a bitch to back out of and the dogs kept getting into corpses left by dirty hunters but it was a good spot. We were safe there. We believed our problems to be over.
I remember nothing beyond that point. Supposedly some xanax entered the mix. When I first heard about this I got angry that nobody shared. That's xanax for you. The next morning, the native homebum we picked up had mysteriously disappeared without a trace. Perhaps he called upon some ancient forest wisdom to escape our debauchery. Or perhaps he got drunk and wandered off. Supposedly he had pissed on the bus. I remember Gravity taking a piss on the bus but didn't realize the theme ran common last night.
The Captain remained asleep while his wife and two of our more remorseful crew (including Gravity) discussed a ban on drinking. Meanwhile I received a text from Portland Girl. The first in days. She complimented the photos I sent her and I told her I'd keep sending them but wanted to hear how she was doing.
"My life isn't as interesting though," she replied.
"So tell me boring stuff."
I joined the morning beer and discussion while I awaited her response.
"I cheated on my boyfriend."
I knew she would and said as much. My nightmare the day earlier turned out to be precognition. I remember helplessly witnessing her making out with a boy. I remember the happiness and attraction she felt for him. The expression in her eyes, an expression she never dared give me. She refused me on the grounds she had a boyfriend then ended up cheating on him anyways. The veil dropped. The truth revealed itself. My interest in her was single sided. The feeling was like funeral bells whaling black sadness with every heartbeat. Every beat that I once beat for her now bleeted as hopelessly as a bird trapped in a telephone wire. My body flooded with painful disappointment as thickly as if the oceans had all leapt to steam and the whole world was one fire.
As ably as I could I gathered my belongings together. I was leaving the bus, I decided. Once my belongings were organized, I wandered aimlessly into the woods. Breath occurred rebelliously as the fire faded to a stomach of rocks and resignation curdled from the realization that hope is a cruel luxury for the naive, and whatever reigns supreme in the universe is a savage, cheating bastard by nature. I grew cynical. I grew finished. I'd had enough of this. Enough repeats of the same tragedy, the same trickery, the same worthless longing for the untouchable, and strive for the unquenchable. All I wanted was what nearly everybody else already had. But I couldn't have it. I never got to have it. Ever. My heart's temperature dropped several degrees and my mind grappled hold of a special, resolute wisdom. I was finished splashing in uncertainty, making excuses and complaints, waffling my way through life. I returned to camp as cold and decisive as the knife in my belt just in time to greet a drama that would tear our crew in half. As I watched crew members depart over the explosive argument between the Captain and his wife, and looked at who was left, I realized they needed me now. So I chose to stay, at least for a minute longer.
Teatime
We are in abundance only with the flies that flock to our bus like the speeding pile of steel enwrapped shit that we are. Even snipes are begged for and towns where people can't finish their cigarettes are gold mines to us. We are sixteen including the 4 month old infant and two dogs that seem to hate each other. The bus wakes up trashed every morning and join it each day with bottles to empty, ash piles to sweep and carpets to kick clean of our dirty kid grime.
My worst quality? I'm not really a wizard at all and I can't fix anything. I feel like Oz from the new Disney prequel when confronted by a paraplegic begging for a miracle from a man who fooled her into thinking him magical. But after Oz hit the road, he slowly discovered his inner strengths and used them to help. What are my inner strengths? How can I utilize them? I've never tested myself well enough to find out. Everyone else on the bus has strengths I can't match. I'm potentially the best writer aside from song lyrics, but how does writing help a bus? If anything, it'd help simply to catalog what I see. In Babylon I desired only the freedom to pursue my writing. On the road, I finally see work's necessity. But only work dedicated to completing my destiny. In a way, our gifts are life's only burden upon us, for we forsake every moment in which we do not shine in the dance of life. I create meaning through the interaction between my mind and my heart. The heart remains the most essential perception for no matter what data the mind receives, it is the heart that provides depth and significance, that draws the attention. It is the please of the quivering heart that design the path and swirl our clouds of destiny to gales strong enough to shred the obstacles in our path. The heart does it all and whatever work I venture, it's purposed from my heart.
From traincore wannabes pissing in our water to dog diarrhea plastering putrid stench upon our clothes so far Arizona has provided little of the relief we begged for when escaping the cold front in Shasta. Nights are frigid, days swelter and usher in more storms of flies. One of our crew seems tempted to explode. He holds a warrant in this state but should be fine if he stays on the bus. Instead he appears on the verge of breakdown and takes frequent walks to quell his building spite.
Kicking off the "train core" kids gave us breathing room but other problems continue to stockpile. I attempt to meditate to calm myself but require more solitude to substantially center myself. I begin to miss the wingnut side of the rainbow family for their positive energy though pirates remain starkly alleviating to the cognitive dissonance at the core of the drum circle. I miss the Space Bus's girl to guy ratio but they were burners, half-yuppie at best. While I enjoyed their company I could tell they were not truly my crew. I remember my envy of Shadow and his crew of dirty kids in Portland when that child passed us by and decried, "Look Mom! Hitchikers!" I've grown to enjoy the expressions on people's faces when they see us free men roll through their town. Space Bus had a saxophone and a guitar but Teatime has four broken guitars and a harmonica that causes one of the dogs to howl. We get drunk each night and sing pirate ditties, fly signs and eat trash. Space Bus split a bottle of wine between ten people and handed out some research chemicals that mostly didn't work (mostly), Teatime split twenty-six steel reserve tall boys between thirteen. For better or worse, this is home. I may be an Indigo Child and all that but if my choice is singing Peter, Paul and Mary or Old Crow Medicine Show... the choice is simple.
My worst quality? I'm not really a wizard at all and I can't fix anything. I feel like Oz from the new Disney prequel when confronted by a paraplegic begging for a miracle from a man who fooled her into thinking him magical. But after Oz hit the road, he slowly discovered his inner strengths and used them to help. What are my inner strengths? How can I utilize them? I've never tested myself well enough to find out. Everyone else on the bus has strengths I can't match. I'm potentially the best writer aside from song lyrics, but how does writing help a bus? If anything, it'd help simply to catalog what I see. In Babylon I desired only the freedom to pursue my writing. On the road, I finally see work's necessity. But only work dedicated to completing my destiny. In a way, our gifts are life's only burden upon us, for we forsake every moment in which we do not shine in the dance of life. I create meaning through the interaction between my mind and my heart. The heart remains the most essential perception for no matter what data the mind receives, it is the heart that provides depth and significance, that draws the attention. It is the please of the quivering heart that design the path and swirl our clouds of destiny to gales strong enough to shred the obstacles in our path. The heart does it all and whatever work I venture, it's purposed from my heart.
From traincore wannabes pissing in our water to dog diarrhea plastering putrid stench upon our clothes so far Arizona has provided little of the relief we begged for when escaping the cold front in Shasta. Nights are frigid, days swelter and usher in more storms of flies. One of our crew seems tempted to explode. He holds a warrant in this state but should be fine if he stays on the bus. Instead he appears on the verge of breakdown and takes frequent walks to quell his building spite.
Kicking off the "train core" kids gave us breathing room but other problems continue to stockpile. I attempt to meditate to calm myself but require more solitude to substantially center myself. I begin to miss the wingnut side of the rainbow family for their positive energy though pirates remain starkly alleviating to the cognitive dissonance at the core of the drum circle. I miss the Space Bus's girl to guy ratio but they were burners, half-yuppie at best. While I enjoyed their company I could tell they were not truly my crew. I remember my envy of Shadow and his crew of dirty kids in Portland when that child passed us by and decried, "Look Mom! Hitchikers!" I've grown to enjoy the expressions on people's faces when they see us free men roll through their town. Space Bus had a saxophone and a guitar but Teatime has four broken guitars and a harmonica that causes one of the dogs to howl. We get drunk each night and sing pirate ditties, fly signs and eat trash. Space Bus split a bottle of wine between ten people and handed out some research chemicals that mostly didn't work (mostly), Teatime split twenty-six steel reserve tall boys between thirteen. For better or worse, this is home. I may be an Indigo Child and all that but if my choice is singing Peter, Paul and Mary or Old Crow Medicine Show... the choice is simple.
Shasta
I arrived in Mt. Shasta via a ride in Eugene from a fellow named Uncle Dunkle. I awaited a train for several days in Portland before giving up and ditching my my road dog to buy a greyhound ticket. I got to Eugene around 4 in the morning where I was greeted by a man that turned out to be an escaped convict. I only learned this when he asked to borrow my phone and used it to threaten someone. Talking with the police is rarely fun for a traveler in the first place but I didn't have much choice at that point. I slept at Occupy, or S.L.E.E.P.S (Safe, Legal, Entitled, Emergency Places to Sleep), permitted by Urchin, their watchmen for that night. The next morning, the other members of SLEEPS admonished Urchin for giving me permission to make use of a safe, emergency place to sleep.
Unaware of this, I continued hanging out with their group all morning, treating it like Portland's Occupy and helping myself to their food, listening intently to their conversations about who'd been beat up by the cops and whatnot. One friendly handicapped halfman (with nothing below the waist but a skateboard) even gave me a new pair of shoes since mine were worn to shit. A sixteen year old girl needed permission to go to the bathroom from her lesbian parents, as well as an escort. I volunteered to escort her, trying to make myself useful. They allowed it with leery hesitation.
I ran into Q the next day in downtown. Uncle Dunkle invited him and I to carpool to the Shasta Regional but after I informed him that our friends Maj, Zion and Gravity were headed down to Eugene to meet him, he decided to stay and wait for them. With one seat open, Uncle Dunkle decided to find someone who wanted to go at the morning's bumfeed. He ended up inviting the same sixteen year old I escorted to the bathroom earlier, and she invited Urchin.
I spent two nights with Uncle Dunkle and our carpool in Bunny Flat. On the second night, several members of the rainbow family arrived and we convened to sort out how to go about holding a rainbow gathering. We decided to scout out the rumors of other gatherings in the area before proceeding to set up at Bunny Flat. I asked to visit Buddha Hole because rumors of intoxication and drug use warded off the others while making me think it was probably more my style. My group urged me to leave my stuff behind for the scouting mission but I knew better. I warned everybody as much at the circle. When I met up with Thor (Now Nic@Nite) he invited me to stay at Buddha Hole. Uncle Dunkle told me he felt like I was ditching them. But I already sensed personality clashes with Uncle Dunkle. He wanted me to travel with him through South America and I didn't know how to tell him I predicted conflict that would ruin our adventure were we to travel together longer. His mania caused him to be controlling and he seemed very intent on a sober, spiritual rainbow experience while my intention differed.
At Buddha Hole the situation brought new problems. A cold front moved in hindering the fun potential and drunken assholes verbally assaulted Thor. The next morning we agreed to go to Weed and fly a sign, take a break from Shasta. We made it as far as the Space Bus and decided to stay with them. Space Bus headed toward Bunny Flat that night so I brought them to my old camp to prove to Uncle Dunkle I wasn't ditching him, just bringing reinforcements. The Space Bus had an even gender ratio, if anything it leaned toward the girls, he could not disapprove.
On the ride there we were squished into an RV pressing me exquisitely close to a pretty girl I'll call Space Girl. I was slightly conflicted about fucking any of the sweet girls on the bus because of a serious attachment I felt for Portland Girl. But she never fucked me... so I figured no reason existed to hold back. I'd just wrap it up. What truly conflicted me were the feelings I developed for Space Girl. Later in the evening, Uncle Dunkle began seriously hitting on her and I found myself with a preposterous feeling of concern. Not logical concern, but concern nonetheless. I found myself gravitating toward her, and more intrigued by her than the other girls. She was not more beautiful (nor less) but her personality struck me well. I found myself competing with Uncle Dunkle for her affection and seriously kicking his ass despite his guitar skills. She asked to use me as a pillow and Uncle Dunkle tried to use her as one. She snuggled closer to me and he attempted to cuddle with her on top of me. My ability to impress came from my total surrender. Love is drug but I have a high tolerance. I only found myself attached to her. Just like how I only find myself attached to Portland Girl. I have no control and I attach no significance. This part of life is the duty of the animal in me. I act only in accordance with its wishes in the aspect of sexual intrigue.
We grew closer over the next two days. In retrospect, I could have done more with her. She was obviously open to it. But I don't know... it didn't feel the same as Portland Girl. With her, the reminder stared me directly in the face through her pretty green eyes that no moment could ever repeat itself and the potential of terrible regret awaited the outcome of every action. She was like a comet that hurtled by only once every million years, every instant not spent appreciating her irrevocably wasted.
Unaware of this, I continued hanging out with their group all morning, treating it like Portland's Occupy and helping myself to their food, listening intently to their conversations about who'd been beat up by the cops and whatnot. One friendly handicapped halfman (with nothing below the waist but a skateboard) even gave me a new pair of shoes since mine were worn to shit. A sixteen year old girl needed permission to go to the bathroom from her lesbian parents, as well as an escort. I volunteered to escort her, trying to make myself useful. They allowed it with leery hesitation.
I ran into Q the next day in downtown. Uncle Dunkle invited him and I to carpool to the Shasta Regional but after I informed him that our friends Maj, Zion and Gravity were headed down to Eugene to meet him, he decided to stay and wait for them. With one seat open, Uncle Dunkle decided to find someone who wanted to go at the morning's bumfeed. He ended up inviting the same sixteen year old I escorted to the bathroom earlier, and she invited Urchin.
I spent two nights with Uncle Dunkle and our carpool in Bunny Flat. On the second night, several members of the rainbow family arrived and we convened to sort out how to go about holding a rainbow gathering. We decided to scout out the rumors of other gatherings in the area before proceeding to set up at Bunny Flat. I asked to visit Buddha Hole because rumors of intoxication and drug use warded off the others while making me think it was probably more my style. My group urged me to leave my stuff behind for the scouting mission but I knew better. I warned everybody as much at the circle. When I met up with Thor (Now Nic@Nite) he invited me to stay at Buddha Hole. Uncle Dunkle told me he felt like I was ditching them. But I already sensed personality clashes with Uncle Dunkle. He wanted me to travel with him through South America and I didn't know how to tell him I predicted conflict that would ruin our adventure were we to travel together longer. His mania caused him to be controlling and he seemed very intent on a sober, spiritual rainbow experience while my intention differed.
At Buddha Hole the situation brought new problems. A cold front moved in hindering the fun potential and drunken assholes verbally assaulted Thor. The next morning we agreed to go to Weed and fly a sign, take a break from Shasta. We made it as far as the Space Bus and decided to stay with them. Space Bus headed toward Bunny Flat that night so I brought them to my old camp to prove to Uncle Dunkle I wasn't ditching him, just bringing reinforcements. The Space Bus had an even gender ratio, if anything it leaned toward the girls, he could not disapprove.
On the ride there we were squished into an RV pressing me exquisitely close to a pretty girl I'll call Space Girl. I was slightly conflicted about fucking any of the sweet girls on the bus because of a serious attachment I felt for Portland Girl. But she never fucked me... so I figured no reason existed to hold back. I'd just wrap it up. What truly conflicted me were the feelings I developed for Space Girl. Later in the evening, Uncle Dunkle began seriously hitting on her and I found myself with a preposterous feeling of concern. Not logical concern, but concern nonetheless. I found myself gravitating toward her, and more intrigued by her than the other girls. She was not more beautiful (nor less) but her personality struck me well. I found myself competing with Uncle Dunkle for her affection and seriously kicking his ass despite his guitar skills. She asked to use me as a pillow and Uncle Dunkle tried to use her as one. She snuggled closer to me and he attempted to cuddle with her on top of me. My ability to impress came from my total surrender. Love is drug but I have a high tolerance. I only found myself attached to her. Just like how I only find myself attached to Portland Girl. I have no control and I attach no significance. This part of life is the duty of the animal in me. I act only in accordance with its wishes in the aspect of sexual intrigue.
We grew closer over the next two days. In retrospect, I could have done more with her. She was obviously open to it. But I don't know... it didn't feel the same as Portland Girl. With her, the reminder stared me directly in the face through her pretty green eyes that no moment could ever repeat itself and the potential of terrible regret awaited the outcome of every action. She was like a comet that hurtled by only once every million years, every instant not spent appreciating her irrevocably wasted.
Portland
I arrived to Portland weary, six days into my journey. After pleading with the oven that is Western Idaho to send me a saint in a pick up truck, I found evening in Baker City and attempted to scout a campground. The mosquito molestation drove me back indoors to a truck stop with a Greyhound station. I plead with the driver to accept my last forty dollars as fare to Portland and we made it at five in the morning. I had a couple bucks left, quickly hustled away for cigarettes. Later a tweaker harassed me for mean-mugging him but a schizophrenic warded him off. so I shared my last cigarette with him and he explained to me that an immigrant married him as a baby for a green card then stuck him in a mental institution to prevent him from claiming the half of Portland that belonged to him by his right.
What instantly struck me about Portland were the cliques. I remember cliques from high school but as an adult I found Logan split between Outcasts and Mormons. Sure, there were brands of style like Bro-dudes and Hipsters, Gwangstas and Crusties, but fashion style caused only those who wanted no friends to judge each other. A city like Portland is large enough you could disappear down any crazy lifestyle you wanted and never come out.
As a traveler I found myself at home. A family willingly greeted me and aided me in every way possible. A mumbling, bearded alcoholic in his fifties named Old Man took me under his wing and taught me how to crack spange. My favorite sign to fly read "Verbal Abuse only $1." A shabby orc named Jesse James and I solicited people to relieve their frustration by giving verbal abuse to the homeless. During special desperation Jesse James would ask people to punch him in the face for a dollar so he could buy a bottle. I found myself more inclined to make people laugh for a couple hours and buy a six pack of tall boys.
I witnessed the best spange from a dirty kid named Mason whose sign read, "Not gonna lie, need a beer." We sat together outside 7-11 and he taunted people with "Bumbity bum beggity bum bum beg panhandle!" I gawked as people instantly emptied their pockets for him. My own signs grew more honest and as I write this I currently sit outside the same 7-11 with a sign that simply says "Beer." Mason has gone, I was supposed to go with him but something happened to cause me to stick around.
I found myself sleeping at Occupy. When Old Man went to jail for the weekend I had to watch his shit. I got plastered and lost it. The next day I ran into a bum named Aaron who I remember hanging with the day before and he said he left it there. I found it untouched and decided Occupy was a relatively safe place. I noticed one particular hippy cleaning up garbage and decided to pick up the trash surrounding me and help him out. He embraced me and told me to call him Q. When he asked for my name, Wizard popped out. I don't really know why, maybe because it was the only nickname anyone gave me I actually liked. I fell into it easily enough with my tarot readings and magic tricks, along with my knack for vague yet profound little statements.
I met Portland Girl outside a convenient store I liked to spange. Pretty girls walked by often enough I'd grown used to saying stupid things to them like "Beautiful girl says what?" and "I think you're pretty. Now you're supposed to say I'm pretty too." I said something abundantly stupid to her but it caught her attention. With a little token hesitation I got her number. She was a photographer, and left to bring back her portfolio and show me. While she was gone, Mason walked by and told me he was leaving, inviting me to come along. I bid him farewell, another one of those major life choices I had to make on the fly.
Portland Girl and I hung out for the next six days. The first two days I felt cock blocked by an old permafry named Todd and his cancer ridden cat. The first night he actually helped us hang out by making all the propositions I didn't have the balls to. After she left I got wasted with my buddy Oddball and passed out on the water front. In the morning my backpack was gone but the thief left my magic and tarot cards. Not sure why. The second night I invited her out and Todd found us and tagged along. She never mentioned a boyfriend to me but when she got hit on the second night she mentioned one to him. I'm sure she would have answered affirmatively if I asked, but I considered it positive that she didn't bring him up on her own.
On the third night I got drunk and Jesse James choked me out right in front of her. What happened later, you'll have to ask her because I don't remember. I do remember trying to make out with her though, and I remember the way she pulled back, mentioning her boyfriend. On the fourth day I met her at a drum circle. Like the nights before, we mostly smoked and talked. I ran into my friend Spike at the drum circle and invited him to smoke with us. But on this particular night, as she left I told her I loved her. On the fifth day, I was on mushrooms. And it rained. I lost my jacket earlier but she scored an umbrella so we huddled under it smoking and talking. She asked me about the most romantic moments of my life, and she told me hers but my focus couldn't sustain itself. Eventually Spike stumbled drunk and rambling down the street and accosted us. We must have looked picturesque on the Waterfront huddling together in the rain. He forced me to confess me deeper feelings for her. I didn't know what to say. He asked if I loved her, and she answered yes for me, that I had already told her so. I liked the way it mattered to her. I only realized it was true when I said it, but being pressured to come up with poetry on mushrooms caused my brain to go blank.
At the end of the night she asked me to write a poem for her. That moment... well it obliterated me. At her request I was somehow supposed to splash ink around a page and recreate in words a worthiness to this troubled, injured drop of radiance. I couldn't touch it. I wrote trash. She loved it. Later that night I texted her something slightly better.
On the sixth day she moved into her dorms but came back to visit me. Like before, all we did was smoke and talk. And like before, I don't even remember what we talked about. Everything I suppose, and conversations blurred between days. I left a week later.
What instantly struck me about Portland were the cliques. I remember cliques from high school but as an adult I found Logan split between Outcasts and Mormons. Sure, there were brands of style like Bro-dudes and Hipsters, Gwangstas and Crusties, but fashion style caused only those who wanted no friends to judge each other. A city like Portland is large enough you could disappear down any crazy lifestyle you wanted and never come out.
As a traveler I found myself at home. A family willingly greeted me and aided me in every way possible. A mumbling, bearded alcoholic in his fifties named Old Man took me under his wing and taught me how to crack spange. My favorite sign to fly read "Verbal Abuse only $1." A shabby orc named Jesse James and I solicited people to relieve their frustration by giving verbal abuse to the homeless. During special desperation Jesse James would ask people to punch him in the face for a dollar so he could buy a bottle. I found myself more inclined to make people laugh for a couple hours and buy a six pack of tall boys.
I witnessed the best spange from a dirty kid named Mason whose sign read, "Not gonna lie, need a beer." We sat together outside 7-11 and he taunted people with "Bumbity bum beggity bum bum beg panhandle!" I gawked as people instantly emptied their pockets for him. My own signs grew more honest and as I write this I currently sit outside the same 7-11 with a sign that simply says "Beer." Mason has gone, I was supposed to go with him but something happened to cause me to stick around.
I found myself sleeping at Occupy. When Old Man went to jail for the weekend I had to watch his shit. I got plastered and lost it. The next day I ran into a bum named Aaron who I remember hanging with the day before and he said he left it there. I found it untouched and decided Occupy was a relatively safe place. I noticed one particular hippy cleaning up garbage and decided to pick up the trash surrounding me and help him out. He embraced me and told me to call him Q. When he asked for my name, Wizard popped out. I don't really know why, maybe because it was the only nickname anyone gave me I actually liked. I fell into it easily enough with my tarot readings and magic tricks, along with my knack for vague yet profound little statements.
I met Portland Girl outside a convenient store I liked to spange. Pretty girls walked by often enough I'd grown used to saying stupid things to them like "Beautiful girl says what?" and "I think you're pretty. Now you're supposed to say I'm pretty too." I said something abundantly stupid to her but it caught her attention. With a little token hesitation I got her number. She was a photographer, and left to bring back her portfolio and show me. While she was gone, Mason walked by and told me he was leaving, inviting me to come along. I bid him farewell, another one of those major life choices I had to make on the fly.
Portland Girl and I hung out for the next six days. The first two days I felt cock blocked by an old permafry named Todd and his cancer ridden cat. The first night he actually helped us hang out by making all the propositions I didn't have the balls to. After she left I got wasted with my buddy Oddball and passed out on the water front. In the morning my backpack was gone but the thief left my magic and tarot cards. Not sure why. The second night I invited her out and Todd found us and tagged along. She never mentioned a boyfriend to me but when she got hit on the second night she mentioned one to him. I'm sure she would have answered affirmatively if I asked, but I considered it positive that she didn't bring him up on her own.
On the third night I got drunk and Jesse James choked me out right in front of her. What happened later, you'll have to ask her because I don't remember. I do remember trying to make out with her though, and I remember the way she pulled back, mentioning her boyfriend. On the fourth day I met her at a drum circle. Like the nights before, we mostly smoked and talked. I ran into my friend Spike at the drum circle and invited him to smoke with us. But on this particular night, as she left I told her I loved her. On the fifth day, I was on mushrooms. And it rained. I lost my jacket earlier but she scored an umbrella so we huddled under it smoking and talking. She asked me about the most romantic moments of my life, and she told me hers but my focus couldn't sustain itself. Eventually Spike stumbled drunk and rambling down the street and accosted us. We must have looked picturesque on the Waterfront huddling together in the rain. He forced me to confess me deeper feelings for her. I didn't know what to say. He asked if I loved her, and she answered yes for me, that I had already told her so. I liked the way it mattered to her. I only realized it was true when I said it, but being pressured to come up with poetry on mushrooms caused my brain to go blank.
At the end of the night she asked me to write a poem for her. That moment... well it obliterated me. At her request I was somehow supposed to splash ink around a page and recreate in words a worthiness to this troubled, injured drop of radiance. I couldn't touch it. I wrote trash. She loved it. Later that night I texted her something slightly better.
On the sixth day she moved into her dorms but came back to visit me. Like before, all we did was smoke and talk. And like before, I don't even remember what we talked about. Everything I suppose, and conversations blurred between days. I left a week later.
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