Posts
Genius. There's no better way to describe it. I'm at a new level of hobo skills. A flat patch of ground, thick in the city. Invisible even from space. Under a warming streetlight, no less. I ought to get a prize. Or a gold-plated medal. Or a certified check. I ought to teach a class. For new hobos just starting out. I could build a cabin up here.
Sure I drew blood climbing in. I don't know how I'll get out. And traffic is loud. I'm overlooking a freeway but that only makes it better. Thousands of people driving by without the first clue that I'm here.
Genius.
Yet, as too often happens these days, I did not get much walking in. It would be tempting, and not unjust, to blame the Samsung corp. They conspire against me. They blister my feet. They give me indigestion. They make me spend too much money on pie. They cover my tent with ice.
I know our men had it rough at Valley Forge. Winters in Korea were no fun. But those were brave soldiers; I'm a poet at heart. I'm not cut out for discomfort. I was meant to winter in front of a fire, sipping cocoa and warming my toes.
I got plenty wet walking back to the road. I had to walk through some very tall grass. Which was wet with melted frost and alive with crocodiles. And far ain'ts and pythons and possums and such. I did not pick my way through. I ran across as fast as I could and wound up soaked to the shorts.
But remained cheerful. I generate heat. I am a passionate man. My shorts were dry by the time I got to the State Line gas station. Three or four miles up the road. I was glad it was there. But not very. I'd have preferred a cafe. I was in no mood for heat-lamp biscuits.
Happy Day. I'll tell you a secret about the State Line. They cook up real food there.
"This is Alabama," they explained. They try to keep their men fed.
I had the best breakfast I've had in months. It was better than Waffle House. Or as good, at any rate, and a very nice surprise. The eggs were great. I think they squeeze them from chickens of their very own. The nice lady there called everyone Honey. She called me Sweet Pea.
Which was all I want from my breakfast place. There were lots of nice people to talk to. A few too many perhaps. My chief ambition in loitering there was to type yesterday's report. I didn't get it done until noon or so, only a half a day late.
The State Line is not on the state line. I had a couple miles to go. Down and across a river or two, on this same narrow road. I stopped when I got to the Florida sign. It's my custom to take a photograph. Idaho. Montana. Wyoming. South Dakota. Nebraska. Iowa. Missouri. Illinois. Kentucky. Tennessee. Mississippi and Alabama. I got 'em all. But not Florida.
Because Samsung sucks.
Worse yet, and it is hard not to blame them for this, I had forgotten my charger. Plugged into a wall is about the only way I can make my computer work these days. So it was back up the hill to the State Line. I took my old seat and ordered lunch.
Chicken pot pie. It was OK. It wasn't as good as breakfast. And the good ladies there had sent my charger ahead. A man was meant to find me on the road. He didn't, though. Now I need a new one. They'll probably want fifty bucks.
It was a nice gesture. Everyone meant well. He must have missed me when I stopped to pee. It is my usual practice to get well off the road. I don't want to frighten the ladies. Or hurt the fellows' self-esteem. So much for my good intentions. Now I've got to find a Verizon shop. Won't they be happy to see me.
The whole misadventue cost me time. I left the State Line again at two-thirty. More or less resigned to getting stuck in another motel. Which made this spot a special blessing. I found it in the dark. And saved myself forty bucks and a sleepless night. So what if it's just a bit cold.
I'm in Florida now. Break out your map. I walked here from Washington State. That's an impressive hike. The rest is pudding. I have conquered the United States.
WOULDN'T IT BE ironic if I were eaten by an alligator. Half the people I talk to think I will be. I understand. They are projecting their own fears. It is mere coincidence that they always seem to line up so well with mine.
I WISH Phil Spector had put out two Christmas albums. Seriously. I can't get enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment