Travelogue #12
$3 for Carrying Groceries
Normally, one would suspect that street derelicts are out to swindle people. And you'd be correct but neglectful to notice that sometimes they rip themselves off. After meeting this wannabee musician/junkie who ripped off old men in the Castro as a gigolo, he found me just as I was about to pass out in a storefront. We talked briefly, then he persuaded me to carry groceries because of his busted knees. Instead, he carried all the groceries but one light bag. We talked some more about his gigolo'ing, told me to wait outside when we reached an inconspicuous looking building. I figure moved in the upstairs and looked down at both of us.
When he came back, he dropped $3 into my hand. Maybe he wanted company, maybe he was too doped up, maybe he was trying to seduce me, maybe it was karma, maybe... no, better not think about it; I bought myself a coffee and found that storefront again...
Badlands in Goodyear
So, I was dropped off prematurely in Goodyear, AZ, nearly 20 miles from Phoenix--my destination. Why? Because Darren--my ride--wanted to watch the Cowboys/Giants game. Well, this was interesting because now I was screwed--short rides are the hardest to come by. With little money and 100+ heat, what would you do? Uh huh, okay... I did the opposite and walked, exit by exit. There were fenced-in areas with barbed wire. Without a cutting tool, it became a precarious climbing adventure. Between one exit was an abandoned tunnel-underpass with a disheveled campsite. "Score!" I thought, thinking that there may be some more water to steal, or perhaps some treasure of some sort. It made sense: Goodyear, AZ? It would be a fucking good year indeed to find GOLD! Arizona's badlands!!!
Well, instead, as I approached, a thin man came out of the odd shack holding a long club. He began walking towards me with a commital non-commital step, and in the heat, mixed with the barbed wire barriers, I would be a goner. Surely this man was superior to me! A survivor--GUARDING THE FUCKING TREASURE!
Luckily, he didn't follow me further than he had to. I found a construction site, stole some water, made a cardboard sign that had two versions of spellings for Phoenix (Pheonix/Phoenix), and ate a meal of beef stroganoff (cooked by the heat) with my fingers.
Meep Meep
Travel is exhausting. Especially in arid Arizona, after walking for 5 miles through the desert. So, I took a nap after seducing some woman named Luz into giving me a free Taco Bell chicken gordita that one of the staff had prepared erroneously. The nap was by a water drain, with graffiti that consisted of "Tre and Rash--4/11/09--Tempe to Flagstaff". Those gave me hope, especially after sweating all day by the on-ramp, wishing for a ride--ANY RIDE!
Ouch! When I woke up from my slumber, there was a stinging pain in my right side. Was I bit by a scorpion? Would I die? Surely these WASP suburbanites would take me to the hospital! Or, would they? No, I was mistaken; they would not be taking me to the hospital because I wasn't bit by a scorpion--A roadrunner pecked my side, and I saw him make his escape past my feet with a rustle. When he got to the end of the cement and toward the hill to make his escape, I grabbed a rock. The Motherfucker pecked me!
Instantly, a shred of Desert Indian mysticism hit me--the roadrunner was trying to save me. I was very dehyrdated, and surely it would be worse if I would stay in my spot. I dropped the rock, and the roadrunner was gone. With my next attempt at hitching, I almost immediately got a ride. I would be joined Tre and Rash.
Nelson and the Tsunami
Salinas' Men's Shelter takes the cake as far as Skid Row's go--train tracks in sight, abandoned buildings that hadn't even been bothered to be boarded up and smeared with pigeon excrement, and flies everywhere. The bums were sun-crazy, fiending for crack--two men sat counseling another and it grabbed my attention. The blind leading the blind?
"Just grab it, think of it as a ball, a heavy ball. Grab it, grab it, and then drop it, like a heavy weight," said the smaller man to the thin man with the crazy eyes. The crazy man was now shaking, eyes closed--he relaxed after a time...
I sat watching, noticing that most of the eyes were on me, eyeing my belongings, my lack of dishevelment. The man who was consoling the other introduced himself to me after I asked when Dorothy's Kitchen--the shelter--was open. "At one. You've got some time," he said, standing over me. We began to talk, hitting it off immediately.
His name was Nelson. Nelson's life in the last 8 years had been full of heroin addiction, but previous--so he says--he had it all: the wife, kids, his own business, and a career in the military. He served in recovery, fetching the dead and wounded. When he mentioned his military stint, his entire demeanor made sense: short hair cut, no extraneous clothing, clipped speech, a knowing humor.
"You heard about that tsunami, right? The one in Indonesia? I volunteered there."
Something like this blew me away--was it a lie? Nelson described the procedure of caring for corpses, the faces of tourist who looked for their dead spouses among bloated, maggoty cadavers of someone else, covering surfaces in lime, how Indonesians wore sandals amid the bodily fluids, how he had lost his appetite for drugs and sex immediately after, a local news report that made him a Salinas celebrity, the red tape that surrounded Hurricane Katrina when he offered his services to New Orleans... No, that made sense, but among the Skid Row denizens? While we spoke, a large, intimidating black man came up to him and whispered. Nelson's replies were audible:
"Uh huh... No... Uh... no, man..."
The black man walked off. "Oh, he does that every time it gets towards the end of the month. He says 'man, if you give me a bump now, I get a check on the 1st of the month and we'll get a hotel room'. Look at him, he does it to everyone."
It was true. The man walked from person to person, same story, differing reactions, but the cycle of Skid Row was apparent. Those who came here didn't wish to get better, or get help, or even mind the squalor. Was there hope?
I asked Nelson why he was here. "Why don't you leave?"
"It'll be when I'm ready to leave. No one can tell you to leave. You have to do it yourself no matter how much someone tells you. Are you hungry? I have a banana."
"No thank you, I don't like bananas."
"How 'bout some grapes?"
"I don't like grapes," I replied, realized that he might construe that I was disgusted by his offerings, so I added, "but yeah, I guess I'll have some." (for the record, I hate grapes and bananas)
Nelson produced a waxy apple, pulled out a cereal bag full of dirty grapes, and peeled his banana. The crazy guy from before came back with Alka-Seltzer that Nelson had wanted. We all sat down and ate in the hot sun, flies on the food, one derelict sing-shouting lyics to a song he only barely knew, fat old rancheros with black hats just staring off into the distance... no escape.
"Well, I have to get going," I told Nelson. He wished me luck with a firm handshake.
How to Loan Your Guitar on the Street
Don't.
How to Loan Your Guitar on the Street (no, really)
Always ask for collateral. If they want to play your guitar, then ask for a wallet. If they don't have a wallet, and despite how many protests of "Dudeeee, I just got out of prison after 3 monthsss... you gotta let me play!" Especially if they have a garbage bag full of their possessions.
Vomiting Chicken
My apologies to the Dolores High School of San Francisco. I should have known not to eat chicken legs--salty chicken legs, delicious chicken legs--on a hangover. God only knows what the reaction to my beer-chicken mixture must have been when the school children arrived hours later. Then again, if you went to this school, you most likely were used to this sort of thing...
$3 for Carrying Groceries
Normally, one would suspect that street derelicts are out to swindle people. And you'd be correct but neglectful to notice that sometimes they rip themselves off. After meeting this wannabee musician/junkie who ripped off old men in the Castro as a gigolo, he found me just as I was about to pass out in a storefront. We talked briefly, then he persuaded me to carry groceries because of his busted knees. Instead, he carried all the groceries but one light bag. We talked some more about his gigolo'ing, told me to wait outside when we reached an inconspicuous looking building. I figure moved in the upstairs and looked down at both of us.
When he came back, he dropped $3 into my hand. Maybe he wanted company, maybe he was too doped up, maybe he was trying to seduce me, maybe it was karma, maybe... no, better not think about it; I bought myself a coffee and found that storefront again...
Badlands in Goodyear
So, I was dropped off prematurely in Goodyear, AZ, nearly 20 miles from Phoenix--my destination. Why? Because Darren--my ride--wanted to watch the Cowboys/Giants game. Well, this was interesting because now I was screwed--short rides are the hardest to come by. With little money and 100+ heat, what would you do? Uh huh, okay... I did the opposite and walked, exit by exit. There were fenced-in areas with barbed wire. Without a cutting tool, it became a precarious climbing adventure. Between one exit was an abandoned tunnel-underpass with a disheveled campsite. "Score!" I thought, thinking that there may be some more water to steal, or perhaps some treasure of some sort. It made sense: Goodyear, AZ? It would be a fucking good year indeed to find GOLD! Arizona's badlands!!!
Well, instead, as I approached, a thin man came out of the odd shack holding a long club. He began walking towards me with a commital non-commital step, and in the heat, mixed with the barbed wire barriers, I would be a goner. Surely this man was superior to me! A survivor--GUARDING THE FUCKING TREASURE!
Luckily, he didn't follow me further than he had to. I found a construction site, stole some water, made a cardboard sign that had two versions of spellings for Phoenix (Pheonix/Phoenix), and ate a meal of beef stroganoff (cooked by the heat) with my fingers.
Meep Meep
Travel is exhausting. Especially in arid Arizona, after walking for 5 miles through the desert. So, I took a nap after seducing some woman named Luz into giving me a free Taco Bell chicken gordita that one of the staff had prepared erroneously. The nap was by a water drain, with graffiti that consisted of "Tre and Rash--4/11/09--Tempe to Flagstaff". Those gave me hope, especially after sweating all day by the on-ramp, wishing for a ride--ANY RIDE!
Ouch! When I woke up from my slumber, there was a stinging pain in my right side. Was I bit by a scorpion? Would I die? Surely these WASP suburbanites would take me to the hospital! Or, would they? No, I was mistaken; they would not be taking me to the hospital because I wasn't bit by a scorpion--A roadrunner pecked my side, and I saw him make his escape past my feet with a rustle. When he got to the end of the cement and toward the hill to make his escape, I grabbed a rock. The Motherfucker pecked me!
Instantly, a shred of Desert Indian mysticism hit me--the roadrunner was trying to save me. I was very dehyrdated, and surely it would be worse if I would stay in my spot. I dropped the rock, and the roadrunner was gone. With my next attempt at hitching, I almost immediately got a ride. I would be joined Tre and Rash.
Nelson and the Tsunami
Salinas' Men's Shelter takes the cake as far as Skid Row's go--train tracks in sight, abandoned buildings that hadn't even been bothered to be boarded up and smeared with pigeon excrement, and flies everywhere. The bums were sun-crazy, fiending for crack--two men sat counseling another and it grabbed my attention. The blind leading the blind?
"Just grab it, think of it as a ball, a heavy ball. Grab it, grab it, and then drop it, like a heavy weight," said the smaller man to the thin man with the crazy eyes. The crazy man was now shaking, eyes closed--he relaxed after a time...
I sat watching, noticing that most of the eyes were on me, eyeing my belongings, my lack of dishevelment. The man who was consoling the other introduced himself to me after I asked when Dorothy's Kitchen--the shelter--was open. "At one. You've got some time," he said, standing over me. We began to talk, hitting it off immediately.
His name was Nelson. Nelson's life in the last 8 years had been full of heroin addiction, but previous--so he says--he had it all: the wife, kids, his own business, and a career in the military. He served in recovery, fetching the dead and wounded. When he mentioned his military stint, his entire demeanor made sense: short hair cut, no extraneous clothing, clipped speech, a knowing humor.
"You heard about that tsunami, right? The one in Indonesia? I volunteered there."
Something like this blew me away--was it a lie? Nelson described the procedure of caring for corpses, the faces of tourist who looked for their dead spouses among bloated, maggoty cadavers of someone else, covering surfaces in lime, how Indonesians wore sandals amid the bodily fluids, how he had lost his appetite for drugs and sex immediately after, a local news report that made him a Salinas celebrity, the red tape that surrounded Hurricane Katrina when he offered his services to New Orleans... No, that made sense, but among the Skid Row denizens? While we spoke, a large, intimidating black man came up to him and whispered. Nelson's replies were audible:
"Uh huh... No... Uh... no, man..."
The black man walked off. "Oh, he does that every time it gets towards the end of the month. He says 'man, if you give me a bump now, I get a check on the 1st of the month and we'll get a hotel room'. Look at him, he does it to everyone."
It was true. The man walked from person to person, same story, differing reactions, but the cycle of Skid Row was apparent. Those who came here didn't wish to get better, or get help, or even mind the squalor. Was there hope?
I asked Nelson why he was here. "Why don't you leave?"
"It'll be when I'm ready to leave. No one can tell you to leave. You have to do it yourself no matter how much someone tells you. Are you hungry? I have a banana."
"No thank you, I don't like bananas."
"How 'bout some grapes?"
"I don't like grapes," I replied, realized that he might construe that I was disgusted by his offerings, so I added, "but yeah, I guess I'll have some." (for the record, I hate grapes and bananas)
Nelson produced a waxy apple, pulled out a cereal bag full of dirty grapes, and peeled his banana. The crazy guy from before came back with Alka-Seltzer that Nelson had wanted. We all sat down and ate in the hot sun, flies on the food, one derelict sing-shouting lyics to a song he only barely knew, fat old rancheros with black hats just staring off into the distance... no escape.
"Well, I have to get going," I told Nelson. He wished me luck with a firm handshake.
How to Loan Your Guitar on the Street
Don't.
How to Loan Your Guitar on the Street (no, really)
Always ask for collateral. If they want to play your guitar, then ask for a wallet. If they don't have a wallet, and despite how many protests of "Dudeeee, I just got out of prison after 3 monthsss... you gotta let me play!" Especially if they have a garbage bag full of their possessions.
Vomiting Chicken
My apologies to the Dolores High School of San Francisco. I should have known not to eat chicken legs--salty chicken legs, delicious chicken legs--on a hangover. God only knows what the reaction to my beer-chicken mixture must have been when the school children arrived hours later. Then again, if you went to this school, you most likely were used to this sort of thing...
