A Living Magazine - Day 130 - Return of the Shadow Man

I woke up with the beeping of the watch alarm at 6:00 am. There is something about being in the tent that makes me feel like I'm so secure. It might be an illusion--as what a child feels pulling the cover over his head when the invisible monsters are heard in the dark, but it lowers my blood pressure and allows me to start the day from a more settled mental standpoint.

I had spent about two hours clearing the area the night before, and after my experience with building a branch and leaf screen in Milwaukee, I was quickly becoming adept at the art of camouflage. It wasn't just the tent, but the area I was able to fashion around it that pleased me most. My base camps were now developing outward into concentric circles of my own WILL for them, based upon my current needs. In this case, at the center was the tent then a surrounding barrier of sticks and leaves, then an open area where I could do tasks, then another barrier of fallen trees and dead logs, with a path cleared through tangled vines uphill to the street above. I was proud of what I was able to do. It was a good form of pride--filled with satisfaction and void of hubris. I had worked hard and this was the payoff.

In fact, after putting on my boots and stepping out under a now-blue sky, I explored more around the perimeter of the river bank and determined that with some extra shielding I could leave the tent in place for this one day, and walk into town with a much less bulky backpack, thereby drawing less attention to the fact I was traveling. I took my new path up to the street...

Sitting (?) structures where my path comes out. Notice that
there is no sidewalk, so no one is likely to pass directly by on foot.

My view from the "front yard".

Before heading in town, I walked around the river area, across two bridges, and took pictures of my camp spot from their vantage points. It is in the center of the tree-filled images. Sorry you can't see it. Or, I guess I'm not sorry...

This is the White River--the sweet little fast running river that flows by my camp spot.

I hear ducks and other birds there during the day and night.

Confident that the tent was safe - even having written my name, number, email and "Journalist" on it with a thick black Sharpy to give an honest person the means of locating me, and a dishonest person the full and conscious knowledge about the guy from whom he would be stealing it - I headed down Meridian...

A cute little place that I would consider buying if I were located in a different life. 

An electric car power station. There have been these set-ups

in all the cities I've visited since leaving Spokane, Washington.

Without any disrespect toward my home state, I predict Maine will

not catch up to this kind of progressive system for another five years--minimum.    

Huh?

Indianapolis City Hall.

The same thing I said about the city's electric car system above

could be repeated for these rental bikes.

I found a Starbucks along the very unique and grand "Monument Circle" (of which I will have photos tomorrow), in the very center of the city...

Monument Circle. Notice Starbucks just past the 3:00 o'clock position.

It was cold out--about 45° F, and windy. I worked there, next to the front door, and was cold all afternoon. For some reason they didn't turn on the heat. Nevertheless, I did what I needed to do. I was going to buy some food from them, but was seriously turned off by the non-smiling, and gruff manager. By the end of her shift, I started to see that the other employees liked her. It must have just been her demeanor toward customers. Not superior customer service.

I was starting to get a taste of the South already, despite not having yet passed below the Mason-Dixon Line. There was a flamboyance to the architecture, and horses were all around, drawing carriages of tourists and carrying Indianapolis's finest...

The overcast was returning, and the temperature was dropping quickly. I had two miles to walk back to my tent. And I was worried for it, the way a mother might for a child left in another room. I headed out, but took a longer street back (Illinois Avenue), accidentally. When I make these kinds of errors, I use them as opportunities to see other areas. It was not as nice a street as Meridian, but I did see one sight that warmed my heart...

Blue Dawn Flower...It's in my soul.

By far, my favorite flower on the face of this earth: the Heavenly Blue Morning Glory (Ipomoea tricolor). To me, it is the Spark--cast in the form of a flower. It is the sun in an eternal sky, yellow in the middle, blue on the outside, simple, Zen-like, soft, silky, delicate, but more POWERFUL than all others, not excepting the majestic rose itself. If heaven has flowers like the kind we enjoy here on earth, then surely this is their Ruler.

When I got back to the tent, I found it fully in tact. Leaving it was NOT an experiment, as the situation where the tarp was stolen in Spokane. Short of an act of God, I was positive it would remain there. It is not something I would do again lightly, nor was it done as such this time. The night before, I'd located a much more level place for this night... 

The quicksand-like surface around it in the rain the night before had made it too problematic. And, I was not confident that the wet sand wouldn't somehow soak through the base of the tent. But this was a much drier day, and worth moving down.

Now that I knew the tent was okay, I decide to go out toward the rougher part of town, passed 30th Street, just to explore and look for possible stores and other resources, before turning in for the night. I also wanted to see how the people live...

Ironically, the Marott Apartments stood like a giant over some of the poorest blocks in the city...

The Marott Hotel.

As I began to cross over 30th Street and was approaching the Children's Museum, a tan car almost ran me over! I looked down into the driver's seat and saw this...

Look carefully, girls and boys. You who pay lip service to raising awareness about texting and driving - but secretly tap your clean little fingers on that screen - should take note (offline!) that you may cross the wrong wallker.

You who fiddle with the lives of pedestrians as you fiddle with your phone are KILLERS in the making. Look into the eyes of the man above, and see his realization that he'd just been caught red handed. Thankfully, the road was not red with my blood. My only regret was that the license plate is illegible. Because, mark my words here, and forevermore, I WILL TURN IN anyone I actually catch doing this. Here it is a $500 fine.

For once, I felt no anger at all--even though this is the 9th time I have avoided being maimed or killed by this senseless and irresponsible behavior (and I am not counting regular cellphone use either). I had made my point to him, and I am publishing his stupidity internationally today (there are over 20 or so readers in Russia alone who will read this). I hope for his sake, Miss Karma steers this guy to my blog somehow, before he is convicted.

The wind was picking up and I was afraid it might rain, so I walked a bit around the Children's Museum before heading"home"...

Coolest dinosaur sculpture ever!

I had no idea that witchcraft went back quite so far!

On my way back under the Highway 65 overpass, and going along with the Halloween season...

And how the hell did some graffiti artist accomplish this?...

This sign is fifteen feet off the ground.

There are certainly infrastructure issues here in Indianapolis. I notice that whether in the downtown area or out here in the badlands, the seems of sidewalk section split at the roadside and crumble away. As Pharaoh might have said: "More straw!", or something.

I got back and repositioned my tent in its new location. I delighted in the assumption that I would sleep more soundly on this night, because the base was very level now...

I climbed in at about 8:00 pm, fired up the laptop and worked on some new music from ANOWAV. I was really getting into it. Editing was going quite well, and I'd just completed mastering a section of the second tune, when I heard footfalls outside. I pulled the earbuds out and closed the laptop.

I figured it was the light of the computer glowing within the tent that must have attracted someone's attention. My heart pounded, ready for a confrontation if need-be. I sat silently as the leaves outside crunched under human feet.

I heard the branches rustle loudly in the direction of the foot end of the tent. This was not an easy place to walk around, especially at night. There was quicksand, tangled vines, sharp, dead branches right at eye level. I had almost been stuck in the eye the night before. Whomever it was out there was an idiot to be exploring at this time of night. I knew the area very well at this point, having had my hands all over it, manipulating it. I was sure that the branches and larger logs I'd moved into place would - at least - trip someone if they were to venture within about ten feet of the tent.

Still, sitting there, eyes closed, listening with the ears of a sound designer, I could not determine the exact position of the intruder. I needed to go and find out. It wasn't just my responsibility to protect my stuff and myself, but to evaluate whether I might have to move to another sleeping place the next night.

I decided that the guy (and the chances of it being a woman were practically none in this particular situation) was drawing closer to the tent, walking cautiously and then quickly, then cautiously again--sneaking. He was close enough now that offense on my part would be the best defense. But, it didn't call for shock and awe, only some mind-fucking from me to him.

I slowly unzipped the tent door. It was surprisingly loud in the windless, black air. The steps stopped. That was the idea. Then, to add another dimension of fear to his night, I unzipped the tarp/fly, which had an even larger and louder sound...more slowly. I focused on the creepiness factor for him, rather than the uncertainty factor for me. The only thing I could imagine that would be scarier than wondering what was outside a tent in the damp woods, at midnight, down by the river, would be wondering what was in it from the outside. I focused on this thought intensely, and became the nightmare, rather than succumbing to any fear that might well-up inside me.

I quietly put my boots on and heard no footsteps now that the flaps were open. In order to get to me (which I didn't think he was trying to do--he just happened to be down there to do drugs or something, most likely, and I was as big a surprise to him as he was to me--maybe more so), he'd HAVE to step in some direction and give away his location. I reached into my side pocket and took out my very sharp little knife, clicking it open. I did this as loudly as possible, then pushed open the flaps, pulling myself up and out by grasping a nearby tree.

The night was perfect for terror. The clouds shifted across the moon, slowly pulling patches of cold blue light across the trees and leaves on the ground, like a sick and broken disco ball, under a malfunctioning strobe light. A duck across the river had a sudden conniption fit, like they do sometimes. Ducks may seem cartoon like, but they are aggressive and fearless. Yet, something had scared this duck. It made flinch. Shivers were flowing up and down my spine, preparing me for the worst, with an endorphin and adrenaline mixed cocktail, cocking open the hammer of my fight or flight pistol.

I stood for a long time in dark clothes, pulling the visor of my hat down over my eyes, while still looking straight forward. Then I felt camera in the pocket of my pants still and thought it might jar this guy into action if I used it; while also capturing a picture of him. I knew exactly where he was--or so I thought. Devious and yet potentially startling. It was a good idea, if I don't say so myself.

So, I reached in, withdrew the case, unzipped it, and removed the camera. I knew if I just turned it on, without covering the screen in back, it would bathe me in light, and that wouldn't be good. I held the back against my stomach, and clicked it on. The lens made a robotic sound as it extended, but no light shone. Slipping my hand under my shirt to keep the screen covered, I raised the camera, shirt and all, pointing it in his direction, and clicked...

No sound, no movement, no leaves kicked up in fear. I was astonished. I thought for sure, he would have done something. Now, I was beyond curious, and not feeling so confident. Who would just stand absolutely still, knowing they had just been photographed (I had not yet looked at the photo, again, to avoid being seen via the camera glow)?

Now, I was becoming agitated. I turned off the camera crouched and gently placed it on my sleeping bag in the tent. It was time for physical action of some kind.

I gripped the knife tightly, and walked over to where the tent had been the last night, just to make damn sure he wasn't there. It was in the opposite direction of where I'd heard him. I checked the green glow of my watch. A half hour had gone by. I wasn't going to be ruled by this guy, and I sure as hell wasn't getting back in that tent without investigating every corner of my adopted land.

I made my way back to the tent, and then straight out to the place I'd just photographed, standing there for a couple of minutes and listening intently. Nothing. Still NOTHING.

I was right next to the giant fallen elm and knew nothing - no animal or human - could penetrate through it tangled mass. When the tree had fallen, it had taken down several other smaller trees which were now brained tightly like a dreadlock. There was one last place to look. And, turns out, I hadn't been there yet--the other side of the fallen tree.

Through several holes in the chaos of the braid, I could see the bright orange, metal halide street light of the Meridian Street bridge that crossed over the river illuminating that region quite nicely. But, my viewing angle was not wide enough to see all the way across the small valley there. I sighed, gripped the handle of the knife again and walked at one step per second toward, and then around, the tip of the fallen giant and into the orange glimmer.

There, standing about fifty feet away and with his back to the street light, stood the silhouette of a man about my size, hooded, and facing me. I could simply not believe my eyes, and blinked them several times. It looked exactly like the Shadow Man from Spokane! I was frozen. It was the strangest sensation I'd ever felt. I actually did feel a supernatural kind of fear for a moment.

I waved. Nothing. I have a relatively mid to high range voice for a man, but conjured up my most masculine low tones, saying, "Hey man!" Nothing.

How could I possible be in the same situation as Spokane? THIS time though, I wasn't going to take my eye off the dark figure. And, I was absolutely determined to get to the bottom of this once and for all. I walked forward toward him; not in a threatening way, but with determination. He stood his ground.

His long shadow was cast all the way to the tips of my feet, when a helicopter came roaring over the community college building above us, flying low. I instinctively looked up at it, and within the same second, caught myself and looked back in front. He was GONE!

I yelled, "NO! You son of a bitch!" and ran as fast as I could through the leaves and up to the only passage out, right next to the bridge. I didn't care who saw or heard me.

Stepping up on to the bridge, there was no sign of any other activity. The helicopter banked and flew off toward the nearby airport. I'd screwed it up again! My heart pounded so loudly that I could hear it in my head. In disappointment and confusion, I walked, downcast, back to the tent and paced back and forth turning the incident over and over in my mind, until I'd calmed down.

Logically, I knew he hadn't made it far enough to actually even know there was a tent there. But he had come up to the other side of the fallen tree. I knew this, because of how close the footfalls had been, approximately ten feet away. How he moved silently from there - through the thick leaf bed - to the edge of the bridge where I saw him, I don't know...

I hate not knowing the answers to why things happen. I have a bunch of "always" statements that I joke with myself about. In every town, there is always a Walgreens; there is always a Wall Street, there is always a Wal-Mart. At the bottom of every liquor bottle there is always a "spider" (the name for the last drop, with its evaporating "legs" climbing up the sides). And, most importantly, there is always an answer to that which happens in the material world. I'm a rationalist. I'm not in the slightest way superstitious. I never use the word "luck" to describe a circumstance. But, the Shadow Man will remain a mystery to me for now.

Chalk it up to coincidence. Chalk it up to happenstance. Chalk it up to random chaos in the matrix of reality. But, even I can't explain away why these two events took place in the way they did. The Shadow Man is not a threat. He is not an angel, nor a ghost. He seems to be the material manifestation of an archetypical part of my own mind--put into flesh and blood. We all know that it just happened to be two different guys in similar circumstances. But, my mind clothes that with a big fat question mark.

I climbed back in the tent and stowed the laptop away. I don't remember falling asleep, but I did. And, I dreamed of many things unrelated to the Shadow Man, waking occasionally to deal with a much more mundane issue regarding my new sleep spot. More on that tomorrow...

A Living Magazine - Day 129 - And the Bus Rolled Along

I rested on my side across the armrest with my backpack as a rather uncomfortable pillow in the seat next to me at the bus station. I've slept in some pretty weird places and strange positions, but this was not really working for me. Still, I caught maybe an hour of restless sleep.

I bought a coffee when I "woke up", and talked to Jim some more. He was called away to a disturbance down at the Amtrak section of the station. Some man was yelling at a "Jo Witness" who was trying to gab with him. Ah! How social religion never fails to make conflict where there was once peace.

The line formed at Gate 5 for the bus, and I showed my ticket and then walked out on to the bus siding. I couldn't tell until I stepped aboard that the bus was completely packed with people. Greyhound had done us the honor of overbooking the ride. Beware of "Express" trips. They may be cheaper, but they don't stop for breaks and you need to bring your own shoe horn and Vaseline just to wedge yourself into a seat. 

I walked past the first two seats, which had a "Reserved" sign on them--but were never used. A man with an artificial leg used the two on the other side. I stopped by the next of only four out of sixty seats and asked the young, nervous woman there if I could sit with her. She looked up at me with my wrinkled clothes, faded, dirty hat, ponytail--with some of my hair sticking out around the edges of the hat, untrimmed beard, and gigantic tattered backpack, and just said "Sorry..." Looks ARE what we are first judged by. Don't let anyone tell you differently. I peered down the two long columns of seats and didn't see any option except for what looked like two open seats near the back.

I dragged my backpack to this spot and saw another woman, about 35ish, lying across them both, sleeping soundly. I said, "Mam, I'm sorry to bother you but could I sit here, there are no other empty seats?" She woke and furrowed her brow as if I'd asked to eat her favorite pet. She had a headband on, a long suede jacket, hippy glasses and three large, open tote-like bags filled with knick knack junk. 

"Um....(sighhhhhh)" she sat up high to survey the situation, and seeing another woman two rows down, said to her, "...would you mind sitting here and letting him have your seat?" 

The other woman looked at her, then at me, closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them and said, "Sure, no problem." This other woman, a soft-faced, black-haired, full-figured gal, smiled at me and pulled all of her stuff out of her much more spacious seat, and stood up. 

I backed up a bit to let her sit with the hippy chick. She squeezed her way into the seat. I looked at the hippy and said, "Nice.........", she tilted her head back and forth and then looked away. To the kind woman, I said, "Thank YOU for doing that". Then I walked on to the now-open and much more spacious seat she had sacrificed, where a small young East Indian guy sat sleeping with his head against the window--oblivious to it all. I watched as the two women in front of me introduced themselves to each other and the hippy patted the kind one on the shoulder to thank her. One word entered my mind: KARMA.

Though I had ended up on the best end of that involuntary deal, I was stewing over being rejected twice--something that in dozens and dozens of bus rides since leaving California, has never happened to me. I felt demeaned and discriminated against, mostly for being male, but secondarily for looking a mess...

On the far right is the nice woman.

The bus made the characteristic three-beep signal that it was departing and I looked into the station to see Jim looking around--I thought maybe he was making sure I made the bus. The brakes released air, the door shut and lights dimmed until they were off. The driver said nothing about how long it would be to Chicago, but everybody already knew--two hours (supposedly). It didn't take long for me to realize that the air vents weren't functioning at my seat, as the humidity rose and the human condensation began to fog the windows, causing as many drops to run down them on the inside of the bus as there were drops of rain pelting them on outside.

The thought of pulling out my laptop and working made me laugh out loud. It would be impossible. As the temperature rose, the bus's ventilation system jumped into hyperdrive, cause a bizarre respirator-like sound, chwawwww, chishhhh, chwawwww, chish-ICK, chwawwww, chishhhh, chwawwww, chish-ICK.... It was like sitting beside your dying Aunt Myrtle in some Haitian hospital, with a 3000 watt generator (the bus engine) spitting and chugging away in the next room--except worse.

I watched as the nice woman tried in vain to grasp the side handle and push her seat back. She then resigned herself to the longest two hours in all of lives, and simply fell forward with her forehead resting against the seat in front of her. The hippy gabbed at her continuously, with a boyish kind of voice that reminded me of Peppermint Patty on testosterone treatments. At one point when the hippy took a break and looked out the window, I saw the nice woman slowly turn her head back and forth, grinding it into the seat front seat that served as a torture pillow.

I won't say that the sun "rose", because there was no sun. But the sky lightened enough for us to see the drab, pale brown of Chicago's outlying areas come into view. Then came the sudden deceleration from about 65 mph to 10 mph. There was a collective moan that rippled down the seat rows. Rush hour, Chicago-style, brought to us by Greyhound.

We crept along as I watched bicyclists riding in the same direction on the hill above, passing the traffic we were stuck in. Finally, our short winded driver came on the distorted intercom...

"Morning folks. We may experience a short delay as we get through this rush hour traffic." Click. No estimate of time, no other information. In a way it reminded me of one of the greatest and freakiest short stories I read in high school, Henry Slesar's, The Jam (1958), where people get stuck in a traffic jam and realize that they will be there for eternity.

The hippy talked loudly on her cellphone, yelling out each exit and mile marker as they went by, to whatever unfortunate soul was waiting to pick her up. The rest of the bus talked to each other quietly about the taxis, meetings and other connections they were going to miss, as we all sweated and continuously shifted in our seats to find that impossible sweet spot; you know the one--the one that is so evident by its utter absence?

The guy next to me, asked if I had a phone so he could call the cab company and cancel his ride. His phone's power had died, and the bus's AC outlets didn't work. I told him I was sorry, I didn't but offered to let him use my laptop to recharge his phone or call them with my Google Voice account. He looked encouraged. I pulled out the tablet, and together we looked at the available Wi-fi connections (Greyhound advertises free Wi-fi). Nothing. We both rolled our eyes. He had no cable with a USB end, so we couldn't charge his phone with my computer. He thanked me for trying, as we heard the hippy yelling exit numbers into her phone, directly in front of him.

The nice woman heard us talking and told us the bus was ten miles away from the center of the city. This was encouraging. The guy and I estimated our speed to be about 20 mph, so one more half hour. The nice woman mentioned that she was concerned about connecting to the 10:30 am bus to Indianapolis. I told her I was worried about the same thing. The guy beside me said we should be okay. He was from Chicago and knew that station. They would delay most connecting buses during rush hour. 

We finally pulled off the highway and into a foggy, rainy Chicago downtown area, where only the nearest building could be seen--no Sears Tower, etc. I  enjoyed my layover there last year on the first crossing, but this time it was about as majestic an experience as pulling into Lewiston, Maine (no offense to Lewiston nor Maine). 

As we VERY slowly deboarded I saw the hippy look at me and squint her eyes a bit. I just said, "Well, at least everyone ended up sitting where YOU wanted them." She huffed and walked off into the rainclouds...

Outside the Greyhound Station, Chicago, Illinois.

I was hungry and had only fifteen minutes to get something to eat. I was also completely unsure whether the next bus would have any rest stops. I needed a restroom. If the next bus was going to be full, using its sloshing, splashing, stainless steel closet-restroom had an appeal rating of -3 for me. I had to choose: eat or shit. I chose the former and stood in line for fourteen minutes at a breakfast stand, where an enormous black woman, sang blissfully flipping the same omelette over and over, not turning around, until the last possible second. When she did, she said, "Be just a second more, hun." I practically fell over with anxiety, looking at my watch every five seconds praying for time to reverse itself.

Thankfully the bus wasn't there yet, and everyone sat together in their station seats--milk cows of the bussing world, waiting to be transported. Finally, the jovial omelette flipper waddled up to the register, speaking over my head to another worker there for another minute, then asked me what I wanted. I had - in the meantime - filled my arms with a cranberry juice, a turkey sandwich for later, and then a dessicated breakfast sandwich for the ride out of the city. She rung them up and handed me a bag. I stuffed the items into it and went to my cattle stall.

The 100 decibel announcement told everyone in Chicago that our bus was there and to line up. People with eTickets--the lowest class of passenger had to wait for everyone else to board first. Mercifully, there weren't that many. When I got to the driver, he circled my name and asked me for my picture ID. This is where things could have really gone south, without me. But he looked at it, and then at me, and said, "You're cool", and waived me through.

And, he was cool. The bus was about half full, and I had the double seat to myself; a luxury that made the last three hours feel like they were all worth it. He got on the intercom and welcomed us, telling what stops we'd be making, and recounted the rules: "Remember there are children on this bus, so please, no foul language. Federal law prohibits smoking of anything, and that includes vaping, or the drinking of alcoholic beverages. But when you get back to Chicago, I can hook you up...ah, just kidding." Everyone laughed. "Limit cellphone use to one minute at a time, and please don't speak loudly. If you have devices that produce sound, please use headphones. And, yes, this bus DOES have that new-fangled Wi-fi thingy." He'd immediately cut the grisly edge off of our stress levels. "Feel free also to use the AC outlets. Our next destination is Gary, Indiana in about an hour, where we will have a 10 minute rest stop. So, sit back and enjoy the ride, and thank you for choosing Greyhound." He gave the three beep signal, and we were on our way...

Happier travelers...for a while.

Sweet home, Chicago...slipping out of sight.

I got online and touched base with folks on Facebook, as I crunched down on the breakfast sandwich, which (ha!) was surprisingly tasty. The ride to Gary was surprisingly quick. And I got out to stretch my legs and finally use the bathroom...

The boarding call came, and we had only picked up another four ragged souls. A black husband, wife and small baby, and a white twenty-something, Bonnie and Clyde-type; her--a thin, blonde, used-to-be-pretty-before-the-meth girl, and her gold-toothed, short, wiry, loud, tattoo-covered boyfriend. Three beeps, and we were rolling again...

The rain subsided enough for me to get some shots of the vast (and I do mean VAST) fields of giant wind turbines. There must have literally been thousands of acres of these...

Along the way, the black husband argued with Greyhound's customer service over the phone about the first bus they had missed, supposedly "leaving early". All their luggage and the baby's diapers, food and bottle were on it. He barked into the phone, "Shiiii, I axed the guy at the counta, he saa it leff right on tam! What da fu?? I expec ta see a full refun on ma card when we get ta Indi!" The baby, who had been crying off and on since leaving Gary started up again. His wife said that it probably wasn't Greyhound's fault; that maybe he'd read the ticket incorrectly (no one has an eTicket after handing it to the driver, unless you've printed a duplicate--which, apparently, they hadn't). To this suggestion of error on his part, he just said, "Shiii, woman, I'm gonna ge tha money back..."

They went back and forth, not letting themselves get too overboard with the argument, while the baby cried himself out completely, and switched over to baby-talking to himself for the remainder of the trip. It was right around the time the husband hung up, that Clyde began harassing Bonnie. I put my earphones on and worked on some ANOWAV music. Every now and then, I heard Bonnie make fun of Clyde--personal stuff like his dick size. This naturally made him go bananas, dropping F-bombs faster than Nixon could carpet bomb a Southeast Asian rice paddy. They kept being hushed by other passengers, which further pissed them off. Even the black husband, was like, "Shii, man! Keep yo private shii private!" That started a four-way smackdown, cage fight as we drove into a dreary looking Indianapolis. (I would like to say, for the record, that not one single time did race creep into the discussion, nor play any kind of role in the argument between the two couples--to their barely propped-up credit.)

The baby started crying again, but the trip was nearly over. The driver came on the intercom and said, "Welcome to beautiful Indianapolis, we certainly hope you enjoyed your ride. And get that baby quarter pounder with cheese, and a fry, and supersize that sucka..." Everyone laughed again. "...and..." he continued, "a large coke!"

As the husband and wife deboarded, they wished Bonnie and Clyde a good trip to Atlanta and all four apologized to each other for all of the bullshit; though perhaps the other passengers deserved the real apology, along with the infinitely patient and diplomatic driver. Nevertheless, our ragged band of misfits all went off in in separate directions.

I ended up following the husband and wife for a few moments, as I headed to the Starbucks below the Omni Hotel. They had found an extra bottle (probably while still on the bus) and the baby chugged away at it as if nothing had happened. They DID seem like a caring couple, and the fact that they were together as a couple (with neither being absent from their tiny family) WAS encouraging to me.

As I pulled open the Starbucks door, I heard the husband behind me say calmly, "So...this is Indianapolis... Shii, man, yo weatha fu'in sucks ass..." I had to crack up...

He was right.

It was another snobby, pretentious Starbucks, under another uber-rich hotel, filled with power-lunching munchers, and three piece male business drones, all speaking the lingo of the board rooms, scrutinizing and evaluating each other, jockeying for position, blah, blah, blah..., mixed with thin, over-dressed white, power-princesses, strutting around, trying on California accents with their business associates, their heels sounding like tiny show horses, while sneaking into corners and talking on their iPhones like the mid-west girls they had grown up as. The scene was no longer nauseating to me. For me at this point, they were simply colorful fish pacing the tank, forgetting who they really were and selling away the ability to ever remember again.

I touched base with Facebook folks, and then strolled through the jacket-only club to take a pee in the brassy polished restroom, while $15/Martini drinkers followed my every move until I would playfully stare at one of them, causing his eyes to jet back directly down to the tiny glowing handheld screen in his hand. 

Feeling much relieved, I had studied this city more carefully than I had Milwaukee, and had a solid plan of where to go...

Buildings and businesses along Illinois Avenue.

Neat violet-hued plants.

Me, on the other side of the lens, drooling.

Indiana's Illuminati Headquarters [wink]

Again, doing my homework ahead of time paid off. Just as the rain started up again, I found the river, located a way to climb down the bank, and saw some great sleep spots.

There was a strange quicksand like feel under my feet, and I stepped carefully. Near where I'd entered the riverside was fallen elm. It was - let's not whitewash it - one bigass tree (I love how spellcheck doesn't flag "bigass"). I had a second wind now, and cleared away about 100 cubic feet of brush, setting the tent up on a slight sideways incline... 

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't bad. The screening was nearly ideal, being downhill and flanked by a thickly brush-strewn side of the road--without a sidewalk to the right, wet, squishy quicksand in front, the river to the left, and the impenetrable tangled branches of the fallen elm behind.

the only real issue was the sideways incline. But I could put up with that for one night. I was so confident in the spot that I left my stuff and ventured to the local KFC (a place I've been to maybe four times in my whole life), got some popcorn chicken and a sprite, then walked back to enjoy my feast, in the dry comfort and privacy of my little tent...

Meridian Avenue--over the river beside which my sleep spot was located.

On my way back with chicken and Sprite.

It wasn't as hard to fall asleep as it was to wake up the next morning. And, so, I did; dreaming intensely all night.