So, I used to keep this blog on Myspace, bunch of stories, travelogues, and shit... Of course, Myspace is dead and with it, I managed to save said blog. Considering its mostly travel-oriented, I figured, "Why not post it on Squat the Planet?" Here ya go.
Travelogue #46 - Non-sequitors are not an applicable legal defense
OUTSIDE MACON, GA - I was riding in the front seat, southbound for Florida on Interstate 75. A Mexican woman named Lupe was driving, her sunglasses the variety of bug-eyed ones matching her mocha skin tone. Behind me was a man named E. Easy E? He was reclining deeply into the backseat and it was only a matter of time before he asked, “you smoke weed, man?”
Of course. Weed was a hitchhiker’s friend—making the monotonous seemed revitalized. Substandard fast food was delicious, and the concept of time was relative—what was a minute? What was an hour? What was walking a few miles? One could ask one’s body to endure the grueling physical labor of walking five miles in heat and enjoy it! So when the modus operandi of the offer gratis came fluttering in, I would seize the opportunity. Better to have a bird in hand than a… ummm… metaphor that I can’t quite remember. It must be all the weed I’ve been smoking.
As an amateur anthropologist, I had wondered what brought Lupe and E together. E was not physically attractive; Lupe would be your sweet Mexican mistress, slightly chunky but sizeable breasts and DSL (teenage slang for “Dick Sucking Lips”). Lupe had just gotten off work, whereas E looked like he had never worked in his entire life, with baggy clothing that denoted what I had initially suspected: drug dealer.
“I just have to pick something up,” E said. Lupe and E exchanged some directions in Spanish, as Lupe’s English was terse and haphazard. We drove into the rough part of Macon, and into a trailer park. Children and suspicious males gazed at our vehicle. Lupe drove unphased by the poverty reflecting off her glasses. I still held the belief that I could be robbed at any time. The weed actually helped the paranoia with my rationalizations: I barely had anything more than clothes in my backpack and $5 in my wallet. If I would be robbed, the only thing I’d have to fear was physical abuse. From E? I could take him…
E disappeared into the trailer while Lupe and I talked. Lupe and I made small talk; uhh, muy habla pequena? It wasn’t exactly awkward—again the weed helped. At least, for me. Lupe said she didn’t smoke, or only received the second-hand smoke--it was hard to tell what her deal was. Long silences between bursts of words, misunderstandings. I tried my Spanish, but it was as clumsy as her English.
E returned, happy, sliding back into the car. We drove off and I felt relieved that the onlookers weren’t as suspicious, nor did they block us in. If there was a God, I’d thank him.
Lupe drove down side-streets, over I-75, and to a bodega to pick up a blunt to roll some of the weed into. This was a different world—it was poor, it was downtrodden, it was distinctly Southern. The Dirty South. Again, E left Lupe and I into silence, but Lupe spoke more.
“This is near where I live.”
“Oh, really?” I said, “it’s an interesting neighborhood.”
A pack of girls were walking towards the bodega as E was walking out. They recognized one another, but E was wrapped up in the business at hand; he gave them a brief greeting with a wave of his hand.
We drove to a house and parked in the driveway. Lupe and E made no movements to get out, so I stayed put. E narrated:
“So, this is the house I used to live in. See them holes? Me and my homes were sitting, playing Xbox one night when someone drove by and started firin’. We jumped up—scared the shit out of me—and got our pieces and—“ He broke out into laughter, as one does when they recall a close-call, “we was ready to whoop some ass. Crazy ass shit.”
E was telling the truth. On the aluminum siding still remained a few holes—bullet holes.
“Shit…” I said, the only response apropos to seeing swiss cheese home improvement by projectile proxy.
On the way back up the road, the group of girl re-recognized E. “Holla back, hit me up!” said one with a large black hoodie. The girls were smiling. It was apparent that I had met one of the fixtures of this neighborhood.
Lupe and E conversed briefly in Spanish, with E translating. “We’re trying to figure out where we should drop you. You know what? –“ more Spanish, “okay, so we’re gonna take you to this truck stop. It’s a good place.”
Lupe chimed in. “It’s a good place. Lots of trucks.”
We arrived in the parking lot just outside of a Church’s fried chicken. E lit up his blunt, and we passed it around. Lupe still didn’t partake, which I don’t believe would have mattered. The entire car was filled with marijuana smoke. Despite being a dealer, E reveled at the sight of smoke pouring out from a window when he cracked it a few inches. “Look at that, Tom. We’re stoned.”
E was happy. I was so stoned I could barely move.
Then, came the negotiations.
“So, you want to buy this weed? How much you got? Five dollars, right?” Somehow, in my earlier conversation I had let slip that I was broke, having “five dollars to my name”. Shit, hitchhiking rule #2: Always have some money to be a customer to use the bathrooms. And, double shit, hitchhiking rule #3: Never tell anyone how much money you have! Damn, weed was like truth-serum!
I tried to talk him out of it, emphasizing hitchhiking rule #2. He understood, but wasn’t this weed good? E all but implied that $5 was worth the cost of the blunt that he smoked. Acting as an intermediary, Lupe gave me a bag of cold chicken legs, the fat coating the bag mixing with the fast food spice array. Surely, it would destroy any clothing with oil stains, and then what would I have. I thanked her in Spanish and English, nervously, and handed the money to E. He reached out to grab it and I noticed his deformed body in its entirety—his hands were veiny, the bones apparent in every knuckle, and his thumb seemed grotesquely smaller than the long digits.
He gave me his phone number for “whenever you’re back in the area.” I took it down, and when I finally got to Florida several hours later, I called him—I was still stoned. He was grateful that I had reached my destination, and I was grateful to give him (and Lupe) credit. Plus, the weed was the perfect present for my friend that I was visiting… Did the laws of the universe actually twist in this way? Was there ever a clear-cut anything, shades of grey in every black and white? Why did he show me his bullet-ridden house?
I reclined in my friend’s couch in Gainesville and thought, such questions are not to be solved. All in all, it was good writing material…
Travelogue #46 - Non-sequitors are not an applicable legal defense
OUTSIDE MACON, GA - I was riding in the front seat, southbound for Florida on Interstate 75. A Mexican woman named Lupe was driving, her sunglasses the variety of bug-eyed ones matching her mocha skin tone. Behind me was a man named E. Easy E? He was reclining deeply into the backseat and it was only a matter of time before he asked, “you smoke weed, man?”
Of course. Weed was a hitchhiker’s friend—making the monotonous seemed revitalized. Substandard fast food was delicious, and the concept of time was relative—what was a minute? What was an hour? What was walking a few miles? One could ask one’s body to endure the grueling physical labor of walking five miles in heat and enjoy it! So when the modus operandi of the offer gratis came fluttering in, I would seize the opportunity. Better to have a bird in hand than a… ummm… metaphor that I can’t quite remember. It must be all the weed I’ve been smoking.
As an amateur anthropologist, I had wondered what brought Lupe and E together. E was not physically attractive; Lupe would be your sweet Mexican mistress, slightly chunky but sizeable breasts and DSL (teenage slang for “Dick Sucking Lips”). Lupe had just gotten off work, whereas E looked like he had never worked in his entire life, with baggy clothing that denoted what I had initially suspected: drug dealer.
“I just have to pick something up,” E said. Lupe and E exchanged some directions in Spanish, as Lupe’s English was terse and haphazard. We drove into the rough part of Macon, and into a trailer park. Children and suspicious males gazed at our vehicle. Lupe drove unphased by the poverty reflecting off her glasses. I still held the belief that I could be robbed at any time. The weed actually helped the paranoia with my rationalizations: I barely had anything more than clothes in my backpack and $5 in my wallet. If I would be robbed, the only thing I’d have to fear was physical abuse. From E? I could take him…
E disappeared into the trailer while Lupe and I talked. Lupe and I made small talk; uhh, muy habla pequena? It wasn’t exactly awkward—again the weed helped. At least, for me. Lupe said she didn’t smoke, or only received the second-hand smoke--it was hard to tell what her deal was. Long silences between bursts of words, misunderstandings. I tried my Spanish, but it was as clumsy as her English.
E returned, happy, sliding back into the car. We drove off and I felt relieved that the onlookers weren’t as suspicious, nor did they block us in. If there was a God, I’d thank him.
Lupe drove down side-streets, over I-75, and to a bodega to pick up a blunt to roll some of the weed into. This was a different world—it was poor, it was downtrodden, it was distinctly Southern. The Dirty South. Again, E left Lupe and I into silence, but Lupe spoke more.
“This is near where I live.”
“Oh, really?” I said, “it’s an interesting neighborhood.”
A pack of girls were walking towards the bodega as E was walking out. They recognized one another, but E was wrapped up in the business at hand; he gave them a brief greeting with a wave of his hand.
We drove to a house and parked in the driveway. Lupe and E made no movements to get out, so I stayed put. E narrated:
“So, this is the house I used to live in. See them holes? Me and my homes were sitting, playing Xbox one night when someone drove by and started firin’. We jumped up—scared the shit out of me—and got our pieces and—“ He broke out into laughter, as one does when they recall a close-call, “we was ready to whoop some ass. Crazy ass shit.”
E was telling the truth. On the aluminum siding still remained a few holes—bullet holes.
“Shit…” I said, the only response apropos to seeing swiss cheese home improvement by projectile proxy.
On the way back up the road, the group of girl re-recognized E. “Holla back, hit me up!” said one with a large black hoodie. The girls were smiling. It was apparent that I had met one of the fixtures of this neighborhood.
Lupe and E conversed briefly in Spanish, with E translating. “We’re trying to figure out where we should drop you. You know what? –“ more Spanish, “okay, so we’re gonna take you to this truck stop. It’s a good place.”
Lupe chimed in. “It’s a good place. Lots of trucks.”
We arrived in the parking lot just outside of a Church’s fried chicken. E lit up his blunt, and we passed it around. Lupe still didn’t partake, which I don’t believe would have mattered. The entire car was filled with marijuana smoke. Despite being a dealer, E reveled at the sight of smoke pouring out from a window when he cracked it a few inches. “Look at that, Tom. We’re stoned.”
E was happy. I was so stoned I could barely move.
Then, came the negotiations.
“So, you want to buy this weed? How much you got? Five dollars, right?” Somehow, in my earlier conversation I had let slip that I was broke, having “five dollars to my name”. Shit, hitchhiking rule #2: Always have some money to be a customer to use the bathrooms. And, double shit, hitchhiking rule #3: Never tell anyone how much money you have! Damn, weed was like truth-serum!
I tried to talk him out of it, emphasizing hitchhiking rule #2. He understood, but wasn’t this weed good? E all but implied that $5 was worth the cost of the blunt that he smoked. Acting as an intermediary, Lupe gave me a bag of cold chicken legs, the fat coating the bag mixing with the fast food spice array. Surely, it would destroy any clothing with oil stains, and then what would I have. I thanked her in Spanish and English, nervously, and handed the money to E. He reached out to grab it and I noticed his deformed body in its entirety—his hands were veiny, the bones apparent in every knuckle, and his thumb seemed grotesquely smaller than the long digits.
He gave me his phone number for “whenever you’re back in the area.” I took it down, and when I finally got to Florida several hours later, I called him—I was still stoned. He was grateful that I had reached my destination, and I was grateful to give him (and Lupe) credit. Plus, the weed was the perfect present for my friend that I was visiting… Did the laws of the universe actually twist in this way? Was there ever a clear-cut anything, shades of grey in every black and white? Why did he show me his bullet-ridden house?
I reclined in my friend’s couch in Gainesville and thought, such questions are not to be solved. All in all, it was good writing material…
