A Living Magazine - Day 162 - No Rhyme Or Reason Necessary

There were three very bizarre dreams during the night. I debated whether I would tell you about them. And, for now, I've decided not to. I know most people don't care, and sometimes I feel that I reveal a bit too much about myself--to the point of being embarrassing.

I woke and discovered that there were a zillion ants all around the base of my table and the bottom of the tent. VERY strangely, none had crawled up the sides of the tent. By all rational assumptions they should be all over it, but they weren't.

I put on my boots and stepped out into the melee. They simply changed their paths, as I walked around of their little village square festival. Packing up was no problem, and no ants ended up on any of my stuff. I had to do a full pack up (not leaving anything behind), because I wasn't sure if I'd be stuck downtown for the night and have to find a sleep spot there. And, turns out, I almost was, but that was still to come.

I dreaded having to deal with this crazy bus system, but was all ready to give it the old college try. Shit, I'd been lazing around this spot for four days now, anything would be more exciting. And, I was about to learn just how exciting. Ha!

With everything stuffed tightly into Saggy, the wonder pack--and I DO mean tightly, I hauled up the fifty pound mass and swung it over my shoulders like an obese four year old child. Thankfully, my shoulders have become very strong and my back is so used to the pack that when it isn't strapped to me I tend to slouch for a while before getting used to not carrying it.

I walked down to McDonald's at the Wal-Mart and got a coffee, passing by the bus stop and glancing at the times the buses should be there. It was supposed to be five minutes past the hour, each hour--the Route 3 bus was the baby.

I finished the day's post (which I had mostly written the night before) and published it here. Then I headed back to the bus stop, only a hundred feet away, at about 9:30 am. I sat on the bench, paced, found chewing gum in my pack and did that for a little while, taking pictures. Cars passed, the sun rose, the parking lot filled with eager shoppers, ready for mindless consumption.

On the sidewalk.

It looks ratty, but it is the only bus schedule I saw in all of Montgomery.

Wal-Mart outdoors section.

Never in the 7,000 miles I've traveled, the dozens of cities I've ventured through, nor in the many bus systems I've had to learn about has a bus been early. But, lo and behold, at 9:58 am, the 10:05 bus came rumbling around the corner. I was expecting to see "Route 3" on its digital display, but no, it said "Route 11". I sighed, and looked down at Saggy, before pulling it onto one shoulder. Then I walked up to the open door and asked the driver if number 3 was coming. She looked at me, and then smiled and said, "Where is it you off to honey?" I told her I just wanted to get downtown. She said, "I can do that, hop on!" I complied, with a mixture of confusion and hope, dropping my eight quarters in the slot.

Now, normally (ha!) a transfer ticket will come up right away. But in this case none did. So, I shrugged (having already planned to pay over and over again if I screwed up my routes), and walked to an empty seat. Empty seats were not rare, as I was the only one on the bus. (In this system the driver hands out transfers after the ride, instead of when you board, which is good, because it puts more time on the transfer ticket.)

We sat there with the door open for at least five minutes. This made sense, since she was early. And, I watched something I'd never seen before. A steady stream of neighborhood people walked by and stepped in to talk with the driver, without planning to ride. All these folks all knew each other. I just stayed in my seat, with my goofy glasses on watching this social parade. Finally, at about 10:08, the door shut, with only one person (a Wal-Mart employee), stepping on, paying and actually staying for the ride.

We took off at a leisurely pace at first until we went under the overpass and to the frontage road on the other side of Highway 80, then the pedal hit the metal, and the old bus shuttered, as a vibration rippled down from front to back; we made the jump to lightspeed. I was looking out the window at the edges of the road and ant hills were passing so quickly that they looked like an old fashioned, time lapse movie of just one ant hill, being built up and torn down a hundred times a second.

We flew by the other McDonald's I had walked to several times in the last few days, and came out of warp speed, just shy of the Montgomery Mall. What had taken me 45 minutes to walk to, took our driver about two solid minutes.

There, we turned on to another road. No stops were announced, and we picked up people who were just standing on street corners. I actually strained to look for bus stop signs and found none. Okay, there were a couple, but what was this telepathy? How to pick up and who to drive by. She made no mistakes.

I'm not prone to asking a lot of questions in these kind of situations, so I just observed and trusted that the Universe didn't hate me enough to be forever driving around the back streets on Montgomery. We passed small houses, burnt out houses, falling down houses, and occasionally pretty little houses, apartment complexes where one building was half-fallen, and the next was filled with flower pots and adorned with lawn furniture. On and on we twisted. I've become good at remembering the order of streets when I take a new bus, but after the first twenty turns, my eyes glazed over and I simply hung on for dear life.

At some point, the brakes went on again and we approached what looked like a dog kennel. But it wasn't. It was the transfer station! Happy day! I actually realized where we were, since I had studied the Google Maps for the town until I was exhausted the night before. There at the station, people milled around the three buses docked and ready to receive transfer riders between them all.

I walked off the bus along with the driver who shot the shit with the two other drivers. Waiting for an opportune break in their revery, I asked how I might get to the public library downtown from there. And, almost in unison, they said "Oh, yeah, you take the 12 and then the 5." Nothing was explained about where I might want to be dropped off of the 12 to take the 5, and I was just too shy and intimidated by the whole thing to ask. So, I got on the 12 and settled in for god knew what.

After at least ten minutes of the drivers screwing around and joking with each other, the Route 12 driver saddled up and shut the door. I'd taken the goofy glasses off to look less dorky, but they were immediately put back on with the new acceleration. This bus was full of passengers.

Ever since Indianapolis, then Memphis, then Nashville (but, less so, because of all the white folks there), then Birmingham, I'd been getting more and more used to black Southern speech. It aint easy for a Yankee like myself - especially after being further immersed in the perfect grammar and word usage of the West (California, Oregon and Washington) - to keep up with conversations here in the South. White people, I could pretty much handle. But, I had to give myself credit for getting better at recognizing what was being said by black people. It is not an exaggeration to call it an entirely different dialect.

When I was in Memphis (as you might recall) I bought a "McDouble" and the young lady called it a "LickDubba". I bought a fudge sundae at McDonald's in Birmingham and the girl said, "Dabee wa-tay"--only looking at the register did I see the cost was $1.10. Consonants are routinely left off of words, meaning that more words can be shoved together in rapid fire sentences. None of this is simple-minded; it is simply different. Also, constipated, PC, northerners would faint at the constant use of "nigga" (not, "nigger"). Aside from the trendy white kids in the Northwest calling each other "nigga" (!) and calling, and being called by, their black friends (since blacks and whites in the West tend to hang out together more than in other parts of the country) the same--something I found beyond bizarre, it is black people calling each other by that term that is most common. They do it when they're angry or when they're happy. Context is irrelevant.

On this day, the term would be reframed, to stand for "asshole" by the black people on my ride home. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

We finally rolled into the downtown on good ole number 12 (a sign which was scotch taped to the windshield, upside down as luck would have it, since the digital display was not working). People pulled the cord to be let off at any old place, and the driver did not hesitate to just immediately pull over (with no bus stop being present) and let people off; sometimes picking up more people. This illogical procession drove me crazy! How would I catch the bus on the way back, if I knew not where a bus stop was? It was SO maddening and random as to be utterly fascinating. I should take this moment to mention that not a single white person rode the buses that I saw this day, and there were many buses.

Not wanting to get involved with figuring out how I would get to Bus 5, I simply pulled the cord when we had reached the downtown. I knew from Google Maps that the library was on Lawrence Street, and approximately a five minute walk from where I would be let off, near Adams Street. And, since supposedly "IWALLK", I walked!

I thanked to driver and she said, "Thanks, honay. You be good now, ya hear!" It was all just SO odd. I was this geeky white guy, living, eating each day, shopping, and riding buses with only black people. But I felt comfortable.

But that wasn't so strange. The strange thing was that I carried around a saggy, 50-pound little fat kid on my back, with a tent pole bag sticking eight inches out of the top of him. I would have been stared at and whispered about in any town. But, honestly, the black folks here didn't even care. They always treated me with respect--always. And, it wasn't a "make way for the white guy" kind of respect. It was them treating me like they would treat each other. I genuinely appreciated that. In fact, the same thing has been happening with greater frequency since Indianapolis.

I live on the STREETS. In this part of the country, most people hanging out on the streets are black. There is no reason in hell why I wouldn't get to know them, and they, me. As I said above, I feel more comfortable now around them than the stray white person who might stumble into the neighborhood. White people often don't say hi. Black men always say "What's up?" or "Havin' a good day?" It is interesting to note that neither white nor black women say "hi" routinely on the street here in the South. Apparently, it is improper and can seem like flirting. Hell, in the West the most gorgeous women strangers I've ever seen would say, "Good morning!!", take me aside, rub my shoulders, ask where I lived... And, frankly, some of them WERE flirting. They were so friendly it was intimidating--but I found myself up to the challenge [wink]. Amazing how different parts of the country handle gender meetings, aside from any racial overtones.

I took some pictures as I walked to the library...

Giant torch for Troy University.

I entered the library with a bit of an attitude, just in case they demanded to search my pack as they did in Birmingham. But all my presumption and argumentative preparation was for not. I walked right in. No one batted an eyelash. I tried to get online to buy my bus ticket, but even utilizing every trick in the book, it never worked. So, I found the computer lap and got a guest pass, went online, bought the ticket, and printed it in fifteen minutes flat.

The Montgomery Public Library.

I also, checked Google Maps again to see where the capitol building was, and other sites, then headed out for a much-missed day of photography...

As  I've said many times now, banks are ALWAYS the tallest buildings in a city.

Talk about an historic piece of marble!

This is the official tree of Alabama, the Southern Longleaf Pine.

It's needles can be twelve inches long. They are used as "pine straw" in mulch.

Jefferson Davis--President of the Confederacy. Immortalized in bronze. SO fascinating.

Once a rebel state. Proudly enshrined as such.

Another extremely historic marble. Does anyone care? I wonder?

It is set exactly equal to the Jefferson Davis marble shown above,

but on the other side of the street.

I tried many searches for the exact meaning of this Supreme Court phrase by Jackson.

Honestly, I really don't get it.

A timeline of Alabama Supreme Court Justices.

My initials, so nice to see.

Omega was turned into "w" in English.

Pretty important stuff, folks.

I had a bit of extra money from a dear friend who donated and insisted that I use the money to get "a good meal". So, arm-twisted and stomach rumbling, I went to a place I found on Yelp, called, "Sa Za", "Serious Italian Food", at Alley Station, 130-A Commerce Street. Yelp had listed it as a "$$" which is lower to middle price range, but the place was a lot fancier than I'd assumed.

The somewhat-puzzled looking young woman who met me at the door, gave a bit of an elevator-look of shock at my sweaty, sunburned, bum-like appearance, and saggy pack. But she bit her tongue and suffered through taking me to a table for two (me and Saggy--who always get the opposite chair).

A down-to earth guy named, Mike, showed up after I had scouted the menu--which was FAR higher priced than I would have usually considered. But, shit, I was gonna go for it! I ordered the "True Bloody" (bloody maries being my favorite drink), "Fresh Baked Sa Za Garlic Styxx", and "Chopped Lobster, Shrimp, Spinach Over Angel Hair" (with evoo, exploded garlic, reggiano cheese, chardonnay)".

The True Bloody was truly spectacular (though a big light on the vodka), really salty, two large green olives--tasting faintly of mint, and a lemon wedge. When the Garlic Styxx arrived I was surprised how large the portion was. They were drizzled with butter and sprinkled with chopped garlic--light and fluffy. But the masterpiece was the main dish. It was a large portion, set as an island in a sea of broth that was salty and buttery, like a thin lobster bisque. The lobster and shrimp were very flavorful, though the lobster was just a touch over-done; understandable for a non-Mainer chef. The spinach was evenly combined with reggiano cheese, and there was a spicy touch of red chili to the whole dish. The angel hair was...angel hair (hard to mess that up). I spooned off and sipped the broth first, which was like a soup appetizer that I enjoyed while dipping my Garlic Styxx in marinara sauce, then dove into the pasta dish with sheer delight. There was a lot of salt going on (which I liked), so Mike kept the ice water flowing.

I asked if they had Wi-fi, and Mike was sorry to say they didn't. He said (and I've heard this a hundred times now) that the restaurant didn't want the employees surfing the web on their phones. I thought that was a poor excuse by the management, but a typical one.

Restaurants that don't offer Wi-fi are gypping themselves out of extra money. As Starbucks has proven over and over again, customers who have access to Wi-fi at an establishment will buy more food as they stay longer. A simple cost/benefit analysis proves that the expense of a good wireless router - which they probably already have, and just need to set it open for guests - is peanuts. One hour of business would permanently pay for it.

And, this place was large, it could probably fit at least a hundred people--though there were only six guests including myself (Saggy doesn't count) there for lunch. So extra people sitting around working on their laptops, tablets and phones wouldn't have prevented others from dining. But, it is what it is. All Wi-fi will be freely dispersed through all cities within the next five to ten years anyway...

Sorry this is out of focus. It tasted better than it looks.

Garlic Styxx.

I was full and happy. Mike brought a container for my leftovers. I slurped down the last vestiges of my True Bloody, hauled Saggy up onto my back and headed out, completely clueless about how I was going to get the the south part of town by sundown...

Saggy and the leftovers.

Discovering quickly that there were no obvious bus stops around the downtown, and only seeing one bus pass by in an hour and a half, I began to get that sinking feeling that I was stuck. I tried to keep track of the last few streets that the number 12 bus had taken into town in the morning. Clayton was the one I remembered the most, so I walked westward along it, scouting for bus stops.

About a mile down the road, I saw that somehow I'd gotten onto Montgomery Street and Clayton was nowhere to be seen. I was in a poorer neighborhood, near abandoned buildings and dozens of small brick houses. The local folks (who actually sit out and enjoy the evening in their yards--white people take notice!) watched me, with Saggy drooping down my back, tent poles and all, carrying restaurant leftovers, like a forlorn refugee who had eaten at the Ritz and been kicked out.

Before I'd gone too far, and as the sun got quite low on the horizon, I gave up looking for bus stops, and traced my steps back downtown, defeated and ready for Plan B (find the sleep spot I'd located on Google Maps and set up camp).

As I approached Adams, I saw the number 10 bus pull up to an unmarked street corner and let someone off. The driver saw me walking quickly toward her and waited with the door open. I fished around for the $2.00 I'd reserved for a ride, and dropped the coins into the slot, at the same time asking her how the hell I should get back to Wal-Mart. She told me I needed to catch the number 3--that she would become the number 3, and that she'd bring me to the downtown transfer station first. Good enough. I just wanted to be on any bus, and was willing to pay three times to get on the correct one for a ride back to the sleep spot. Thankfully, I didn't have to pay more than the initial fare.

The driver told me to stay on board and that she would get me to the outbound transfer station that I'd originally gone through to transfer into town and then back to Wal-Mart. So I dutifully sat there. And that's when the drama began...

We went to an inner city bus station and parked while a few riders boarded. Now, there was a guy on the sidewalk, who looked a bit like Mike Tyson; hugely muscular, but, apparently, dumb as dirt. The bus driver wouldn't let him on. Another woman who obviously knew all of these folks turned into the narrator of this strange scene. I just sat, watched and listened.

From what I gathered, "Mr. Tyson" was trying to get to the Mission on time (for those of you who have no clue about what street people do, Missions only let you sleep there if you arrive no later than a certain time--in this case 7:00 pm). He was FUMING! The driver told him, through this narrator woman that she (the driver, Bernice) had given him enough breaks in the past, even given him money (!) and free rides, but he had become violent at some point, assaulting another rider for no reason and was now banned. The narrator woman, was going off on this guy, saying, "Bernice done hepped yo ass too mana time! You loss yo privages, baby!"

This dude got seriously angry, and started the whole taking-off-my-hoodie-and-now-my-t-shirt thing, like he was going to get on the bus and fight the driver. But he was understandably conflicted. The driver was a woman, she was in the right, she had the narrator lady backing her up... Even this meathead couldn't bring himself to act upon his extreme rage.

Another guy - HUGE black dude with a bright purple sweatshirt on - took the meathead by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall of the station. Then the three hundred pound security guard lumbered out of his snack-food infested booth, wrapped his arm around the meathead and pulled him into the station, with the help of the purple shirted guy.

The bus door closed right when I wanted to see what they were gonna do to meathead-Mike Tyson. but we were on our way, and even the forces of hell itself wasn't going to slow this driver down.

As we rode back up the street I had walked up earlier and thought was the wrong street (!), the narrator woman would not stop talking about it all. Since I was the only white guy in the nearest lightyear of space, she went on and on with "...Now da white peepa think we animal! Sa barrassing! Na wonda, na wonda! Moddafuckin' niggas! Day shame us all!"

And the bus driver, simply punctuated all of this terrible embarrassment with "mmmhmmm...da right...mmhmm." I didn't know whether to feel embarrassed, proud, special or awkward. I just held on to Saggy and dreamed of my peaceful sleep spot; how I would be so much happier there.

Eventually, we got to the transfer station on the outskirts of town. I went to get off, and the driver put her hand across the doorway, saying, "Not yet, baby. I'll get ya to Wal-Mart." This was comforting news, and I returned to my seat.

It wasn't long until we were on our way again, rumbling through the back roads of Montgomery, twisting and turning east, and finally pulling up to the bus stop where I had begun this strange odyssey. I walked to the door and thanked the driver as many times as I could. She just smiled and matter-of-factly waved me off the bus.

It was a short trek back to the sleep spot where I set up the tent for the fifth time, and paced back and forth thinking about what had transpired on this day. With everything back where it should be, I grabbed my AC adapter and little laptop, walked back to the McDonald's and got online, wishing I could have told you all what had happened, but knowing it would make too good a blog post to prematurely blab about. And, so it has.

When I noticed my watch said 8:00 pm, I grabbed my light load (AC adapter and laptop, sans Saggy) and went back to the campsite, climbing in the tent with a huge smile on my face--remembering just how bizarre the day had been, and quickly fell asleep.