Paranoia, oh how I love you. You mix so well with prudence, wild accusations and my visually inclined imagination. I have learned to live with you over the years, by and large you might even temper me... But when you get loose, you frisky bugger, you take my breath and vision with you. Jeer me as you might, with unfounded fancy, I fear you might never leave... My world whittled down to your fitful visions.
Bob's sneer stoked my sense of suburban paranoia. He left me wondering, was he playing off the hipster kid in front of his friend, did he mean me bodily harm or was he just a cranky cantankerous coot? If he made good on his offer would he merely load me up with intoxicants? Perhaps he would instead render me unconscious and make off with my pack... or find creative ways to invade my orifices. What if he suggested this route because he had other folks who would do his dirty work, this rugged deceitful Don of Opieville.
I was thoroughly unsettled by the time I made it to the frontage road. It was obviously time to split up my worldly cash bearing goods between pockets, crevices and bags. I sat down as casually as I could, mixing and matching cards and paper, in the hopes that if I was robbed I wouldn't lose everything.
Rummaging and shifting I noticed that for nine in the evening it was surprisingly dark. Atsi Road was utterly bleak, save the light spilling over from the freeway. Could it be that 30 isn't the new 20 but the new 50? Why can't I see? I dragged my eyes from this end of the sky to that and finally realized this was the beginning of a new synodic cycle... No moon at all, all night long.
I briefly rethought my willful foray into uncertainty. I could remain in Cloverdale, possibly overnight, and try to work something out... I could amble up the tracks and dismiss the overbearing voice in the back of my head... How could I slink back into the gas station, head hanging and shoulders slumped, because I chickened out (who else could tell me where to spend the night). I've fought with my outlandish paranoia all of my life, but never with something as potentially life altering as this. What about all of those stories you hear, where the protagonist didn't follow their gut and was suddenly thrust into the overplayed "Man in Hole" plot? Well, they didn't have over-active imaginations and didn't spend their life with these idiotic visions... My assumptions were patently ridiculous. Or my self-determination was being unreasonably heady... Either way I decided there was no turning back.
Atsi Road is fairly nondescript, freeway on one side and farms and fields dotting the other. My double shot and paranoia dictated my pace. All the while, I imagined Bob happening upon me, far from prying eyes and ears. My assumption was that even if he intended to do me bodily harm he might not be a sociopath. I found solace in my verbosity and pleading eyes, sweet talking him was a possibility. Once his greed was tempered by my suave meanderings he would make off with my pack and I would be left with a bit of cash and my sovereignty as a sexual object.
In no time at all I was slipping on the gravel mound the tracks ran along. For the time being I was satisfied with my surroundings, an open field full of California's tall golden grass. If anyone was going to ambush me, it wouldn't be here. It turned out the honeymoon would be short lived...
Where Atsi Road and East 1st Street meet I have two choices. I can throw in the towel and forget this feckless route was suggested and try to bed up for the night. Of course by this point I've only walked one mile and my sleeping options would be limited to ditches and fields... The exit off 101 offered no one but residents a reason to derail their travel plans. My other option was causing me great consternation, because before me stood an arboreal tunnel, nothing more than a silhouette of trees and the tracks.
With a healthy dose of trepidation I began plodding along the tracks. I soon realized it was impossible to see much more than five feet ahead of me. With this I muttered aloud, "jesus fucking christ, you must be kidding." I blurted it out because the sound of something familiar seemed in order... As I finished consoling myself I noticed the white outline of a human torso within my limited peripheral vision. I very quickly realized this shape was attached to a head, and that head was fast asleep, no doubt dreaming of bountiful dumpsters and unending fountains of booze. My chest squeezed so tight my heart bounced off my uvula and sank into place. Bob was no longer atop the list of things my skittering mind could entertain me with.
Bob and the hobo chased me down the tracks while I contemplated my next obstacle... As the freeway parted from the tracks the ground rose before me. My metal guides disappeared into the densest thatch-work of blackness I'd yet seen. Nestled in the middle of this dizzying bleakness was a tiny pin prick of light, just enough to ensure there was some end to this tunnel. I squinted at it, hoping to discern what was on the other side, but it was merely shapeless and light. By now I assumed I had walked no more than a paltry two miles, if anyone were following me this was an unacceptable amount of space between the two of us. I poked my head into the tunnel and hesitantly said, "Hello?" I paused respectfully and asked again. Listen as I might, there was no indication of my imminent death.
With each step my peripheral vision closed in on me, I was being engulfed by this yawning tunnel. The best I could do was inch along, settle my gaze on the hole at the other end and gulp shallow beaths... The utter stillness left the air thick and worthless. Everything stuck to me just as the darkness did.
But what about the other end? What about the middle!? I might rustle another homeless guy or even step on one. Was I stepping on guano, maybe a bear made this tunnel its home? Oh christ, what if I kick a cub and suddenly I've got a maternal paw to the jaw? For all I know that bewitching light could be a barrel of fire surrounded by angry hobo vampires, looking for something more palatable than feral dogs and twitching squirrels.
I began to drag my feet instead of walking. If there was something that might mean my mortal end I wanted to see it head on.
By and by I began to emerge from the sightless tomb, no worse for wear. The cool breeze of the evening air left me laughing at myself.
My fear bewildered me to such a point I was completely incapable of scrounging up any rational thought. I could have easily used my phone or lighter to illuminate the way... I probably could have climbed the fence separating me from the freeway... None of these thoughts occurred to me until I recounted the events later.
I managed to walk about seven miles that night and by the time I stopped there was an indeterminably deep stream running between me and the freeway. I felt I had put enough space between me and my unfounded fear, unfurled my sack and quickly passed into slumber under a pleasant sea of stars.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
From San Francisco to Humboldt Redwoods State Park (part 2)
Much as I loathed the idea, I decided to regroup by slurping a double shot from starbucks. Over at the local shell station a friendly cashier was working (much nicer than the pimply teens at starbucks, texting their friends). Diane is a long time local and her friends drop by to chat before heading home for the night, because that's about all there is to do. One of her friends, whose name I didn't catch, has two boys, 18 & 19. They regularly walk the length of the town and back, four whole miles. They help the straggling homeless folks find spots to hide from the cops... How many homeless people are you going to run into, in a town of 10k?
Bob rolls up on his bicycle, leathered from the sun, long gray hair in a pony tail, an overgrown fu-manchu and an unopened bottle of Jim Beam grain alcohol peeking out of his back pocket. He was stumbling, grumbling and I was expecting him to step on me. Getting Diane and her first friend to talk was pretty easy, but opportunities to interject were far and few with him. When he noticed a local cop getting coffee at the starbucks he told us that's where charges will be detonated, I chuckled. With a frightful jerk he began directing more energy my way.
Poor Bob has been stuck in Cloverdale for the last twelve years, because he was voted out of his previous domicile. In his unrelenting bitterness, he tells me, "I shoulda pulled a Hitler and stayed." His two cars, motorcycle and atv are stuck in his driveway because three counties suspended his license... But he won't run? I don't know what he won't run from but he's staying put. He's not going to be chased out of this one horse town by Opie and his band of idiots.
Bob knows of camping spots around town, the difficulties hitching out of Cloverdale and the tracks that run next to the freeway. When he mentions the tracks my ears perk up... Fifteen miles to Hopland, the next town up. They've got their very own Indian casino there! According to Bob four stops north on the freeway it's a new county and a new world... Milk and honey dribbling down the golden slopes of lonely rickety hickity California. To hear Bob tell it you'd think a small mob of suburbanites left Marin County, skulked northward, and wound up stranded in northern Sonoma County... Clogging the roads with their stuffy airs and mid-ranged cars. Just on the other side of that invisible line, it's the wall that stopped a hundred mortgage brokers, Mendocino County. A mere four miles north of Cloverdale, everyone's disposition changes... But, why? I assumed it was the bright lights and loose morals of the casino scene.
I can see myself walking those fifteen long miles. As I near Hopland a glitter on the horizon, the bright lights of civilized salvation... High rolling hippy freaks, hotels, masseuses and rejuvenating foot baths. Cheap stucco plastered onto edifices melting in the summer heat. The Santa Anna winds chipping away at the earth toned buildings... Paint chips and dirt dancing in the gusty pink dusk. Grateful hippies rolling their battered vans up to valet, strolling in, bandannas and head scarves wistfully flowing behind them. Cheap eats and easy slots.
After a day or two recuperating I would easily find a ride and finally explore the Redwoods. Vegas and Atlantic City, casino cities, informed my expectations. The city-state, Sho Ka Wah Casino, is an oasis like so many other native gambles.
Geographically and generally incorrect as it may be, this spurred me on.
On the tracks I can expect to run into homeless folks, feral dogs and tunnels... Bob might even meet up with me on the tracks, get me stoned and give me some alcohol. Bob is now becoming an ominous figure, is he trying to help me or himself? Meet me? On the tracks? He'll take his atv, so he can catch up. Now he's chatting with a friend, picking up a 6-pack of MGD... I shook his hand, thanked him and set off, imagining I'd noticed a sneer of contempt on his face.
Bob rolls up on his bicycle, leathered from the sun, long gray hair in a pony tail, an overgrown fu-manchu and an unopened bottle of Jim Beam grain alcohol peeking out of his back pocket. He was stumbling, grumbling and I was expecting him to step on me. Getting Diane and her first friend to talk was pretty easy, but opportunities to interject were far and few with him. When he noticed a local cop getting coffee at the starbucks he told us that's where charges will be detonated, I chuckled. With a frightful jerk he began directing more energy my way.
Poor Bob has been stuck in Cloverdale for the last twelve years, because he was voted out of his previous domicile. In his unrelenting bitterness, he tells me, "I shoulda pulled a Hitler and stayed." His two cars, motorcycle and atv are stuck in his driveway because three counties suspended his license... But he won't run? I don't know what he won't run from but he's staying put. He's not going to be chased out of this one horse town by Opie and his band of idiots.
Bob knows of camping spots around town, the difficulties hitching out of Cloverdale and the tracks that run next to the freeway. When he mentions the tracks my ears perk up... Fifteen miles to Hopland, the next town up. They've got their very own Indian casino there! According to Bob four stops north on the freeway it's a new county and a new world... Milk and honey dribbling down the golden slopes of lonely rickety hickity California. To hear Bob tell it you'd think a small mob of suburbanites left Marin County, skulked northward, and wound up stranded in northern Sonoma County... Clogging the roads with their stuffy airs and mid-ranged cars. Just on the other side of that invisible line, it's the wall that stopped a hundred mortgage brokers, Mendocino County. A mere four miles north of Cloverdale, everyone's disposition changes... But, why? I assumed it was the bright lights and loose morals of the casino scene.
I can see myself walking those fifteen long miles. As I near Hopland a glitter on the horizon, the bright lights of civilized salvation... High rolling hippy freaks, hotels, masseuses and rejuvenating foot baths. Cheap stucco plastered onto edifices melting in the summer heat. The Santa Anna winds chipping away at the earth toned buildings... Paint chips and dirt dancing in the gusty pink dusk. Grateful hippies rolling their battered vans up to valet, strolling in, bandannas and head scarves wistfully flowing behind them. Cheap eats and easy slots.
After a day or two recuperating I would easily find a ride and finally explore the Redwoods. Vegas and Atlantic City, casino cities, informed my expectations. The city-state, Sho Ka Wah Casino, is an oasis like so many other native gambles.
Geographically and generally incorrect as it may be, this spurred me on.
On the tracks I can expect to run into homeless folks, feral dogs and tunnels... Bob might even meet up with me on the tracks, get me stoned and give me some alcohol. Bob is now becoming an ominous figure, is he trying to help me or himself? Meet me? On the tracks? He'll take his atv, so he can catch up. Now he's chatting with a friend, picking up a 6-pack of MGD... I shook his hand, thanked him and set off, imagining I'd noticed a sneer of contempt on his face.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
From San Francisco to Humboldt Redwoods State Park (part 1)
San Francisco is a fine city, with lots of surprises, if you don't do any research before you arrive. It's still a city, like most other American cities. It has poor people, perhaps more than one might expect, especially if you're from a city that experiences the hibernation of winter. It has culture. It has way too much junk to buy. It has lots of cute little restaurants and cafes. It has a good deal of free wifi spots. It even has bars with good local beers and reasonable prices... But it's a city.
Prior to my arrival I was looking for ride shares on craigslist (cl), hoping to find an easy way to get to Eureka or Arcata (hippy towns north of SF). I managed to call one person, they were leaving well before I was... But they told me that if I got myself to Santa Rosa, about an hour north of SF, I could hitchhike up the 101 with relative ease. I had never hitchhiked before and I can't say that it even crossed my mind as a mode of transportation. I hardly see hitchhikers and I figured most drivers would scoff at this outmoded option. Up to that point in my life, I probably saw a handful of them and I only picked up two... Both left me a bit leery of the whole process (the last one was telling me about his rich brother, who did lighting for the WWF and how he was going to get hooked up with a job there, since he just finished a tweek bender and visiting his kids). On the other hand, it's a lovely way to meet people, provided they're not cracked, and it's also a fine way to minimize your footprint while getting to and fro. A dream was born.
My last night in SF found me out and about with M&Y, hanging out at an 80s themed house party. Tina was there, in drag, with a grotesquely spiked wig. The punch was spiked... The night was long. The hang over was miserable. I had intended to wake up bright and early the following morning, around 7am, and catch a bus to Santa Rosa. If you've never done something before and you refuse to learn from other people (aka doing research) you need to leave lots of time for error. Plus this whole hitchhiking thing seemed like it rose and set around the sun... The more daylight the better.
For the second time in a week I managed to get entirely too wasted on the eve of travel. For the second time in a week I awoke to find that I just missed my intended departing vehicle. For the second time in a week I was staring down the barrel of my fears and finding hesitation. Fortunately buses are much easier to negotiate with than planes.
Rookie mistake #1: No heavy drinking before you travel
I tried to convince myself to rush rush rush. Once the warmth of the shower met the clouds in my head I tuned out and enjoyed what I assumed would be the last shower I'd have for a while. Then to the business of repacking. I managed to leave about 20 pounds of extraneous crap with M&Y, but I had to find room for my dried fruit, nuts, brown rice, mung beans, ginger and other assorted goodies. I would guess that my pack weighs about 50 or 60 pounds, finding a sound balance of weight distribution is imperative... Assuming you'll be walking about with it.
Fantastical visions flitted about: Slogging along the freeway in my boots, pack strapped to my back. Walk walk walking along, listening for cars. As they advanced, turn 180 degrees, walking backwards, thumb out... So they could get a good look at me and perhaps pick up a harmless goof wandering the road.
Why would I walk and try to hitchhike? That's like asking why I hate waiting for connecting trains on the subway... Because I hate to feel like I'm wasting time or energy. Standing around or sitting around, waiting for something to come once is acceptable. But again and again? Why remain sedentary when I can continue getting closer to my destination. All that dawdling leaves me feeling as if my self-determination has been stripped from me... Senseless I know. Nonetheless, that feeling is amplified now that I'm tramping around trying to find my interests and self-determination. I'm certain it's under one of those rocks on the side of the road... I just have to kick the right one.
The problem with this vision is that it's illegal for anything not street legal to be on the freeway, which includes feet.
Off I went, in search of a bus to take me from here to there. In California (or maybe it's on SF?) you can call or lookup 511 and they'll help you plan your trip. The directions I copied down from the interwebs said go to 5th and "M"... Market was the street I spent the most time that began with an "M", consequently it was the first street that popped into my head. I walked to the south west corner... How is some fly by night Fung-Wah style bus line going to pick me up here? Will I simply pay the bus driver? Assumptions. But I've managed to lug my pack this far, I might as well wander around and see if any indicators stoke my dull aching head.
Three guys are joshing one another about women, "You can't even get it up for your old lady, what's it matter if you're hitched?" I wait for a lull in the conversation, staring at the one ribbing... He apologizes for their ribald conversation and tells me that the bus I seek can be found on Mission and 5th or at the bus terminal on 1st. Stupid memory jumping to conclusions. I walk over to Mission, there's still nothing that strikes me as a place where one can catch a bus out of the city. I hike up to the central terminal and find Grey Hound. It'll be $20 and I'll have to wait for four hours. Thankfully someone told me I could catch a Golden Gate Transit bus across the street, which should arrive in about 10 minutes. When I found the bus stop I also discovered a public transportation novelty, a county bus line... It wasn't state run, it wasn't a group unique to the municipality and it wasn't some fly by night line that was cheap, unsafe and largely unaccountable. That's why I couldn't find the right stop on the south west corner of Mission and 5th... C'est la vie.
The first leg of the trip is largely uneventful. We pull into a central station and drivers change, our new driver is Joe Friday with giant wheel. He gets on, exchanges pleasantries with the old driver and then asks some under 60 passenger to vacate the seat reserved for older folks. Two stops later someone trying to board, using only their transfer. He gets up, walks over to her seat and advises her that she owes fare still.
"Oh? How much is the fare?" 2 bucks.
"Since when? It wasn't two dollars the last time I was on the bus."
"Ma'am, it's been two dollars for many years."
At yet another stop, some loud mouth's been carrying on, apparently he thought he was still in his living room. The driver again walked over to the man and insisted that he keep it down... By the book this guy is. I don't think I've ever seen a bus driver so well spoken, direct and concerned with the general state of his charge.
Eventually the bus filled up and I had an interesting conversation with a guy who is on call 24-7, caring for a ninety-someodd year old man, $100 a day. He works constantly. He sends money back to Mexico. He and his wife have it tough, but he's happy, he's smiling. So not American.
Finally in Santa Rosa, I have a vague idea of where the 101 is. Totally wet behind the ears, I have no other vision of hitchhiking but walking the freeway and thumbing. I walk up the on ramp of this proper freeway, three lanes on each side with a ditch median in the middle. The 101, at this point, isn't the Old Redwood Highway, cars zip by at around 70... I walk the shoulder, hugging the rail guard, which happens to run into the off ramp about a half mile up the road. I am faced with decision, do I cross the road and continue this insanity or do I follow the off ramp and devise a new plan? These people are traveling entirely too fast to notice or care about someone looking for a ride on the side of the road, so I get off.
I managed to find a bus going to the Old Redwood Highway. The driver says I can get off at this stop and be right next to the on ramp for Old Redwood, but I'd be better off with a sign. For that I could go a few more stops, to the Safeway, and make myself a sign. I opt for the opportunity to get a marker, then I pilfer some cardboard from their recycling bin out back. Back at the on ramp, I've been sitting with my sign for 5 minutes when a bus going 30 miles north, to Cloverdale arrives. Two more dollars and I can get 30 miles up, seems like a bargain, right?
Rookie mistake #2: Know your destination
One hour later and I'm in Cloverdale, it's 4pm and I still haven't really done any hitching. I pick up some food at Pick's, they've apparently been voted as having the best Bacon Cheeseburger in the county! But this is a podunk town without much traffic running through it, except for gasser uppers and locals. My walk down Main St to an on ramp didn't turn up and rides but I did manage to have my first run in with the cops. She was a peach, advising me that I wouldn't have much luck where I was. She asked me why I was trying to hide my intentions from her (hitching) and whether or not I had anything illegal on me? Not a thing. Promise? Chuckling yes. I really didn't, unless a flask of whiskey is considered an open container... I suppose it would be, but it's negligible, she was asking about the really illegal stuff.
Two exits south, she dropped me off where others had better luck getting rides. There was a gas station for folks to refuel at. I stood for two hours some people smiled, others shrugged and still others pointed in the opposite direction. It was about 8:30pm now and I missed my first day of reserved camping. I decided to try my luck, walking down the freeway again. Not more than thirty feet off the on ramp California Highway Patrol (CHP, don't you remember CHiPs?) rolled up. He told me to return to my perch. I asked for a ride to the next exit, since this one was a stinker. He said he couldn't, he had another call and had to remove a bale of hay from the freeway... One horse podunk BFE. So much for self-determination.
Prior to my arrival I was looking for ride shares on craigslist (cl), hoping to find an easy way to get to Eureka or Arcata (hippy towns north of SF). I managed to call one person, they were leaving well before I was... But they told me that if I got myself to Santa Rosa, about an hour north of SF, I could hitchhike up the 101 with relative ease. I had never hitchhiked before and I can't say that it even crossed my mind as a mode of transportation. I hardly see hitchhikers and I figured most drivers would scoff at this outmoded option. Up to that point in my life, I probably saw a handful of them and I only picked up two... Both left me a bit leery of the whole process (the last one was telling me about his rich brother, who did lighting for the WWF and how he was going to get hooked up with a job there, since he just finished a tweek bender and visiting his kids). On the other hand, it's a lovely way to meet people, provided they're not cracked, and it's also a fine way to minimize your footprint while getting to and fro. A dream was born.
My last night in SF found me out and about with M&Y, hanging out at an 80s themed house party. Tina was there, in drag, with a grotesquely spiked wig. The punch was spiked... The night was long. The hang over was miserable. I had intended to wake up bright and early the following morning, around 7am, and catch a bus to Santa Rosa. If you've never done something before and you refuse to learn from other people (aka doing research) you need to leave lots of time for error. Plus this whole hitchhiking thing seemed like it rose and set around the sun... The more daylight the better.
For the second time in a week I managed to get entirely too wasted on the eve of travel. For the second time in a week I awoke to find that I just missed my intended departing vehicle. For the second time in a week I was staring down the barrel of my fears and finding hesitation. Fortunately buses are much easier to negotiate with than planes.
Rookie mistake #1: No heavy drinking before you travel
I tried to convince myself to rush rush rush. Once the warmth of the shower met the clouds in my head I tuned out and enjoyed what I assumed would be the last shower I'd have for a while. Then to the business of repacking. I managed to leave about 20 pounds of extraneous crap with M&Y, but I had to find room for my dried fruit, nuts, brown rice, mung beans, ginger and other assorted goodies. I would guess that my pack weighs about 50 or 60 pounds, finding a sound balance of weight distribution is imperative... Assuming you'll be walking about with it.
Fantastical visions flitted about: Slogging along the freeway in my boots, pack strapped to my back. Walk walk walking along, listening for cars. As they advanced, turn 180 degrees, walking backwards, thumb out... So they could get a good look at me and perhaps pick up a harmless goof wandering the road.
Why would I walk and try to hitchhike? That's like asking why I hate waiting for connecting trains on the subway... Because I hate to feel like I'm wasting time or energy. Standing around or sitting around, waiting for something to come once is acceptable. But again and again? Why remain sedentary when I can continue getting closer to my destination. All that dawdling leaves me feeling as if my self-determination has been stripped from me... Senseless I know. Nonetheless, that feeling is amplified now that I'm tramping around trying to find my interests and self-determination. I'm certain it's under one of those rocks on the side of the road... I just have to kick the right one.
The problem with this vision is that it's illegal for anything not street legal to be on the freeway, which includes feet.
Off I went, in search of a bus to take me from here to there. In California (or maybe it's on SF?) you can call or lookup 511 and they'll help you plan your trip. The directions I copied down from the interwebs said go to 5th and "M"... Market was the street I spent the most time that began with an "M", consequently it was the first street that popped into my head. I walked to the south west corner... How is some fly by night Fung-Wah style bus line going to pick me up here? Will I simply pay the bus driver? Assumptions. But I've managed to lug my pack this far, I might as well wander around and see if any indicators stoke my dull aching head.
Three guys are joshing one another about women, "You can't even get it up for your old lady, what's it matter if you're hitched?" I wait for a lull in the conversation, staring at the one ribbing... He apologizes for their ribald conversation and tells me that the bus I seek can be found on Mission and 5th or at the bus terminal on 1st. Stupid memory jumping to conclusions. I walk over to Mission, there's still nothing that strikes me as a place where one can catch a bus out of the city. I hike up to the central terminal and find Grey Hound. It'll be $20 and I'll have to wait for four hours. Thankfully someone told me I could catch a Golden Gate Transit bus across the street, which should arrive in about 10 minutes. When I found the bus stop I also discovered a public transportation novelty, a county bus line... It wasn't state run, it wasn't a group unique to the municipality and it wasn't some fly by night line that was cheap, unsafe and largely unaccountable. That's why I couldn't find the right stop on the south west corner of Mission and 5th... C'est la vie.
The first leg of the trip is largely uneventful. We pull into a central station and drivers change, our new driver is Joe Friday with giant wheel. He gets on, exchanges pleasantries with the old driver and then asks some under 60 passenger to vacate the seat reserved for older folks. Two stops later someone trying to board, using only their transfer. He gets up, walks over to her seat and advises her that she owes fare still.
"Oh? How much is the fare?" 2 bucks.
"Since when? It wasn't two dollars the last time I was on the bus."
"Ma'am, it's been two dollars for many years."
At yet another stop, some loud mouth's been carrying on, apparently he thought he was still in his living room. The driver again walked over to the man and insisted that he keep it down... By the book this guy is. I don't think I've ever seen a bus driver so well spoken, direct and concerned with the general state of his charge.
Eventually the bus filled up and I had an interesting conversation with a guy who is on call 24-7, caring for a ninety-someodd year old man, $100 a day. He works constantly. He sends money back to Mexico. He and his wife have it tough, but he's happy, he's smiling. So not American.
Finally in Santa Rosa, I have a vague idea of where the 101 is. Totally wet behind the ears, I have no other vision of hitchhiking but walking the freeway and thumbing. I walk up the on ramp of this proper freeway, three lanes on each side with a ditch median in the middle. The 101, at this point, isn't the Old Redwood Highway, cars zip by at around 70... I walk the shoulder, hugging the rail guard, which happens to run into the off ramp about a half mile up the road. I am faced with decision, do I cross the road and continue this insanity or do I follow the off ramp and devise a new plan? These people are traveling entirely too fast to notice or care about someone looking for a ride on the side of the road, so I get off.
I managed to find a bus going to the Old Redwood Highway. The driver says I can get off at this stop and be right next to the on ramp for Old Redwood, but I'd be better off with a sign. For that I could go a few more stops, to the Safeway, and make myself a sign. I opt for the opportunity to get a marker, then I pilfer some cardboard from their recycling bin out back. Back at the on ramp, I've been sitting with my sign for 5 minutes when a bus going 30 miles north, to Cloverdale arrives. Two more dollars and I can get 30 miles up, seems like a bargain, right?
Rookie mistake #2: Know your destination
One hour later and I'm in Cloverdale, it's 4pm and I still haven't really done any hitching. I pick up some food at Pick's, they've apparently been voted as having the best Bacon Cheeseburger in the county! But this is a podunk town without much traffic running through it, except for gasser uppers and locals. My walk down Main St to an on ramp didn't turn up and rides but I did manage to have my first run in with the cops. She was a peach, advising me that I wouldn't have much luck where I was. She asked me why I was trying to hide my intentions from her (hitching) and whether or not I had anything illegal on me? Not a thing. Promise? Chuckling yes. I really didn't, unless a flask of whiskey is considered an open container... I suppose it would be, but it's negligible, she was asking about the really illegal stuff.
Two exits south, she dropped me off where others had better luck getting rides. There was a gas station for folks to refuel at. I stood for two hours some people smiled, others shrugged and still others pointed in the opposite direction. It was about 8:30pm now and I missed my first day of reserved camping. I decided to try my luck, walking down the freeway again. Not more than thirty feet off the on ramp California Highway Patrol (CHP, don't you remember CHiPs?) rolled up. He told me to return to my perch. I asked for a ride to the next exit, since this one was a stinker. He said he couldn't, he had another call and had to remove a bale of hay from the freeway... One horse podunk BFE. So much for self-determination.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Out out out
I've had absolutely no time to process anything. I've barely had enough time to get everything together... There are lingering responsibilities to various municipalities and states... Almost everything I own is now living in a 4'x4'x4' storage unit in lower manhattan. Sixty-four cubic feet of vinyl, hermetically sealed discs and various articles of clothing and books. I've got three bags with me, chiefly because I couldn't deposit the thirty pounds of change I've been lugging around and I opted to take my computer with me while I'm in the states. I don't think that was the best idea... Time couldn't be conjured for the bank, but I didn't need to take this extra five pounds with me. How will the aluminum fare in the dank redwoods overnight? The twenty books or so I packed are more than enough entertainment.
What do I have now? A ten ounce sleeping bag, a one pound water proof cover for it, five shirts, one pair of shorts, two pairs of pants, three pairs of socks, three pairs of underware, a med kit, toiletries, a sweater, a sweatshirt, a camelpack, twenty books, a computer, a cellphone, an ipod, thirty pounds of quarters, nickels, dimes and pennies (and one sacajawea dollar), hiking boots, snooty shoes and various junk. I think even this is too much. I need to get rid of the computer and the coins... Then I might be able to move back to two bags. It doesn't seem wise, hitchiking to Eureka with a computer in my bag. Especially if I decide to spend a night or two in the Humboldt Redwoods, assuming I can.
I haven't really planned anything. If at any point during the run up to this moment I had, who knows where I'd be right now. As it happens, I'm a Hostelling International joint, sitting in a closed down cafe trying to sort through the mess that is my mind. There's a table of japanese women next to me chattering and twittering, mixing food and very slowly eating. Cheap, burnt, paper bag coffee wafts through the air and it sounds like some college kids are talking off in the background. This is my introduction to san francisco, I hardly know what's happening... The airport to the bart to the bus to here. A bewildered woman was unable to tell me whether the train I was on stopped at Civic Station, a cheery jaw jutting fellow helped me get to Larkin and Eddy and a stranger in a hurry pointed me to Ellis. It's a good thing the protruding jaw stopped where it did, because anything less would have forced his remaining teeth to grate on one another in a painful and unappealing fashion.
The internet is painfully slow and sometimes non-existent. One of my roommates seems to be drunk and uncomfortable, sipping on his itty bitty brown cup, unknown contents... Marty. Upon entering the room he immediately affected a terrible British accent and we introduced ourselves. I'm Philip from New York City and he's Marty from Portland. "Oh, you're from New York? I thought you from another country." Shortly thereafter he dropped the accent and spoke a bit more naturally about how Frisco's overtaken LA as the business hub of the west coast. People are apparently mean everywhere, except in Vancouver, WA.
How paranoid should you be about your stuff? What's the etiquette for locking up and when during the conversation can you pull it off without making people think you're accsuing them of something? Yes, it's all rather ridiculous.
Maybe I just need some sleep and then I'll be sane again. I have a sneaking suspicion that won't be the case... This will take some adjusting. I am homeless and I've got an awful lot of pounds strapped to my back. The life I lead is dead, for all intents and purposes. I don't intend to be a programmer any more. I don't know what I'll be doing tomorrow. I don't know what I'll be doing when this is all over. I don't know what I will be when I grow up... and I don't know. It was a life of settled inevitabilities for many many days. Then it was a life of drifting and trying to work out why I was on the path I found myself on. Now it's, that's all wrong and something needs to change... and change it has.
Leisure Suit Larry didn't do me so much good, as a kid... All I remember is, "The weather is here, wish you were beautiful." Well, that and having sex with a prostitute without a rubber means you're dead and you have to try again.
What do I have now? A ten ounce sleeping bag, a one pound water proof cover for it, five shirts, one pair of shorts, two pairs of pants, three pairs of socks, three pairs of underware, a med kit, toiletries, a sweater, a sweatshirt, a camelpack, twenty books, a computer, a cellphone, an ipod, thirty pounds of quarters, nickels, dimes and pennies (and one sacajawea dollar), hiking boots, snooty shoes and various junk. I think even this is too much. I need to get rid of the computer and the coins... Then I might be able to move back to two bags. It doesn't seem wise, hitchiking to Eureka with a computer in my bag. Especially if I decide to spend a night or two in the Humboldt Redwoods, assuming I can.
I haven't really planned anything. If at any point during the run up to this moment I had, who knows where I'd be right now. As it happens, I'm a Hostelling International joint, sitting in a closed down cafe trying to sort through the mess that is my mind. There's a table of japanese women next to me chattering and twittering, mixing food and very slowly eating. Cheap, burnt, paper bag coffee wafts through the air and it sounds like some college kids are talking off in the background. This is my introduction to san francisco, I hardly know what's happening... The airport to the bart to the bus to here. A bewildered woman was unable to tell me whether the train I was on stopped at Civic Station, a cheery jaw jutting fellow helped me get to Larkin and Eddy and a stranger in a hurry pointed me to Ellis. It's a good thing the protruding jaw stopped where it did, because anything less would have forced his remaining teeth to grate on one another in a painful and unappealing fashion.
The internet is painfully slow and sometimes non-existent. One of my roommates seems to be drunk and uncomfortable, sipping on his itty bitty brown cup, unknown contents... Marty. Upon entering the room he immediately affected a terrible British accent and we introduced ourselves. I'm Philip from New York City and he's Marty from Portland. "Oh, you're from New York? I thought you from another country." Shortly thereafter he dropped the accent and spoke a bit more naturally about how Frisco's overtaken LA as the business hub of the west coast. People are apparently mean everywhere, except in Vancouver, WA.
How paranoid should you be about your stuff? What's the etiquette for locking up and when during the conversation can you pull it off without making people think you're accsuing them of something? Yes, it's all rather ridiculous.
Maybe I just need some sleep and then I'll be sane again. I have a sneaking suspicion that won't be the case... This will take some adjusting. I am homeless and I've got an awful lot of pounds strapped to my back. The life I lead is dead, for all intents and purposes. I don't intend to be a programmer any more. I don't know what I'll be doing tomorrow. I don't know what I'll be doing when this is all over. I don't know what I will be when I grow up... and I don't know. It was a life of settled inevitabilities for many many days. Then it was a life of drifting and trying to work out why I was on the path I found myself on. Now it's, that's all wrong and something needs to change... and change it has.
Leisure Suit Larry didn't do me so much good, as a kid... All I remember is, "The weather is here, wish you were beautiful." Well, that and having sex with a prostitute without a rubber means you're dead and you have to try again.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Let's call him Mack
When I was married, working with Mack was a fairly simple affair. We might discuss religion, the vices of homosexuality or even the efficacy of stop work tactics. He loved to make indefensible assertions and though we might easily dismantle his arguments he always came back for more. This was while he was still getting to know me and of course, I was still married.
Mack finds programming for a bank as dull and insidious as any person with a pulse would. To keep himself entertained, he sows discontent, hoards knowledge, thwarts management and harasses bachelors.
During some of my more gullible and down trodden days, he enjoyed trying to convince me that I would be fired or in general replaced. He was also a big proponent of shaming people into learning, when he deigned to educate newbies. His favorite refrain was, "Do you want me to hold your hand? Would you like to sit on my lap?" This phrase was uttered to anyone who started at the firm under his tutelage. Passive aggressive and aggressive responses did not make him capitulate. There was simply no known way to make this thing humble or helpful.
How he was ever allowed to teach any of us anything is beyond me. He regarded knowledge as a weapon. Chaos was preferred, because it offered him job security... Any attempt to extract useful knowledge from him was met with "language barriers" and horrid diagrams, because english was his second language. Improvements were poo-pooed, because the newbies didn't understand the history of preceding decisions... Even if it was irrelevant, he would make the case. Managers were apt to throw their hands up in the air when he spoke, though he lacked confidence and shook like a leaf. A loud thump on table might set him straight again.
During this time a number of new guys were hired, three in fact. Mack was delighted, because none of them were married and 2/3 of them had girlfriends. Around this period, separation was immanent. Mack had his grubby skeletal hands full.
He attached himself to one guy's back, wanting to know about phone sex with. With the other unsuspecting newb, he suggested that his girl wore the pants and he wore a skirt. Any button that could be pushed interested him.
On my way to bachelordom, he insisted that the only moral thing to do was reconcile with my soon to be ex. I suppose he couldn't suggest much else, as a Chinese immigrant enamored with christ. The wagging boney strips protruding from his palms and crooked teeth bounced with glee as he admonished me for fooling around with other women while I was legally married. Mack lives in a stark moral world, you can only be married or single. The concepts of trial separation and lazy ex-es don't enter in to his understanding of the world.
Once the bottom fell out and I told him there would be no reconciliation he became very interested in my comings and goings. On a particularly slow day, I wandered over to his desk, hoping to extract some information from him.
"Is this about work, because every time I help you, I consider that a personal favor. I expect to be paid back," a perverse smile settled on his face.
"Yes, it's about work, but it'll only take a minute."
"Before you ask me, I've got some questions for you."
"Fine, but none of that, 'hold my hand crap.'"
He reached for his morning conversational piece, the New York Post. He pointed to a tiny picture in the lower right corner, a svelte woman in a revealing dress, blonde hair and sun glasses.
"In your expert opinion, do you think those are real?" The question excited him so much he couldn't help but settle his wooden, enameled teeth on his lips and squeal.
"I don't know, Mack and I don't care."
"OK. Did anyone sleep in your bed with you last night?"
"No."
"Did you watch any porn last night?"
"No."
"Did you spank it last night?"
"No."
This man has enraged people to the point that they've told him to find a mistress, buy his wife some flowers or head to Chelsea... So long as any of those options shut him up. I think depression caught up with him and his interests have turned inward, lucky us.
He gets back from vacation on August 6. I have 8 more days working with him. After that, I'll never see his desperate ugly mug again.
A team that should be 7 will be wittled down to 1, plus one kiss ass buffoon who likes to call people, "sir."
Mack finds programming for a bank as dull and insidious as any person with a pulse would. To keep himself entertained, he sows discontent, hoards knowledge, thwarts management and harasses bachelors.
During some of my more gullible and down trodden days, he enjoyed trying to convince me that I would be fired or in general replaced. He was also a big proponent of shaming people into learning, when he deigned to educate newbies. His favorite refrain was, "Do you want me to hold your hand? Would you like to sit on my lap?" This phrase was uttered to anyone who started at the firm under his tutelage. Passive aggressive and aggressive responses did not make him capitulate. There was simply no known way to make this thing humble or helpful.
How he was ever allowed to teach any of us anything is beyond me. He regarded knowledge as a weapon. Chaos was preferred, because it offered him job security... Any attempt to extract useful knowledge from him was met with "language barriers" and horrid diagrams, because english was his second language. Improvements were poo-pooed, because the newbies didn't understand the history of preceding decisions... Even if it was irrelevant, he would make the case. Managers were apt to throw their hands up in the air when he spoke, though he lacked confidence and shook like a leaf. A loud thump on table might set him straight again.
During this time a number of new guys were hired, three in fact. Mack was delighted, because none of them were married and 2/3 of them had girlfriends. Around this period, separation was immanent. Mack had his grubby skeletal hands full.
He attached himself to one guy's back, wanting to know about phone sex with. With the other unsuspecting newb, he suggested that his girl wore the pants and he wore a skirt. Any button that could be pushed interested him.
On my way to bachelordom, he insisted that the only moral thing to do was reconcile with my soon to be ex. I suppose he couldn't suggest much else, as a Chinese immigrant enamored with christ. The wagging boney strips protruding from his palms and crooked teeth bounced with glee as he admonished me for fooling around with other women while I was legally married. Mack lives in a stark moral world, you can only be married or single. The concepts of trial separation and lazy ex-es don't enter in to his understanding of the world.
Once the bottom fell out and I told him there would be no reconciliation he became very interested in my comings and goings. On a particularly slow day, I wandered over to his desk, hoping to extract some information from him.
"Is this about work, because every time I help you, I consider that a personal favor. I expect to be paid back," a perverse smile settled on his face.
"Yes, it's about work, but it'll only take a minute."
"Before you ask me, I've got some questions for you."
"Fine, but none of that, 'hold my hand crap.'"
He reached for his morning conversational piece, the New York Post. He pointed to a tiny picture in the lower right corner, a svelte woman in a revealing dress, blonde hair and sun glasses.
"In your expert opinion, do you think those are real?" The question excited him so much he couldn't help but settle his wooden, enameled teeth on his lips and squeal.
"I don't know, Mack and I don't care."
"OK. Did anyone sleep in your bed with you last night?"
"No."
"Did you watch any porn last night?"
"No."
"Did you spank it last night?"
"No."
This man has enraged people to the point that they've told him to find a mistress, buy his wife some flowers or head to Chelsea... So long as any of those options shut him up. I think depression caught up with him and his interests have turned inward, lucky us.
He gets back from vacation on August 6. I have 8 more days working with him. After that, I'll never see his desperate ugly mug again.
A team that should be 7 will be wittled down to 1, plus one kiss ass buffoon who likes to call people, "sir."
Sunday, July 16, 2006
dream: 7/16/06
i’m in a strange room w/a single bed, not much else in it… not much room for anything else… there are two doors on the same wall, opposite that the bed… the foot and head of the bed are off the wall… on the wall which the head of the bed faces is a window… bright light coming in… christianne and ian are each occupying a door way… dangling half of their bodies in my room and the other half in who knows where these doors lead… they’re arguing… pointless bickering… as brothers and sisters will… i’m trying to diffuse the situation.. christie becomes frustrated and edges into my room… she yells at ian… i see her hand begin to toss the cup of wine in it… i move towards her to prevent its contents from landing on my bed… the cup and its contents are all over my bed… a bed, light colored sheets, a cup and some red wine are now the only inanimate objects in my room… i’m infuriated… why would she disrespect me like this… confused i forcefully grab her… sneering at her, i ask why she did it… i’ve terrified her… and myself… how can i treat her like this after everything she’s been through… but how can she take this out on me after everything i’ve tried to do for her… she tells me they’re just sheets, innocently… in my mind i concede this point immediately… after i wash them, even if they’re stained, they’ll still cover my bed just as well… but i tell her… or do i?… the issue of respect flits through my mind simultaneously…
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
dream: 6/13/06
this was quite nearly the day that would have marked 9 years of marriage… i had a dream instead…
jess and i have gotten back together, though we appear to be on the verge of splitting up… living in a brightly light apartment which does not look familiar… it seems that we’ve just moved into this place, based on the placement of things and the sparseness… we’re on the top bunk of some bunk beds, making out… i’m the active one, groping whatever i can lay my hands on… she’s getting off on the whole thing… i’m surprised how much she’s getting off on just watching me, very reminiscent of jambalaya… in an attempt to accommodate this new source of pleasure i angle myself so she can see better, as a i look her in the eyes… this has the intended effect… as her enjoyment increases she begins to get more involved and we are playfully jockeying for “top”… she is engaged as she’s never been before… thoroughly turned on, i grab a rubber (further obviating that this thing between us is tenuous and new)… it’s blue, with a roll on assister (ever seen a hot rod?)… but… it turns translucent green… by the time i’ve got my rubber situated she’s flipped around looking at something, a computer maybe?… i’m totally confused… i look at my flagging erection… i look at her… i say, “so we’re just going to waste this condom?”… she says she really only wanted her tits massaged and that’s the only stimulation she sought… i became very angry, as was evident in my posture and movement… i don’t think i said anything… she said, “well, you wouldn’t want me to do something i wasn’t into, right?”… i thought of berg (head shrinker extraordinaire) saying that yes, such sacrifices can be made… but i don’t mention it to her… i’m about to walk out of the room… she says something about how i’d better not do anything with the bank account that’s in our name… i suddenly feel she’s threatening my economic well being… feel this money is mine as well… very angry, i make some sort of threat or retort… that i can do what ever i like… thinking to myself that perhaps i should take half of the money out of the account… and being to wonder whether or not my card has been cancelled or if she changed my online password to the accounts… somehow we get into a physical tussle… we’re rolling around… no punching, something more akin to wrestling… she’s stronger than i remember… we continue to argue… and we’re onto the subject of who will remain in the apartment… i tell her she can’t afford the place… she scoffs… talks about two job offers she has… about how one of them would have her traveling between nyc and london… and she starts saying “london london” over and over again, in a mocking and inflammatory tone… cackling…
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