Travelogue #34 - (I've got a boner for some jello and that's just all sorts of weird)
Loner's Prayer
"We're gonna go make some money, so we'll see you later, asshole," said these girls I knew. They were going to spange some cash from the passing tourists. It doesn't matter what town, for they all blend into the same scenery. Concrete or grass, people or space, scenic or punishingly dull. Again, I was alone in a city that knew me from the information the police had taken.
Hypothetically it could have been Berkeley, CA. Turn the corner off of Shattuck, and I could have been off of Canal in NOLA. Maybe Canal Street in Manhattan. Up further and we'd hit some place that'd give me deja vu: Ahhh, Amarillo with a touch of boho-NY flair! Ah, this building reminds me of Asheville's sloping hills. This...
Face it, I was lying to myself. Those girls leaving to go beg for beer-money was like stripping a child from a deaf-mute mother. I howled inwardly, and the scenery began to close in on me. 4pm shadows felt deadly. Blasting sun light reddened my skin and caused my temperature to skyrocket. I was alone and this was an indisputable fact of life. As with all my traveling needs like toothpaste and tea tree oil, I was prepared.
Tom, you're alone
You've always been alone
and if, at any time, you had thought it to be the opposite
You've been fooling yourself
No girl, no friends, no home
but you've survived days like these
and you'll survive many more
So, what do we need to do?
There was solace in being anonymous in the United States. The shifty eyes of the Walmart clerks, the lukewarm friendships, the seemingly bad waste of time of just wandering and skirting the line, the sunburn, the pair of oversized thriftstore boxers jammed up the crack of my ass and chafing my leg into a deep burn--what for?
Kansas City, Missouri seemed like the end. Just before attempting to hop a train, I asked the advice of this drunken bum underneath a bridge overpass sitting on a grey reclining couch. "Hey, do you guys know anything about hopping trains around here? Like, is it BNSF or UP or am I just totally lost?" The guy from couch rose and we began talking about strategy. He talked so much about strategy I had forgotten his name. He talked so much about strategy I had forgotten his strategy.
Fine, I admit it. He was drunk, red-faced, but out of the knowing strategy he recited without a single pause, he hit something:
"And I know why you're doing this. You're doing it alone to see if you're capable, to see if you can. And you will--I don't know you from jackshit, but I can tell you've been around. So, you'll do it, and that's all there is to it."
I was elated. Finally someone hit on what I had been trying to see past all the spacebags in alleys, all the philandering, all the squandered days, all the "dude, you're like the guy from that movie--"
"Into the Wild?"
"Yeah, that's it." Of course the confirmation repulsed me. I didn't hit the road because of Jack London or Jack Kerouac or some rich moron who picks the surname Alex Supertramp. I didn't hit the road to party with the best Humboldt-variety marijuana or score heroin off of Colfax in Denver. I was doing it alone, and the train stopped in Kansas City, MO. How much more did I have to do this alone to prove it to myself that I was capable of making something with nothing?
Officer Wasko, of the Union Pacific rail patrol, answered that for me, too. He gave me the "Come to Jesus" speech when I was handcuffed. He began to read intimidation tactics to me--"So, you've got a choice. Either I throw you in jail or I beat the fuck out of you. Which one would you pick?"
"They both sound unappealing, but I guess the only sane choice would be jail." Officer Wasko stared me down to intimidate me. To which I countered with a long stare, never once breaking with eye contact. His pink face seemed pinker, his shave was immaculate, and his thin eyes were almost smiling. Except, of course, for the fact that I was waiting for a punch.
Out of nowhere, a rail worker in orange hardhat and vest came near us. He knew what he was seeing. Officer Wasko asked him if he saw anything of interest. The rail worker reluctantly gulped, said no, and walked along. I caught his mournful eye and it made me feel less alone.
The girls, I then realized, would be still asking for money in different US cities until they reached some catastrophic failure. Still, I thought about my prayer just before Officer Wasko would let me go, laughing alone in the Kansas City streets.
Loner's Prayer
"We're gonna go make some money, so we'll see you later, asshole," said these girls I knew. They were going to spange some cash from the passing tourists. It doesn't matter what town, for they all blend into the same scenery. Concrete or grass, people or space, scenic or punishingly dull. Again, I was alone in a city that knew me from the information the police had taken.
Hypothetically it could have been Berkeley, CA. Turn the corner off of Shattuck, and I could have been off of Canal in NOLA. Maybe Canal Street in Manhattan. Up further and we'd hit some place that'd give me deja vu: Ahhh, Amarillo with a touch of boho-NY flair! Ah, this building reminds me of Asheville's sloping hills. This...
Face it, I was lying to myself. Those girls leaving to go beg for beer-money was like stripping a child from a deaf-mute mother. I howled inwardly, and the scenery began to close in on me. 4pm shadows felt deadly. Blasting sun light reddened my skin and caused my temperature to skyrocket. I was alone and this was an indisputable fact of life. As with all my traveling needs like toothpaste and tea tree oil, I was prepared.
Tom, you're alone
You've always been alone
and if, at any time, you had thought it to be the opposite
You've been fooling yourself
No girl, no friends, no home
but you've survived days like these
and you'll survive many more
So, what do we need to do?
There was solace in being anonymous in the United States. The shifty eyes of the Walmart clerks, the lukewarm friendships, the seemingly bad waste of time of just wandering and skirting the line, the sunburn, the pair of oversized thriftstore boxers jammed up the crack of my ass and chafing my leg into a deep burn--what for?
Kansas City, Missouri seemed like the end. Just before attempting to hop a train, I asked the advice of this drunken bum underneath a bridge overpass sitting on a grey reclining couch. "Hey, do you guys know anything about hopping trains around here? Like, is it BNSF or UP or am I just totally lost?" The guy from couch rose and we began talking about strategy. He talked so much about strategy I had forgotten his name. He talked so much about strategy I had forgotten his strategy.
Fine, I admit it. He was drunk, red-faced, but out of the knowing strategy he recited without a single pause, he hit something:
"And I know why you're doing this. You're doing it alone to see if you're capable, to see if you can. And you will--I don't know you from jackshit, but I can tell you've been around. So, you'll do it, and that's all there is to it."
I was elated. Finally someone hit on what I had been trying to see past all the spacebags in alleys, all the philandering, all the squandered days, all the "dude, you're like the guy from that movie--"
"Into the Wild?"
"Yeah, that's it." Of course the confirmation repulsed me. I didn't hit the road because of Jack London or Jack Kerouac or some rich moron who picks the surname Alex Supertramp. I didn't hit the road to party with the best Humboldt-variety marijuana or score heroin off of Colfax in Denver. I was doing it alone, and the train stopped in Kansas City, MO. How much more did I have to do this alone to prove it to myself that I was capable of making something with nothing?
Officer Wasko, of the Union Pacific rail patrol, answered that for me, too. He gave me the "Come to Jesus" speech when I was handcuffed. He began to read intimidation tactics to me--"So, you've got a choice. Either I throw you in jail or I beat the fuck out of you. Which one would you pick?"
"They both sound unappealing, but I guess the only sane choice would be jail." Officer Wasko stared me down to intimidate me. To which I countered with a long stare, never once breaking with eye contact. His pink face seemed pinker, his shave was immaculate, and his thin eyes were almost smiling. Except, of course, for the fact that I was waiting for a punch.
Out of nowhere, a rail worker in orange hardhat and vest came near us. He knew what he was seeing. Officer Wasko asked him if he saw anything of interest. The rail worker reluctantly gulped, said no, and walked along. I caught his mournful eye and it made me feel less alone.
The girls, I then realized, would be still asking for money in different US cities until they reached some catastrophic failure. Still, I thought about my prayer just before Officer Wasko would let me go, laughing alone in the Kansas City streets.
