Travelogue #44 - Roly-poly holies are a challenge to the foley artist
When the racist dropped me outside of Live Oak, Florida, en route to Portland, Oregon--3,000 miles, folks---it was 40 degrees of Fahrenheit at 6pm. Dark came soon after. It was January, 2010. This must be one of God's cosmic jokes/challenges: FLORIDA WAS IN A COLD SPELL! The temperature at night? 17 degrees WITH windchill. Elsewhere in the United States the weather was reasonable. New York? Thirty-five-ish. Missouri? About the same. Florida? Very cold.
The funny part was that using my bum-instincts, I figured, "ah yes, Florida. Its warm in the winter." Sure, Key West was warm, but fleeing from the bum-hordes and tourists, I also figured, "Northern Florida? Why, that must only be slightly colder!"
The next image you should imagine is a completely dark Interstate 10, illuminated by large trucks that makes your pupils dilate in rhythm to head lights. Some courteous drivers flip on their brights. I'm flattered by their attempts to warm my patootie. Two layers of pants aren't helping. I find a brown hat on the way and wear it regardless of scabies/lice/African death-beetle.
It is cold. It is not snowing, and for this, I am grateful.
I pass out on a piece of frosted dirt in my sleeping bag, easing myself into the bag larvae-in-reverse style. From the exhaustion, my body is tired. I might sleep tonight...
The rest of the night into the morning is a collection of episodes that disturb sleep:
a) My feet are numb. Scared at having frostbite, I painfully beat my feet to send a message to my head: "Feet are in trouble. Need repair. Send blood. Warm blood." It works.
b) 2am-ish, I think. Darker than dark. I peer out the sleeping bag and my warmth diminishes. The realization that I am not tired but need sleep. The sleeping bag's air supply makes me recycle air; my genitals are covered in slimy sweat; I am dehydrated. I realize that urination could be fatal, so I concoct an idea that my bladder might reintegrate urine into my body to facilitate cellular operation so best to deal with the dull ache in my lower back. It works, I think.
c) Body is cold. I do forty pushups in two sets of twenty. It works for a half-hour estimation.
In the morning, I finally pee and realize with the morning light where I am--on Interstate 10. I am carrying a guitar with a cardboard and faux-leather case that is so torn that shoelace and the plastic from newspaper bundles have been jerry-rigged into "latches". Surely, all The Greats Literary Artistes and Musical Megalomaniacs have, uh, gone through this...
In front of me was a complication. A weigh station! Fuck, the police! My bum instincts kicked in again: "Three hots and cot, Tomas! Is it better to be jailed and warm, or broke-impoverished-hungry-cold for what could be another day?" Jail sounded reasonable, but I had a government job waiting in Portland. "They research those things!"
So, I did what I normally do: walk. Midway between the weigh-station, a cop in brown uniform hailed me over. CAUGHT!!! And here I was thinking by all the cars that passed me by on Interstate 10 that I was cursed by some invisibility spell...
"Get in here!" the officer yelled.
I could smell jail already.
I walked up a wooden staircase to a tiny booth with a wooden desk, another officer seated at the table. From his grin and the first officer's response, I realized they were amazed at me. "What the hell are you doing here?" Shock-factor was my first idea: if I shock them, they might give me something... money? $100 sounded nice, and I remembered a $5 handout from an officer near Ft. Lauderdale after I told her I hadn't eaten for three days (which was true).
"I'm head--ing to Poland, Organ," I said, realizing how numb my face.
They laughed, offering me a fictional cup of coffee. Then they handed me a fictional $20 bill.
No, instead, the officer nicely dropped me off in the next town and I walked... and walked... If you want to hitchhike, you have to walk.
When the racist dropped me outside of Live Oak, Florida, en route to Portland, Oregon--3,000 miles, folks---it was 40 degrees of Fahrenheit at 6pm. Dark came soon after. It was January, 2010. This must be one of God's cosmic jokes/challenges: FLORIDA WAS IN A COLD SPELL! The temperature at night? 17 degrees WITH windchill. Elsewhere in the United States the weather was reasonable. New York? Thirty-five-ish. Missouri? About the same. Florida? Very cold.
The funny part was that using my bum-instincts, I figured, "ah yes, Florida. Its warm in the winter." Sure, Key West was warm, but fleeing from the bum-hordes and tourists, I also figured, "Northern Florida? Why, that must only be slightly colder!"
The next image you should imagine is a completely dark Interstate 10, illuminated by large trucks that makes your pupils dilate in rhythm to head lights. Some courteous drivers flip on their brights. I'm flattered by their attempts to warm my patootie. Two layers of pants aren't helping. I find a brown hat on the way and wear it regardless of scabies/lice/African death-beetle.
It is cold. It is not snowing, and for this, I am grateful.
I pass out on a piece of frosted dirt in my sleeping bag, easing myself into the bag larvae-in-reverse style. From the exhaustion, my body is tired. I might sleep tonight...
The rest of the night into the morning is a collection of episodes that disturb sleep:
a) My feet are numb. Scared at having frostbite, I painfully beat my feet to send a message to my head: "Feet are in trouble. Need repair. Send blood. Warm blood." It works.
b) 2am-ish, I think. Darker than dark. I peer out the sleeping bag and my warmth diminishes. The realization that I am not tired but need sleep. The sleeping bag's air supply makes me recycle air; my genitals are covered in slimy sweat; I am dehydrated. I realize that urination could be fatal, so I concoct an idea that my bladder might reintegrate urine into my body to facilitate cellular operation so best to deal with the dull ache in my lower back. It works, I think.
c) Body is cold. I do forty pushups in two sets of twenty. It works for a half-hour estimation.
In the morning, I finally pee and realize with the morning light where I am--on Interstate 10. I am carrying a guitar with a cardboard and faux-leather case that is so torn that shoelace and the plastic from newspaper bundles have been jerry-rigged into "latches". Surely, all The Greats Literary Artistes and Musical Megalomaniacs have, uh, gone through this...
In front of me was a complication. A weigh station! Fuck, the police! My bum instincts kicked in again: "Three hots and cot, Tomas! Is it better to be jailed and warm, or broke-impoverished-hungry-cold for what could be another day?" Jail sounded reasonable, but I had a government job waiting in Portland. "They research those things!"
So, I did what I normally do: walk. Midway between the weigh-station, a cop in brown uniform hailed me over. CAUGHT!!! And here I was thinking by all the cars that passed me by on Interstate 10 that I was cursed by some invisibility spell...
"Get in here!" the officer yelled.
I could smell jail already.
I walked up a wooden staircase to a tiny booth with a wooden desk, another officer seated at the table. From his grin and the first officer's response, I realized they were amazed at me. "What the hell are you doing here?" Shock-factor was my first idea: if I shock them, they might give me something... money? $100 sounded nice, and I remembered a $5 handout from an officer near Ft. Lauderdale after I told her I hadn't eaten for three days (which was true).
"I'm head--ing to Poland, Organ," I said, realizing how numb my face.
They laughed, offering me a fictional cup of coffee. Then they handed me a fictional $20 bill.
No, instead, the officer nicely dropped me off in the next town and I walked... and walked... If you want to hitchhike, you have to walk.
