A Living Magazine - Day 307 - Homecoming - Washington to Elkton

It seemed like about five minutes had passed since I shut my eyes when the watch alarm sounded at 2:30 a.m. There was a light rain already falling on the tent and I had four miles to walk as it would get stronger. It was early on a Saturday morning. Many bars and clubs had just closed, so I knew there might be some "action" on the street as I walked to Union Station.

I packed up as quickly as I could to avoid having everything soaked, then made one last stumble along the little stream to Canal Street and headed - quickly - toward Georgetown and M Street.

The night was cooler than the last few nights. The temp had dropped considerably even since that last evening. The front of my blue button-down shirt, which had dried in the tent, was now getting pretty wet again in the rain, and the back was steadily soaking up my sweat.

I'm always stressed out when trying to get to a bus or train. The anxiety of the transit process itself is bad enough, but not knowing for sure that I'm actually at the station and ready to go is even worse. I'd studied the route intensely before camping that last night and was utterly determined not to play into my typical cliche of taking a wrong street. Although, Washington is very nicely laid out, it can be tricky. 

I did not come into Union Station as I had planned when I first arrived. You might recall that there was a switch problem and they let us off the train at L'enfant. So I'd never even been to the primary station. Also, I was taking a Greyhound, not a train. Amtrak is far more organized and civilized that old rickety, ramshackle Greyhound (something that would become even more obviously pronounced in the next few hours). Still they both used Union Station as a hub.

The station is located just north of the Capitol Building--about two blocks away. I went from M, then at the roundabout, angled off onto Pennsylvania Avenue (a diagonal-running street), then got back onto the grid, this time on K, following it a long way, intending to meet up with Massachusetts Avenue where Union Station is located about a half mile down.

Things went pretty well until I got to another roundabout. It looked like it should have been Massachusettes, but I cautiously walked around the whole thing and saw that it was actually Connecticut. I hadn't gone far enough. Returning to my easterly way down K, eventually I found Massachusettes, but about a quarter mile down that, I reached construction which left no walking space. The rain was now getting stronger. I took a chance and turned down a side street, thence around a block where a three car accident had occurred. When I reached the intersection I asked one of the police officers if I was close to Union Station. He said I was, and kindly pointed out which street to use. That worked and I made it to the relatively quiet building...  

The immense main hall of the station towered over me as I looked around for anything that would lead me to the Greyhound section. I finally asked at the little McDonald's on the first floor and the nice lady behind the counter told me to go up to the second floor and through the glass doors. I did, and found the empty ticket counter. A security guy who knew the schedule well let me know that I would be departing from Gate D at 6:00 a.m. rather than 5:45. The earlier time was just a boarding time. I'd figured this anyway, having taken dozens of Greyhounds in the past. Some stations will follow the boarding time, and some won't. Turns out, this station didn't.

I had a good hour to kill. So, I went into the bathroom and changed into my jeans. And, with the blue button down now drying on me, I almost looked respectable. Thankfully, the big pack is normal attire in a bus station. For once, I fit in.

The time moved quickly by and 5:45 rolled around. I went and stood in the line for Gate D. It didn't take long to realized I was alone, as the other gates filled up and their respective drivers led them aboard. And I waited, wondering "Why do I always end up in the anomalous situations?"

Six o'clock came  and went. Finally, I walked over and asked another driver if maybe I was in the wrong line. He checked my ticket and had me follow him over to another driver who said "Elkton? Ha! You're with me on the short bus," and pointed to a little bus that said "Special." I had to laugh out loud. He took my ticket and pointed me up the stairs. The bus was completely empty, except for yet another driver who apparently was going to ride with us.

I settled into my comfortable seat, ready to enjoy a long ride on a bus that wasn't overbooked. All my Greyhound rides since way back in Milwaukee had been stuffed with people. This was nice.

We pulled out at about 6:20...

Goodbye, Washington!

The driver was talking with the off duty driver sitting in the first seat. The latter directed the former through the streets just east of downtown Washington. We pulled into the Greyhound repair station--a sprawling complex of garages with large bays, centered in a parking lot filled with buses in various stages of repair.

There I sat trying to shut my eyes in the hope of making up some sleep, as the two drivers got out and walked into the office. After about 5 minutes they both came back out. And, the on-duty driver of my bus complained to the off-duty guy that his suitcase had been "stolen." "My wallet, my passport, all my clothes...everything! Fuck!"

After another 10 minutes, he reluctantly got back on the bus and we started out toward Baltimore. When we were near the city, he took an exit and pulled up near the student center of a college. We took on two very tired looking young people (guy and a girl), who said nothing, wore earbuds, and peered up from their phones just long enough to navigate the bus stairs and aisle, finding separate seats. The very tall thin, crew-cut guy took the very first seat in front (I was in the middle) and sat like a statue. The hippy-looking girl set up a kind of camp in her seat, right across from mine. Her bags filled the floor in front of her. She slipped off her shoes, pulled her legs up onto the seat under her, leaned back against the window and continued to stare at her phone.

This gave me the idea of listening to my iPod, which I rarely use but had charged for this ride the day before. I heard the first four songs from Tame Impala's Currents album when we pulled into the Baltimore Greyhound station.

I went inside and bought a coffee. The other two passengers transferred to other buses. Sitting there in the station sipping my coffee, I watched the bus driver on the phone, with arms flailing and expletives flying. Things weren't going well for him. I knew he was irritated that he had to drive all the way to Nothingburg (Elkton) with only one passenger, when all he wanted to do was track down his suitcase. After about a half hour, he hung up and walked over to me. He said that they weren't going to let him drive without his wallet and ID (a wise decision), and that they were going to send me to Elkton in a cab. Good ole' Greyhound didn't even have access to a spare driver. Now they had to spend more than six times as much as I did for my ticket, getting me to my destination.

I didn't particularly care either way, as long as I got there. I had reserved a motel room and wanted to check in early if possible. Then the tone of everything changed. When I got to the ticket counter a short unpleasant woman who was bossing everyone around (while not actually being the boss), sat and with the dead look of a bureaucratic zombie, demanded my ticket to enter the information for the cab driver. I told her I didn't have it any more, since the bus driver took it back in Washington. Then I remembered that I always keep an extra copy, and pulled it out, handing it to her. She said, "This will due."

As she tapped away on the keyboard an elderly nun came in behind me, and a middle aged woman stood behind her. The nun just wanted to check her suitcase. The Greyhound zombie tersely said, in between recording my information and trying to call a cab, "What do you want?" The nun answered with a very pleasant voice that she just wanted to check her suitcase. "Give me the tag," the zombie barked. "This isn't good!" she exclaimed, "I can't read these numbers." The nun said she was sorry. Then she handed the now-angry zombie her ticket, suggesting that the number on it might be clearer. "Okay... that might help me..." The clerk began to type and then rolled her eyes, "NO! This doesn't help me at all. These are your reservation numbers! Nice try, lady!"

The nun seemed stunned, but only for a moment. Then she apologized again, and looked down at the floor, smiling--perhaps going to that heavenly happy place that she had probably visited many times in her life whenever the outside world got hostile.

All of this was happening while the middle aged woman patiently stood behind the shamed nun. Looking at the middle aged woman, the clerk said, "Now you. What do you want?" She replied that she just wanted to print her ticket. "See that kiosk over there? Use it." The woman left the line a bit confused and mumbling to herself about not knowing how to work the thing.

In the midst of this, an elderly couple walked up to the counter--him with a cane. They were supposed to have been on the same bus I had been moved off of. They needed to get to Aberdeen. The angry zombie clerk told me to move over and wait for the cab. After hearing of the couple's destination, the clerk told them they would have to share my cab. They told her they needed some kind proof that Greyhound was paying for this, because they needed a ride back later in the day (theirs was a round trip ticket). She told them that when they wanted to come back, pay for the cab, and then ask the driver to come to the counter, where "someone" would compensate them and repay him. They looked understandably perplexed and suspicious of this idea.

"We don't have that kind of money," the man said gently. "How is he going to believe us without a note from you?"

The clerk squinted her eyes and said, "He'll believe you. That's all I can offer you, besides a refund and then you would have to find your own way to Aberdeen and back. It's all I can do, sir! Decide."

At this point, the nun finally got her suitcase checked and walked away to the seating area. I stood with the elderly couple waiting for our cab. The guy was obviously upset, but holding his peace. His wife was quietly saying to herself, "How can they do this? This isn't our fault? Why do we have to pay...and without proof that we bought our tickets..." Her husband just shook his head.

I turned and tried to lighten the mood, saying, "Greyhound, where the customer is always wrong." She smiled, and he just continued to shake his head.

The parking attendant, charged with holding the cab out in the parking lot, ran back in to grab the cash ($175.00) from the zombie. When he had the money he said to the zombie clerk, "He tried to charge me for two fares!--$195!"

She said very pointedly, "He gets $175, or we call another yellow."

He nodded and told the couple and me to follow him. The driver opened the trunk, where we all put our bags, and then the parking attendant pretty much pushed me into the front seat and hurried the couple into the back seat. "Thank you for choosing Greyhound!" he said, ironically, as he ran back into the station.

The cab driver was a quiet, foreign man. He adjusted everything and then we rolled out and onto the busy streets of Baltimore. Through a dozen lights and heavy traffic he skillfully made his way to the highway. I could hear the couple behind me commiserating softly with each other. The driver said, "What eh wrong with dat company?" We all nodded. He continued, "Dey force you to take a cab, dey wouldn't pay me extra for making two stops..."

I said, "They strong arm people, because they are the only game in town."

The elderly gentleman in back said, "I would have taken the refund, but I have to be in Aberdeen for a doctor's appointment today."

His wife added, "Can't believe they don't have a backup driver for situations like this."

Well, at least we were all in agreement, which made riding together a bit more comfortable. Arriving in Aberdeen, the elderly man directed the driver to the station. They got out, and I handed them my business card, incase they needed a witness for their refund on the return trip. They thanked me. And, I wished them luck.

The driver told me, "I aint gonna lie, mon, I never been to Elkton." I asked if maybe he could find the Motel 6 on his GPS, and drop me off there instead of the station. He thought it was worth a try. So I got out and went to the back, pulling out my pack and laptop to read him the address on the screen shot I'd made. He took down the information and said, "Well...it a mile furder...but okay."

I hopped back in front. For the first part of the two hour ride, we were silent. He plugged his phone into the stereo and turned up some Bob Marley. That was great! Good tunes. I sat back and enjoyed the music, almost falling asleep several times.

At some point we missed a turn and he said, "Shit! Missed dat right, mon! Shit!" Then he looked over at the GPS screen and turned to me, "Ha! Looks like dis route actually gonna be shorteh by four miles!" We both laughed.

I suggested it was too bad that he couldn't grab a fare for the return trip. He told me it doesn't work that way. He can drive people out of a county, but can't pick up new people once in another county. Then he told me a story about one time on a rainy night, Greyhound called him and told him to come pick up a 16 year old boy at the station. He did, and drove the boy to the coordinates Greyhound had given him, so he could meet his parents. It was the wrong address. He was confused and tried to reach Greyhound by phone (which...well, you can imagine...). Finally, he asked for the kid's parents number and called them. They gave him the right address, and he drove the extra 172 miles to drop the boy off. The parents were very thankful that he had taken care of their kid, who was scared shitless by that time, tired and depressed.

When he told his the cab company about the debacle, they called Greyhound and recorded the conversation with him present. They tried to weasel out of paying more. For a week after, they refused to pay for the extra distance. Eventually the cab company decided to let asshole-dogs lie, and compensated the driver themselves; probably fearing that Greyhound would stop giving them business. "Dat's whot dey do, mon!"

I asked him how he likes this kind of work. He told me it's okay as long as things are busy. He didn't mind riding with me even if we weren't talking, but hated to be alone like he would be on the way back to Baltimore. This was the busy season in Baltimore, because parents call cabs to get their kids to and from school. Slow seasons are anytime that school isn't in session. He told me he pulls in about $1,000 a week during busy seasons, but hardly breaks even during other times. I asked him how the system works.

He said the drivers for this company are all independent contractors. The company provides (rents/leases) the cars and equipment, all they have to do is make sure to pay the weekly fee of $460. They are given dispatched opportunities which they can then accept or reject. And they can solicit street work on their own any time they want. He works five days a week, whichever five he decides. "It's not a bad jahb. Pay da bills..."

I told him what I do, and he said, "WOW! No way, mon! Not whot I would do!" and laughed. But, he added, "At lease you get to speak ya mine! You make sure to tell about Greyhoun." I promised him I would. And, now I have fulfilled that promise.

As we got near Elkton, I asked his name. "Peter," he replied. I asked him where he was from "Nigeria." I wondered what he thought of the United States. He said it was "Okay..." but he missed his wife and kids who were all still in Africa. He was sending money back to them, and trying to save for visas to bring them all over. He returned there once per year to visit. Frankly, I just couldn't imagine what that would be like...

We parked at the Motel 6. I ran around to the trunk and grabbed Saggy, then went back and gave him the last five dollar bills in my wallet. It was worth it, not to have to walk to the motel from the station and for our great conversation. To this day, I wish him well, and pray that he might have his family here as soon as humanly possible.

Check in went very well, and I met the kind and - as I would discover - very compassionate cat lover, Juli, managing the front desk of the motel. The staff was very friendly. She was quite interested in my project, and joked that she would hold onto my signature to tape in her copy of my future book. I told her I'd send her a signed copy. Now, another promise to fulfill. And, I will.

The room was great. It was clean and inviting. I settled in for a little while and reviewed my hectic trip. I'd begun the day sleeping in a swamp in Georgetown, Washington, DC, and now I was sitting in relative opulence in a clean room in northern Maryland, having made four new friends along the way.

Now, all I needed was a couple of my cheap beers and a shower. I walked across the street to Shell, but there was no beer or alcohol of any kind. Damn! I'd forgotten to check the liquor laws of Maryland. I told the young guy behind the counter that I was new in Maryland... and, before I could continue (probably having been asked this question 100 times before), he laid out the situation. No beer in gas stations, only convenience stores and liquor stores. He said there were two liquor stores about a half mile down the highway, one in either direction. One was in Delaware though and I could avoid sales tax if I crossed the border. Didn't have to tell me twice. I thanked him and was out of there and walking to Delaware.

I reached the "Free State Liquor Store." Going in, I saw just how good the prices were, and wanted to grab a pint of vodka for the next few days. But, as I looked at the selection I saw one of the rarest things I'd ever seen...Everclear. This is the stuff of legends. It is outlawed for retail sales in most states (including my home state of Maine--where you have to have a special liquor license to buy it). It is fabulously versatile, since a little goes a LONG way.

Typically, it is distilled to 95% (190 proof) pure ethanol. But, it can be used in all kinds of applications besides spiking punches at frat houses. People use it to extract plant essences, as fuel, and as the owner behind the counter told me, truckers will use it in their brake lines. One must be careful with this beast. It is highly flammable. And, you NEVER drink it straight.

The owner told me that a bunch of wise-ass college students came in once and bought a fifth, not knowing what it was, and dismissing the owner's warnings. He watched as they walked out into the parking lot, and the biggest toughest guy unscrewed the cap and took a large guzzle, swallowing it before he realized the extent of his error. The owner said he actually stumbled backwards and fell with his head hitting the edge of the building. Then he got up and staggered around crying, red-faced, sweating and begging for water. "We had a big ole' laugh over that," he said. Sometimes direct experience is the best way to learn a tough lesson.

He also said that Maryland's new governor was the force behind bringing Everclear back. Apparently he's a real hoot. He squeaked it through the legislature by getting the company to lower the percentage by 0.5%, making it 189 proof. And it is super-cheap. I bought this pint for $6.00 (the price of a cheap pint of 80 proof vodka). And it lasted up until the night that I write this, five days later...

I worked until I just wanted to rest. Then I made myself a bloody mary and stretched out on the bed to watch "Man vs. Food" episodes until falling asleep at about 3:00 p.m. for a nap. For once, I actually slept really well in the motel bed, and the plan was to sleep until 6:00 p.m. then get up and work more. But my body had other plans...