On one of my many Amtrak trips to Baltimore we stopped somewhere in South Carolina late in the evening, and a mom came aboard with her two kids. The girl was about six and the boy around eight years old. They sat in the seats in front of me- well two of them did. I don't know if the boy ever sat down for more than a few seconds.
All night long I heard Mom. "Tyrone, sit down. Tyrone get back here. Tyrone, leave that gentleman alone. Tyrone, what in the hell are you doing? Tyrone, quit messing with your sister," etcetera etcetera all night long.
It was daylight as we were approaching Washington, DC. Tyrone came and sat down in the seat next to me. "How you doing, Tyrone?" I asked. His eyes got real big. "How'd you know my name?!!" he said.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
I Love A Parade
Here's a little one I forgot about from the TR Transport truckin' days. I was barreling-ass up Interstate 75 headed for Dearborn. About the time I entered Michigan I began to hear stuff on the CB about a tanker truck overturned ahead. Traffic suddenly slowed to a crawl, and everyone was directed to exit at the first Monroe exit. It took a long time to get everyone to the exit, and the road exited onto was pretty small for all that traffic.
I didn't know which way to go, but I figured if I followed the crowd I'd be all right. It was early afternoon as we all drove through downtown Monroe. The locals were out in force, lining the street on both sides, smiling and waving as semi after semi after car after bus came crawling through. I reckoned it was the biggest event to hit Monroe, Michigan in decades.
I didn't know which way to go, but I figured if I followed the crowd I'd be all right. It was early afternoon as we all drove through downtown Monroe. The locals were out in force, lining the street on both sides, smiling and waving as semi after semi after car after bus came crawling through. I reckoned it was the biggest event to hit Monroe, Michigan in decades.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Case Of The Missing Cases
The first time I ever had luggage troubles was on an Amtrak trip to Baltimore in 1978. When I went for my suitcase, it wasn't there. I said to the baggage guy, "I thought the airlines were the ones who lose luggage." He said, "We get our baggage handlers from the same pool the airlines do: the human race." My suitcase went on a more adventuresome trip than I. It went to Philadelphia, rode the next train southbound, missed Baltimore again, got off in Washington, rode the next train northbound, and had a cab ride to Pasadena, Maryland.
My buddy Michael Buinickas worked for Amtrak in Washington DC. He refused to fly anywhere, so when he and his family came to visit Vero Beach in 1980, he took Amtrak to Orlando and rented a car. I told him not to check any luggage, and reminded him of my suitcase story. He scoffed and assured me there would be no problem. They arrived on Sunday afternoon, and by evening they had tracked his luggage. They split the train in Jacksonville, part of it going to Miami via Tampa, and the rest to Orlando. Their luggage- all of it!- went on the Miami train. They were told not to worry, to go on to Vero Beach, and the Miami station would send the luggage to Vero via Greyhound Package Express. Monday evening Amtrak called. The Vero Beach Greyhound station had been closed when the bus came through, so there was no-one to receive the goods. Not to worry, though, Jacksonville would send it via Greyhound Package Express. Guess what. Tuesday morning Amtrak called. The Vero Beach station had been closed...again, but not to worry...The Buinickases all went to Kmart and bought some clean new clothes. The luggage finally arrived on Wednesday morning.
In 2003 I had a cheap big blue wheeled duffle-style bag that was too big to carry onto my plane to Denver. I was to be there for two weeks to get my brother set up and running in his new wheelchair accessible apartment, so I had a lot of different clothes- for unpacking and assembling, for talking to doctors and such, for staying warm in February in Denver. I also put my keys with my Swiss Army knife in there, because I couldn't take the knife on the plane. So I got to Denver late in the afternoon, got off the plane, and went to Baggage Claim. After a while a big cheap blue wheeled duffle-style bag came around the carousel. It didn't look as full as it had the last time I'd seen it. I grabbed it, and looked at the airline label. It was a big cheap blue wheeled duffle-style bag exactly like mine, but it belonged to somebody else. I put it back, and watched it go round and round a few more times before I went to the Baggage Office. I told them I thought the owner of this bag had grabbed my bag without reading the label. They scoffed and told me my bag would likely show up soon. It didn't. Then they got a call from a ski resort a hundred miles away. Seems a guest there had picked up the wrong bag, and could the airline please deliver the right bag ASAP. I said the dumbass ought to ski his ass back to Denver with my bag and I'd teach him to read labels. But the airline was nicer than I- doesn't take much. They sent a person to the resort, traded bags, and mine was delivered to me the next afternoon, keys and knife intact.
My buddy Michael Buinickas worked for Amtrak in Washington DC. He refused to fly anywhere, so when he and his family came to visit Vero Beach in 1980, he took Amtrak to Orlando and rented a car. I told him not to check any luggage, and reminded him of my suitcase story. He scoffed and assured me there would be no problem. They arrived on Sunday afternoon, and by evening they had tracked his luggage. They split the train in Jacksonville, part of it going to Miami via Tampa, and the rest to Orlando. Their luggage- all of it!- went on the Miami train. They were told not to worry, to go on to Vero Beach, and the Miami station would send the luggage to Vero via Greyhound Package Express. Monday evening Amtrak called. The Vero Beach Greyhound station had been closed when the bus came through, so there was no-one to receive the goods. Not to worry, though, Jacksonville would send it via Greyhound Package Express. Guess what. Tuesday morning Amtrak called. The Vero Beach station had been closed...again, but not to worry...The Buinickases all went to Kmart and bought some clean new clothes. The luggage finally arrived on Wednesday morning.
In 2003 I had a cheap big blue wheeled duffle-style bag that was too big to carry onto my plane to Denver. I was to be there for two weeks to get my brother set up and running in his new wheelchair accessible apartment, so I had a lot of different clothes- for unpacking and assembling, for talking to doctors and such, for staying warm in February in Denver. I also put my keys with my Swiss Army knife in there, because I couldn't take the knife on the plane. So I got to Denver late in the afternoon, got off the plane, and went to Baggage Claim. After a while a big cheap blue wheeled duffle-style bag came around the carousel. It didn't look as full as it had the last time I'd seen it. I grabbed it, and looked at the airline label. It was a big cheap blue wheeled duffle-style bag exactly like mine, but it belonged to somebody else. I put it back, and watched it go round and round a few more times before I went to the Baggage Office. I told them I thought the owner of this bag had grabbed my bag without reading the label. They scoffed and told me my bag would likely show up soon. It didn't. Then they got a call from a ski resort a hundred miles away. Seems a guest there had picked up the wrong bag, and could the airline please deliver the right bag ASAP. I said the dumbass ought to ski his ass back to Denver with my bag and I'd teach him to read labels. But the airline was nicer than I- doesn't take much. They sent a person to the resort, traded bags, and mine was delivered to me the next afternoon, keys and knife intact.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Dodge Dart
There are several reasons why I pulled this trip out of my head and dusted it off. First of all, it's a memory of my dead brother that doesn't make me glad he's dead. Second, it was an interesting trip. Third, it was down and up the stretch of highways and rails that I've traveled more often than any other, the Baltimore to Vero Beach corridor.
Back in 1972, just days after Hurricane Agnes ripped a swath through the Northeast causing the most dollar figure damage ever wrought by a hurricane up to that time, my parents offered their 1966 Dodge Dart to my brother, Jack. My mother didn't drive any more, and they would rather have the yard space and the release from insurance etc. All he had to do was come get it. I had a week of vacation coming, so we decided to go together. I could keep him on track on the bus trip down, and help with the driving coming back. We planned to drive it in one shot, all day and all night.
The bus ride was pretty normal. There were Interstate highways partially washed away, part of the Capital Beltway was gone, but there were alternate ways to get places, so it was no problem. All the funny stuff we laughed about involves people that resembled a person we both knew in Vero Beach, and that part is too cumbersome to bother with. Jack tried to hit on some young women- trusting I wouldn't tell his wife. He crashed and burned anyway, so there was nothing worth telling.
We spent a couple of days visiting our parents, took the Dodge to a local shop to get it checked out and ready for a 1,000 mile trip, and on July 2nd we were ready to go. We planned to arrive in Baltimore on the morning of the 3rd. No problem. We drove away from Vero braced for the long drive north.
We were about to Daytona when we noticed the temperature gauge rising above normal. Another few miles and it was nearing the danger point. We pulled into a gas station, popped the hood and popped the release valve on the radiator cap. Hot water and steam spewed forth. We used the hose by the gas pumps to refill the radiator and cool the engine. Back on the road. This time we made it as far as St. Augustine before going through the same routine. Georgia line, same deal. In Brunswick, early afternoon, same. Up near Savannah. We pressed on into South Carolina. The first place we stopped for a cool down, the attendant told us to put in some Winn's Quick Cool. We were skeptical. The attendant said that if it didn't work, he'd gladly refund our money. Jack bought the stuff, dumped it in, and we were on our way. About five miles later it was hot already. We spewed, hosed and turned around. When we pulled back into the station, the attendant looked worried. We popped the hood and the attendant reached for the release valve. We should have had a movie camera going. He popped the release, and steam shot out straight at his face. He handed over the cash, we hosed, and pressed on.
We made it as far as Santee when the resident mechanic at the gas station told us we needed a new thermostat- or he could just take the old one out with the same result. Jack opted for that solution. The guy got his wrench, took the cover off of the thermostat housing, pulled out the old one and put the cover back on. CRACK! Oops! No problem, he'd send his guy out to find another one at a junk yard. We sat in the air conditioned office until the sun went down, went for some dinner and came back. The guy hadn't returned yet. He came along soon, though, with a cover. The mechanic put the cover on. CRACK! "Oops! Well, the junk yards are all closed, so I guess you're stuck until morning." Thanks. We hung around the gas station all night. We slept in the car some, slept in the chairs some, awakened occasionally by the ding ding of the gas island bell signal. At first light, the mechanic came back to work. He himself went out to the junk yards, and by about 9:30 he was back with the goods. He carefully peeled and scraped the old gasket fragments off of the housing and the cover, gave us a new gasket for free, and lo and behold, he put the cover on nice and tight with no oops. We paid him, thanked him, silently cursed him, and went on our way.
We didn't get far. Spew, hose, move on. The span between spews was getting shorter and shorter. Finally, late in the afternoon at Florence, SC a mechanic got his flashlight and looked in the radiator. "Oh," he said. "You've got your cooling tubes all clogged up. This needs to be rodded out." I looked. "Looks like it's pretty well rotted out already." He told us we needed a radiator repair shop to fix it. "They're probably all closed by now," he said. "Good luck finding one open tomorrow." The fourth of July. Hmmmm.
We drove to a nearby motel and spent this night sleeping horizontally. The next morning Jack got out the Florence phone book and started calling. Third try he got an answer, and the shop was open. Hurray. We drove there. The guy looked in and corroborated the rodding theory. We'd had just about enough of theories about this situation. But Jack told him to go ahead. He took out the radiator, put it on a platform over a vat of liquid, and threw the switch. The platform sank into the water. It was cool, like a Frankenstein movie or something. After a while he raised it, rinsed the radiator, and set to work with his rod. A couple of hours later, the radiator was back in the car, and we were on the road again.
All we stopped for the rest of the day was gas. Cool as a Cordoba. We got to Baltimore about 9:30 that night. We heard tell that the fireworks were spectacular.
Back in 1972, just days after Hurricane Agnes ripped a swath through the Northeast causing the most dollar figure damage ever wrought by a hurricane up to that time, my parents offered their 1966 Dodge Dart to my brother, Jack. My mother didn't drive any more, and they would rather have the yard space and the release from insurance etc. All he had to do was come get it. I had a week of vacation coming, so we decided to go together. I could keep him on track on the bus trip down, and help with the driving coming back. We planned to drive it in one shot, all day and all night.
The bus ride was pretty normal. There were Interstate highways partially washed away, part of the Capital Beltway was gone, but there were alternate ways to get places, so it was no problem. All the funny stuff we laughed about involves people that resembled a person we both knew in Vero Beach, and that part is too cumbersome to bother with. Jack tried to hit on some young women- trusting I wouldn't tell his wife. He crashed and burned anyway, so there was nothing worth telling.
We spent a couple of days visiting our parents, took the Dodge to a local shop to get it checked out and ready for a 1,000 mile trip, and on July 2nd we were ready to go. We planned to arrive in Baltimore on the morning of the 3rd. No problem. We drove away from Vero braced for the long drive north.
We were about to Daytona when we noticed the temperature gauge rising above normal. Another few miles and it was nearing the danger point. We pulled into a gas station, popped the hood and popped the release valve on the radiator cap. Hot water and steam spewed forth. We used the hose by the gas pumps to refill the radiator and cool the engine. Back on the road. This time we made it as far as St. Augustine before going through the same routine. Georgia line, same deal. In Brunswick, early afternoon, same. Up near Savannah. We pressed on into South Carolina. The first place we stopped for a cool down, the attendant told us to put in some Winn's Quick Cool. We were skeptical. The attendant said that if it didn't work, he'd gladly refund our money. Jack bought the stuff, dumped it in, and we were on our way. About five miles later it was hot already. We spewed, hosed and turned around. When we pulled back into the station, the attendant looked worried. We popped the hood and the attendant reached for the release valve. We should have had a movie camera going. He popped the release, and steam shot out straight at his face. He handed over the cash, we hosed, and pressed on.
We made it as far as Santee when the resident mechanic at the gas station told us we needed a new thermostat- or he could just take the old one out with the same result. Jack opted for that solution. The guy got his wrench, took the cover off of the thermostat housing, pulled out the old one and put the cover back on. CRACK! Oops! No problem, he'd send his guy out to find another one at a junk yard. We sat in the air conditioned office until the sun went down, went for some dinner and came back. The guy hadn't returned yet. He came along soon, though, with a cover. The mechanic put the cover on. CRACK! "Oops! Well, the junk yards are all closed, so I guess you're stuck until morning." Thanks. We hung around the gas station all night. We slept in the car some, slept in the chairs some, awakened occasionally by the ding ding of the gas island bell signal. At first light, the mechanic came back to work. He himself went out to the junk yards, and by about 9:30 he was back with the goods. He carefully peeled and scraped the old gasket fragments off of the housing and the cover, gave us a new gasket for free, and lo and behold, he put the cover on nice and tight with no oops. We paid him, thanked him, silently cursed him, and went on our way.
We didn't get far. Spew, hose, move on. The span between spews was getting shorter and shorter. Finally, late in the afternoon at Florence, SC a mechanic got his flashlight and looked in the radiator. "Oh," he said. "You've got your cooling tubes all clogged up. This needs to be rodded out." I looked. "Looks like it's pretty well rotted out already." He told us we needed a radiator repair shop to fix it. "They're probably all closed by now," he said. "Good luck finding one open tomorrow." The fourth of July. Hmmmm.
We drove to a nearby motel and spent this night sleeping horizontally. The next morning Jack got out the Florence phone book and started calling. Third try he got an answer, and the shop was open. Hurray. We drove there. The guy looked in and corroborated the rodding theory. We'd had just about enough of theories about this situation. But Jack told him to go ahead. He took out the radiator, put it on a platform over a vat of liquid, and threw the switch. The platform sank into the water. It was cool, like a Frankenstein movie or something. After a while he raised it, rinsed the radiator, and set to work with his rod. A couple of hours later, the radiator was back in the car, and we were on the road again.
All we stopped for the rest of the day was gas. Cool as a Cordoba. We got to Baltimore about 9:30 that night. We heard tell that the fireworks were spectacular.
A Run To The Diz
My first marriage was not nearly as much fun as my second, but there was some fun. We put together a camping trip to Walt Disney World's Fort Wilderness Resort. Early one Saturday morning Johanna and her son Brandon and I set out for Central Florida with Heather Bowers and Barbara Heston along for the ride (HB & BH) in Johanna's Chrysler Cordoba. We hauled ass up I-95 headed for Route 192. We almost made it to the exit when suddenly huge amounts of steam came billowing out from under the hood. Johanna pulled off the road, and a car pulled off behind us. I opened the hood and gazed stupidly at the mysterious tangle of stuff under the hood. The stranger from the car behind joined me. "Look, your coolant hose split right there." He whipped out a screwdriver, removed the offending part and said, "Come on!"
I shrugged at the four people in the Cordoba and followed the stranger to his car. He took me into Melbourne, where he knew all of the auto parts stores and all of their employees. The second one he tried was open this early. He took the hose in with him, I bought a replacement at the discount price my benefactor would pay, and we returned to the car. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a five gallon water bottle, which he filled at the spigot out front of the store, and we were on our way back. John, for that was his name, installed the new hose, refilled the cooling system with water, and watched for a minute while the engine ran cool as a Cordoba with no additional problems.
I tried to give him money, but he refused. He drove off into the sunrise. From belching steam to resuming trip had taken less than 45 minutes and five bucks. It's almost enough to make a body believe in angels.
I shrugged at the four people in the Cordoba and followed the stranger to his car. He took me into Melbourne, where he knew all of the auto parts stores and all of their employees. The second one he tried was open this early. He took the hose in with him, I bought a replacement at the discount price my benefactor would pay, and we returned to the car. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a five gallon water bottle, which he filled at the spigot out front of the store, and we were on our way back. John, for that was his name, installed the new hose, refilled the cooling system with water, and watched for a minute while the engine ran cool as a Cordoba with no additional problems.
I tried to give him money, but he refused. He drove off into the sunrise. From belching steam to resuming trip had taken less than 45 minutes and five bucks. It's almost enough to make a body believe in angels.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Slowly I Turned
So I got back to Vero Beach in the depth of summer, 1982 to find that the Bowers family had been tipped out of the house they had been renting on 10th street, and were now down at the end of my street in the Bon Air Apartments. It was a tiny place- a kitchen/living room, a bedroom and a bathroom. 13-year-old Heather was sleeping on the couch in the living room/kitchen. All three of them spent a lot of time at my place, collectively or individually.
Heather and I were talking one hot hot day. I was telling her all about my latest trip, and she was telling me she'd never been farther from Vero Beach than Daytona. In a deranged moment I told her I'd take her to see snow this winter. Little did I know then that a few short months later...
Early November, 1982. Much cooler out, the Bowers family renting a house from my parents, Craig working full time at Emerson Art Service and doing a fine job. I was sound man for Craig's new band, making fifty bucks per gig. All good stuff. So Heather says to me, she says, "So when are we going to see snow?" "Huh?" I replied. "You know. You promised you'd take me to see snow this winter." "Huh?" I replied. Thus began a new plan. A week before Christmas, when work slowed down for the holidays, Heather and I would board a bus to New York City, see the fully decorated sights, and from there figure out where to find snow. I ran it by Craig and Linda. They were cool with it. I told my boss, my dad, and he was cool with it. My mother had her usual gloom and doom message about the dangers of bus travel, plus a new disaster, being busted for traveling with a 13-year-old unrelated girl. Believe it or not, I was undeterred.
Saving up for trips was something I was good at. By mid- December I had plenty for two 7-day Ameripasses plus meals and lodgings. We boarded our bus on the afternoon of Friday, December 17th, to tearful good-byes from her mother. I told them we'd be back on Christmas Eve or die trying. They told me that if I lost Heather, I'd better not come back. I smiled. Bus trips don't scare me.
It was around 11:00 that night that we changed buses in Jacksonville. Heather and I walked around a while. She was overawed by all the tall buildings. "Just you wait, Kid," I said. Georgia, the Carolinas and Virginia went by. It was late Saturday night when we hit Washington DC. We stayed on the bus. Early early Sunday morning I was back in New York City, buying another City Edition Sunday New York Times for Michael B. and another fresh bagel for me. Heather wanted a McDonalds breakfast. Easily done. There was one in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. On our way out, we watched a mean-looking guy with a tie tied around his head being led away in handcuffs by the police. Heather was dismayed.
Across the street, at the Times Square Hotel, my mother's theory of my impending incarceration was put to the test. "We want a room for one night," I said. The desk clerk looked us over. "One bed or two," he asked. "Two, please," I said.
We rested for a bit, then went out to explore. I had told her about The American Museum of Natural History, and she wanted to see it. We took the subway right to the entrance of the museum. She was flabberghasted first that such a thing was possible, and second that I could figure out how to do it. We went through the museum, and she was impressed by it. Then we came out to get some lunch. "I want spaghetti," she said. "I want pastrami on rye," I said. So we found a little hole in the wall place that served both. She was more impressed.
We returned to the hotel, and she called home. "Yeah," she told them. "We're at the Times Square Hotel. It's across the street from the 'SEX SEX SEX ALL NUDE REVUE' Theater." She told them about the subway and the museum and the guy with the tie. They didn't ask to talk to me. I guess they were cool with all this. We went to a movie in the afternoon, had supper in the restaurant in the hotel, and went to our two beds, exhausted.
First thing Monday we packed up, checked out and put our stuff in lockers at the bus station. The guy with the tie around his head was there again. Anyway, we wanted to do three things: go to Rockefeller Center to see the tree and see if there were tickets available for Letterman- there weren't; go to the top of the World Trade Center- we did; and go to the Statue of Liberty. So we left the World Trade Center and descended into the subways. Looking at the map, we decided that we needed to change trains at West 4th Street/Washington Square. We rode the train there and got off. We figured out which train to catch to the Battery. A train came, and we got on. Suddenly, Heather said, "This is the wrong train," and got off. The doors closed between us, and off I went in a total panic. I got off at the next stop, crossed over and caught the next train back- only it didn't go back the same way. I got off at the next stop, taking careful note of where I was. I got out my map, found my current location, found West 4th Street/Washington Square, and started running. On the trains, several people had told me I'd never find her, to just go to the police. Undeterred, I ran across Soho, across Greenwich Village and found the station. Thankful for my pocket full of subway tokens, I dashed through the turnstiles to the platform where she had been. I arrived just in time to see Heather and a policeman stepping onto a train. "HEATHER!!!!!!!" I called in my Dodgertown 'CHARGE!' voice. They stepped back, the doors closed, the train left, and all was well. I showed my ID to the cop. He shook his head and said we were very lucky. I knew that.
A couple of years after we were there, the Statue was refurbished and strengthened. We wound up the spiral stairs inside the rusty, crumbling Statue, and looked out the crown. That was as far as people could go in those days. It was enough. She really liked the boat ride, too.
We went back to Rockefeller Center to see the tree all lit up, and watched the skaters for a while. We ate at the deli inside, looking at the autographed pictures of people who had eaten there.
And then the time came to go to the bus station and ask about snow. We asked at the ticket counter, but nobody knew. One of them said we should ask the drivers, that they should know. We went to the gates and asked a small gaggle of drivers. They all looked at each other and said "Buffalo. There's always snow in Buffalo. Hell, they make snow in Buffalo." As a bonus, Craig grew up just outside of Buffalo. Sold. We validated to Buffalo. It was around 9:00, and the bus was at 11:00. We wandered around the huge Port Authority Bus Terminal for a while, buying snacks and playing arcade games. She was great at Frogger and Donkey Kong.
It was sad to leave New York City, as always. But in the morning, we were sure there would be snow. I woke her up in Syracuse. It was snowing and there were a couple inches of snow on the ground. We had a twenty minute rest stop, so we got off the bus. Heather picked up a handfull of snow, and surprise played on her face. 'It's cold!" she said.
There was a foot and a half of fairly wet snow on the ground in Buffalo. There was a park nearby where we made angels, we built a snowman, we threw snowballs at each other. And when we had had enough fun playing in the snow, we went back to the bus station. There was a poster on the wall advertising trips to Niagara Falls, Ontario. Dast we go to Canada and back? We dast, we dast!
The coolest thing about Niagara Falls was that the mist had frozen on everything- trees, buildings, road signs, roads, sidewalks- everything. It was beautiful there, all decorated for Christmas and covered with snow and ice. The falls were awe-inspiring. The hot chocolate and coffee were excellent. We hung out there for a few hours, then faced the grilling to get back home. I showed my ID, Heather showed her library card, they checked their lists twice to find out if we were naughty or nice, and kindly let us come home.
We did a lot of sleeping on the way to Baltimore. When we got to the city, Heather wanted to try ice skating. We went to the outdoor rink downtown and rented skates. It was fun, even if she wasn't very good at it. Roller skating just doesn't prepare you for the ice variety.
I had called the Shetrones and Buinickases to let them know we were coming. The Shetrones picked us up downtown, and we had dinner and spent Wednesday night with them. Then we transferred to the Buinickases for a half-day or so and delivered the Times, before we caught the train from BWI Station to Washington. It was Thursday, December 23rd. We had to boogie!
All we saw of DC that night was the stretch between Union Station and the Greyhound station. I bought a one-day extension of our Ameripasses, and validated them to Vero Beach, Florida. We left around 7:00.
Heather fell in with a gaggle of teenagers headed south on Friday. She didn't acknowledge my existence until after they got off in Daytona. But we were buds again by the time we arrived in Vero Beach, unscathed, exactly on schedule, Christmas Eve 1982.
Heather and I were talking one hot hot day. I was telling her all about my latest trip, and she was telling me she'd never been farther from Vero Beach than Daytona. In a deranged moment I told her I'd take her to see snow this winter. Little did I know then that a few short months later...
Early November, 1982. Much cooler out, the Bowers family renting a house from my parents, Craig working full time at Emerson Art Service and doing a fine job. I was sound man for Craig's new band, making fifty bucks per gig. All good stuff. So Heather says to me, she says, "So when are we going to see snow?" "Huh?" I replied. "You know. You promised you'd take me to see snow this winter." "Huh?" I replied. Thus began a new plan. A week before Christmas, when work slowed down for the holidays, Heather and I would board a bus to New York City, see the fully decorated sights, and from there figure out where to find snow. I ran it by Craig and Linda. They were cool with it. I told my boss, my dad, and he was cool with it. My mother had her usual gloom and doom message about the dangers of bus travel, plus a new disaster, being busted for traveling with a 13-year-old unrelated girl. Believe it or not, I was undeterred.
Saving up for trips was something I was good at. By mid- December I had plenty for two 7-day Ameripasses plus meals and lodgings. We boarded our bus on the afternoon of Friday, December 17th, to tearful good-byes from her mother. I told them we'd be back on Christmas Eve or die trying. They told me that if I lost Heather, I'd better not come back. I smiled. Bus trips don't scare me.
It was around 11:00 that night that we changed buses in Jacksonville. Heather and I walked around a while. She was overawed by all the tall buildings. "Just you wait, Kid," I said. Georgia, the Carolinas and Virginia went by. It was late Saturday night when we hit Washington DC. We stayed on the bus. Early early Sunday morning I was back in New York City, buying another City Edition Sunday New York Times for Michael B. and another fresh bagel for me. Heather wanted a McDonalds breakfast. Easily done. There was one in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. On our way out, we watched a mean-looking guy with a tie tied around his head being led away in handcuffs by the police. Heather was dismayed.
Across the street, at the Times Square Hotel, my mother's theory of my impending incarceration was put to the test. "We want a room for one night," I said. The desk clerk looked us over. "One bed or two," he asked. "Two, please," I said.
We rested for a bit, then went out to explore. I had told her about The American Museum of Natural History, and she wanted to see it. We took the subway right to the entrance of the museum. She was flabberghasted first that such a thing was possible, and second that I could figure out how to do it. We went through the museum, and she was impressed by it. Then we came out to get some lunch. "I want spaghetti," she said. "I want pastrami on rye," I said. So we found a little hole in the wall place that served both. She was more impressed.
We returned to the hotel, and she called home. "Yeah," she told them. "We're at the Times Square Hotel. It's across the street from the 'SEX SEX SEX ALL NUDE REVUE' Theater." She told them about the subway and the museum and the guy with the tie. They didn't ask to talk to me. I guess they were cool with all this. We went to a movie in the afternoon, had supper in the restaurant in the hotel, and went to our two beds, exhausted.
First thing Monday we packed up, checked out and put our stuff in lockers at the bus station. The guy with the tie around his head was there again. Anyway, we wanted to do three things: go to Rockefeller Center to see the tree and see if there were tickets available for Letterman- there weren't; go to the top of the World Trade Center- we did; and go to the Statue of Liberty. So we left the World Trade Center and descended into the subways. Looking at the map, we decided that we needed to change trains at West 4th Street/Washington Square. We rode the train there and got off. We figured out which train to catch to the Battery. A train came, and we got on. Suddenly, Heather said, "This is the wrong train," and got off. The doors closed between us, and off I went in a total panic. I got off at the next stop, crossed over and caught the next train back- only it didn't go back the same way. I got off at the next stop, taking careful note of where I was. I got out my map, found my current location, found West 4th Street/Washington Square, and started running. On the trains, several people had told me I'd never find her, to just go to the police. Undeterred, I ran across Soho, across Greenwich Village and found the station. Thankful for my pocket full of subway tokens, I dashed through the turnstiles to the platform where she had been. I arrived just in time to see Heather and a policeman stepping onto a train. "HEATHER!!!!!!!" I called in my Dodgertown 'CHARGE!' voice. They stepped back, the doors closed, the train left, and all was well. I showed my ID to the cop. He shook his head and said we were very lucky. I knew that.
A couple of years after we were there, the Statue was refurbished and strengthened. We wound up the spiral stairs inside the rusty, crumbling Statue, and looked out the crown. That was as far as people could go in those days. It was enough. She really liked the boat ride, too.
We went back to Rockefeller Center to see the tree all lit up, and watched the skaters for a while. We ate at the deli inside, looking at the autographed pictures of people who had eaten there.
And then the time came to go to the bus station and ask about snow. We asked at the ticket counter, but nobody knew. One of them said we should ask the drivers, that they should know. We went to the gates and asked a small gaggle of drivers. They all looked at each other and said "Buffalo. There's always snow in Buffalo. Hell, they make snow in Buffalo." As a bonus, Craig grew up just outside of Buffalo. Sold. We validated to Buffalo. It was around 9:00, and the bus was at 11:00. We wandered around the huge Port Authority Bus Terminal for a while, buying snacks and playing arcade games. She was great at Frogger and Donkey Kong.
It was sad to leave New York City, as always. But in the morning, we were sure there would be snow. I woke her up in Syracuse. It was snowing and there were a couple inches of snow on the ground. We had a twenty minute rest stop, so we got off the bus. Heather picked up a handfull of snow, and surprise played on her face. 'It's cold!" she said.
There was a foot and a half of fairly wet snow on the ground in Buffalo. There was a park nearby where we made angels, we built a snowman, we threw snowballs at each other. And when we had had enough fun playing in the snow, we went back to the bus station. There was a poster on the wall advertising trips to Niagara Falls, Ontario. Dast we go to Canada and back? We dast, we dast!
The coolest thing about Niagara Falls was that the mist had frozen on everything- trees, buildings, road signs, roads, sidewalks- everything. It was beautiful there, all decorated for Christmas and covered with snow and ice. The falls were awe-inspiring. The hot chocolate and coffee were excellent. We hung out there for a few hours, then faced the grilling to get back home. I showed my ID, Heather showed her library card, they checked their lists twice to find out if we were naughty or nice, and kindly let us come home.
We did a lot of sleeping on the way to Baltimore. When we got to the city, Heather wanted to try ice skating. We went to the outdoor rink downtown and rented skates. It was fun, even if she wasn't very good at it. Roller skating just doesn't prepare you for the ice variety.
I had called the Shetrones and Buinickases to let them know we were coming. The Shetrones picked us up downtown, and we had dinner and spent Wednesday night with them. Then we transferred to the Buinickases for a half-day or so and delivered the Times, before we caught the train from BWI Station to Washington. It was Thursday, December 23rd. We had to boogie!
All we saw of DC that night was the stretch between Union Station and the Greyhound station. I bought a one-day extension of our Ameripasses, and validated them to Vero Beach, Florida. We left around 7:00.
Heather fell in with a gaggle of teenagers headed south on Friday. She didn't acknowledge my existence until after they got off in Daytona. But we were buds again by the time we arrived in Vero Beach, unscathed, exactly on schedule, Christmas Eve 1982.
Monday, October 19, 2009
B'Gosh
For three years I suffered with the knowledge that Maine and Vermont were just sitting there waiting for me to fill in the last of the contiguous United States. Then, in 1982, another nefarious plot began to hatch. The World's Fair was in Knoxville, Tennessee; I was setting part of a story in Oshkosh, Wisconsin; there was a ferry across Lake Michigan I wanted to take; there were Provinces east of Manitoba to be discovered; and Barbara Buinickas was getting married in Maryland. Another bus trip was forming itself in my head.
May, 1982, after my work was finished for the Dodgers and the Theatre Guild, I prepared to set out on my next adventure. The bad news: the house next door to my parents was still occupied by Virginia, a recently widowed snowbird who was going back to Murfreesboro, Tennessee for the summer. She caught wind of the fact that I was heading for Knoxville, and she came up with her own nefarious plot. She wanted help with that long drive, and she enlisted my mother's help to guilt me into going with her.
We set out on a Tuesday morning. She drove as far as Tallahassee, and I drove the rest, arriving in Murfreesboro around 9:30 that night. She set up the guest room for me, and informed me that tomorrow we would be visiting all of her friends so they could meet me. My protests went unheard, and Wednesday morning she began hauling my ass all around town, to the insurance company where she used to work, to the houses of several of her friends, and back to her house to receive more visitors. I think they were all as puzzled as I about why Virginia was making such a big deal out of the twenty nine year old son of her next door neighbors in Florida.
Thursday morning I was packing up to go on with my plan, but she had other ideas. She drove me around the city, showing me the sights- all of which I've forgoten- introduced me to some more people, then cooked me a big supper. I was really getting scared now that she was planning to keep me there indefinitely. I announced at bed time that I was leaving in the morning. I would walk to the Greyhound station if I had to. She seemed hurt about this plan, but Friday morning I was ready to walk out the door- run if necessary- and she drove me to the station. I bolted from the car, said good bye on the run, and within minutes had my Ameripass booklet in my hand! Whew!
I arrived in Knoxville in the late afternoon. I asked the ticket agent which way the Fair was, and very soon I was there, on the back side of the University of Tennessee stadium, along the banks of the Tennessee River. The big attraction was a huge Ferris wheel. The line was miles long. I wandered through the exhibits for a while, reading about ecological projects and ideas, then went back to the wheel. The line was even longer. I saw signs about river cruises, so I bought a ticket for one of them. It was pleasant, much quieter out there, breezy, cool, seated in comfort. Then we watched the fireworks from the river boat. Ooooh! Aaaah! When we came back to the dock, I checked the line one more time and headed straight back to the bus station. Before midnight I was on the road again, validated to Oshkosh.
Saturday morning I awoke in Indianapolis, to crowded streets and banners touting the Indy 500. Oh yeah. Memorial Day weekend. Back to sleep. At lunch time I had to change buses in Chicago. I had time to follow my nose to that barbecue place Jerrell had taken me to back in '78, eat and catch the next bus north. In Milwaukee I changed buses to a local through West Bend and Fond du Lac.
As the dusk was falling, I arrived in the charming little city of Oshkosh. This was the home town of the main characters in the novel, Kentucky Crude, dreamed up by Michael Buinickas and me back in 1978. If you never heard of it, it's because it never made it past a hand written first draft, many years before I found the joy of word processing. The next in the series, Orange Peel Express, was to include a trip home to Oshkosh for our heroes. I checked into the hotel across the street from the bus station, showered and changed clothes before wandering the town in the evening. It was a beer town, with a tavern on every corner- perfect for our heroes. I was hit on by a local young woman looking for the father of her first baby to be conceived later, but I was completely clueless about how to play that game, so she moved on. Whew!
Sunday I wandered some more, collecting local color and history, marvelling at how Michael and I had randomly picked Oshkosh because we liked the name, and it had turned out to have just the right ambience for the origin of our characters. Lake Winnebago was awesome, the old abandoned brewery was a great piece of local history, and the people were very friendly and happy to tell me about their fair city. That evening I drank quite a few beers, went back to my room and scribbled a lot of notes. Since then I've moved ten times. All of my scribbles, including Kentucky Crude, are in landfills scattered around Florida.
Monday I went to the bus station and asked to be validated to Kewaunee, Wisconsin, where the ferry to Ludington, Michigan docked. The ticket agent didn't have Kewaunee on his list of destinations, so he validated me to Green Bay and was done. I had some time to look for some Wisconsin cheese for the road, but it seemed every cheese shop was closed. I found an open grocery store and bought cheese- from Minnesota!
The ticket agent in Green Bay didn't know anything about ferries in Kewaunee. The closest he could get me was Two Rivers, about twenty miles away. I decided to try it. You only go around once. But by the time I got to Two Rivers, it was pouring rain. I bagged the plan and high-tailed it back to Green Bay. BTW, I looked up the history of the Lake Michigan ferry system just now. All ferries across the lake were discontinued in April of 1982. Good thing I bagged it when I did.
It was the same ticket agent in Green Bay. I told him I wanted to go to Ontario, and he started to route me through Detroit- back around the south end of the lake. I told him no, I'd already been down there, I wanted to go through Upper Peninsula Michigan. His eyes got real big, and he pulled out the other book. Getting to Sault St. Marie from Green Bay meant changing buses in Menominee, Escanaba and St. Ignace. It took me all night, from dusk to dawn, to slog my way through the Upper Peninsula, dealing with the grouchiest people I've ever dealt with in all of my bus travels. That's going some!
Customer service didn't improve on the other side of the bridge. The Voyageur Bus Company agent was barely willing to validate my Ameripass to Montreal, definitely not to Quebec City. He was absolutely unwilling to issue me another book of tickets. He told me to get it in Montreal. Thank you, too! Onward I went through Espanola, Sudbury, North Bay, Pembroke, Ottowa and finally Montreal.
It was early evening, and I had time, after cajoling a new book of tickets and validating the last page of the old one, to wander the surrounding blocks of the city before boarding the bus to Quebec, Quebec, la cite si belle on deux fois l'appelle (the city so nice they name it twice.) I had a conversation with the person in the seat next to me. He knew a little English, I knew a little French, and we discovered that we were in the same business. He did layout, paste-up and illustration of textbooks in Quebec. He invited me to come by tomorrow to check it out. He also advised me not to stay in the city, but to end my ride in Sainte Foy. I did. After a much-too-long tirade about the US-Canadian dollar exchange rate, the hotel manager in Sainte Foy took my traveler's checks and gave me a key. It was 1:00am on Wednesday.
Wednesday late morning I cleaned up, paid for another night in the hotel, and set out for the city. I rode a city bus part of the way, bought a map and walked into the heart of the city. It was a charming old French city, and it took all of my High School French to barely make myself understood. I found the textbook company, found my fellow passenger and his girlfriend (who had much more English than he) and was given the deluxe tour of the place. I said my au revoirs and mercis, and was on my way again.
I was hungry, so when a sidewalk cafe all but blocked the sidewalk, I sat down. I ordered the Salade Gargantuesque- a really really big salad- and a cup of coffee. My favorite part was when a leaf from the tree overhead fell into my salad, and I couldn't find it. I guess it was delicieux, because I ate it. I walked over to the Parc Des Champs Du Bataille- Battlefield Park, and gazed out over the St. Lawrence for a spell before heading back in the direction of Sainte Foy.
On the way I passed a park with a baseball diamond, where a bunch of Quebecois were engaged in a lively game of baseball. I sat down by a tree and watched and listened to this game I knew so well being shouted in French. It would have been fun to play, but I didn't want to intrude, so I chased down the occasional foul ball for them, and continued to watch. After a while I saw a father with his son arriving at the park. The son was around eleven or twelve, and obviously Down's Syndrome. The dad had a baseball and a glove. The son had a glove, but when he saw the swingset, he threw down the glove and took off running. The dad stared wistfully after him. I picked up the boy's glove and put it on, signalling my readiness to catch. Dad and I never said a word to each other, but played catch for nearly a half hour until the boy was bored with the swings and came back. I handed over the glove and faded away, noting the gratitude on Dad's face as I did so.
I bought some snacks and drinks on the way back to Ste. Foy, and retired to my room, ready to move on. Thursday morning early I was checked out, packed and at the bus station, trying to convince the ticket guy to validate me to New Brunswick. All he was willing to do was to send me back to Montreal. Batard! Pardon my French. Four hours back to Montreal, a four hour wait for the next bus east. Batard! While in the Montreal bus station I happened upon a scruffy young Quebecois playing his guitar and singing songs I'd never heard before in French. I sat down near him and listened, enchanted. He saw me, and when he finished the next song, he handed the guitar to me. I played and sang "Catch The Wind" by Donovan, and it was his turn to be enchanted. Then his bus was called, and he was gone. A magical brief moment in time.
The bus to Fredericton, New Brunswick took all that night and part of the next day. Dawn was breaking when we crossed the Quebec-New Brunswick line. This was when I heard my favorite quote I've ever heard in my whole life. The guy across the aisle saw the border go by and said, in a thick French Canadian accent, "Haw haw, I yam so happeee to get out of Quebec backause in Quebec all zey speak ees zee French, and I do not speak zee French!" My head twitched involuntarily for several minutes afterward.
Looking at the schedules in Fredericton, I realized that if I were going to get to Prince Edward Island and back, I would probably need to extend my Ameripass in order to make it all the way to Baltimore. The ticket agent looked at me doubtfully when I asked him about it. I made a quick decision: bag the PEI leg and get to Maine and Vermont, the whole reason for the trip. I validated to Saint John and got right back on the bus I came in on.
Lunch in Saint John was memorable. I found a little restaurant that claimed "Fresh Fried Clams" on the sign out front. I liked fried clams. I went in. There were two long tables inside. Working class people were seated around both tables, talking, laughing, drinking beer with their lunch. I turned to leave, but Mama, the hostess, cook and waitress, grabbed my arm and steered me to an empty seat at one of the tables. Nobody seemed to pay any attention. "What would you like?" she asked me. "Fried clams?" I answered. She bustled away, and within a few minutes I had a big heap of plump, juicy fried clams, the best I've ever had, on a plate in front of me. Somebody asked me where I was from, which sparked a rowdy discussion of the pros and cons of Florida. I didn't say much. I had clams to eat.
The bus ride from Saint John to Saint Stephen was narrated by my seatmate, a ten-year-old boy who knew everything about this region of the world, the climate, the tidal flows, the history, the economy. I wish I could remember half of what he told me. I remember that I was mightily impressed. That kid is probably governor of New Brunswick now.
Re-entering the United States from Canada was way harder than entering Canada. I felt like saying "You know, if you really don't want me back, I'll just stay here." One person I talked to in Canada told me he'd been all over the States- Florida, Carolinas, Midwest, California, New York, and he always went back to Canada "because it's a free country." That hurt.
BUT! The good news- I was in Calais, Maine, validated to Burlington, Vermont. By this time tomorrow, the contiguous US would all be mine! Mine, I tell you! HA HA! The bad news- Greyhound had to route me through Boston. No matter. Such is life with the hound.
Bangor was in the dead of night, Boston early in the morning- let's see, that would be Saturday. My ninth day on the road. In Burlington I wandered the streets for a few hours. I was looking for a University of Vermont T-shirt for my friend Fay back in Vero Beach. She was born in Burlington, and her parents had been teachers at UV. I'm guessing today one could easily buy one anywhere, but back then the only place was on campus, and the store was closed. I bought her a Burlington shirt, and was on the next bus to New York. I had to stop in New York City to pick up a City Edition Sunday New York Times for Michael Buinickas. It was the only way he could get the full Classified Ads section. So on early Sunday morning a fresh New York bagel went in me, and a big fat Sunday New York Times went into my bag.
So that about wraps it up. I arrived in Baltimore that afternoon, spent a couple of days with the Shetrone family, and went to a wedding with the Buinickases. Michael was excited to hear all about Oshkosh, but sadly, our heroes never arrived there. I doubt they ever will.
May, 1982, after my work was finished for the Dodgers and the Theatre Guild, I prepared to set out on my next adventure. The bad news: the house next door to my parents was still occupied by Virginia, a recently widowed snowbird who was going back to Murfreesboro, Tennessee for the summer. She caught wind of the fact that I was heading for Knoxville, and she came up with her own nefarious plot. She wanted help with that long drive, and she enlisted my mother's help to guilt me into going with her.
We set out on a Tuesday morning. She drove as far as Tallahassee, and I drove the rest, arriving in Murfreesboro around 9:30 that night. She set up the guest room for me, and informed me that tomorrow we would be visiting all of her friends so they could meet me. My protests went unheard, and Wednesday morning she began hauling my ass all around town, to the insurance company where she used to work, to the houses of several of her friends, and back to her house to receive more visitors. I think they were all as puzzled as I about why Virginia was making such a big deal out of the twenty nine year old son of her next door neighbors in Florida.
Thursday morning I was packing up to go on with my plan, but she had other ideas. She drove me around the city, showing me the sights- all of which I've forgoten- introduced me to some more people, then cooked me a big supper. I was really getting scared now that she was planning to keep me there indefinitely. I announced at bed time that I was leaving in the morning. I would walk to the Greyhound station if I had to. She seemed hurt about this plan, but Friday morning I was ready to walk out the door- run if necessary- and she drove me to the station. I bolted from the car, said good bye on the run, and within minutes had my Ameripass booklet in my hand! Whew!
I arrived in Knoxville in the late afternoon. I asked the ticket agent which way the Fair was, and very soon I was there, on the back side of the University of Tennessee stadium, along the banks of the Tennessee River. The big attraction was a huge Ferris wheel. The line was miles long. I wandered through the exhibits for a while, reading about ecological projects and ideas, then went back to the wheel. The line was even longer. I saw signs about river cruises, so I bought a ticket for one of them. It was pleasant, much quieter out there, breezy, cool, seated in comfort. Then we watched the fireworks from the river boat. Ooooh! Aaaah! When we came back to the dock, I checked the line one more time and headed straight back to the bus station. Before midnight I was on the road again, validated to Oshkosh.
Saturday morning I awoke in Indianapolis, to crowded streets and banners touting the Indy 500. Oh yeah. Memorial Day weekend. Back to sleep. At lunch time I had to change buses in Chicago. I had time to follow my nose to that barbecue place Jerrell had taken me to back in '78, eat and catch the next bus north. In Milwaukee I changed buses to a local through West Bend and Fond du Lac.
As the dusk was falling, I arrived in the charming little city of Oshkosh. This was the home town of the main characters in the novel, Kentucky Crude, dreamed up by Michael Buinickas and me back in 1978. If you never heard of it, it's because it never made it past a hand written first draft, many years before I found the joy of word processing. The next in the series, Orange Peel Express, was to include a trip home to Oshkosh for our heroes. I checked into the hotel across the street from the bus station, showered and changed clothes before wandering the town in the evening. It was a beer town, with a tavern on every corner- perfect for our heroes. I was hit on by a local young woman looking for the father of her first baby to be conceived later, but I was completely clueless about how to play that game, so she moved on. Whew!
Sunday I wandered some more, collecting local color and history, marvelling at how Michael and I had randomly picked Oshkosh because we liked the name, and it had turned out to have just the right ambience for the origin of our characters. Lake Winnebago was awesome, the old abandoned brewery was a great piece of local history, and the people were very friendly and happy to tell me about their fair city. That evening I drank quite a few beers, went back to my room and scribbled a lot of notes. Since then I've moved ten times. All of my scribbles, including Kentucky Crude, are in landfills scattered around Florida.
Monday I went to the bus station and asked to be validated to Kewaunee, Wisconsin, where the ferry to Ludington, Michigan docked. The ticket agent didn't have Kewaunee on his list of destinations, so he validated me to Green Bay and was done. I had some time to look for some Wisconsin cheese for the road, but it seemed every cheese shop was closed. I found an open grocery store and bought cheese- from Minnesota!
The ticket agent in Green Bay didn't know anything about ferries in Kewaunee. The closest he could get me was Two Rivers, about twenty miles away. I decided to try it. You only go around once. But by the time I got to Two Rivers, it was pouring rain. I bagged the plan and high-tailed it back to Green Bay. BTW, I looked up the history of the Lake Michigan ferry system just now. All ferries across the lake were discontinued in April of 1982. Good thing I bagged it when I did.
It was the same ticket agent in Green Bay. I told him I wanted to go to Ontario, and he started to route me through Detroit- back around the south end of the lake. I told him no, I'd already been down there, I wanted to go through Upper Peninsula Michigan. His eyes got real big, and he pulled out the other book. Getting to Sault St. Marie from Green Bay meant changing buses in Menominee, Escanaba and St. Ignace. It took me all night, from dusk to dawn, to slog my way through the Upper Peninsula, dealing with the grouchiest people I've ever dealt with in all of my bus travels. That's going some!
Customer service didn't improve on the other side of the bridge. The Voyageur Bus Company agent was barely willing to validate my Ameripass to Montreal, definitely not to Quebec City. He was absolutely unwilling to issue me another book of tickets. He told me to get it in Montreal. Thank you, too! Onward I went through Espanola, Sudbury, North Bay, Pembroke, Ottowa and finally Montreal.
It was early evening, and I had time, after cajoling a new book of tickets and validating the last page of the old one, to wander the surrounding blocks of the city before boarding the bus to Quebec, Quebec, la cite si belle on deux fois l'appelle (the city so nice they name it twice.) I had a conversation with the person in the seat next to me. He knew a little English, I knew a little French, and we discovered that we were in the same business. He did layout, paste-up and illustration of textbooks in Quebec. He invited me to come by tomorrow to check it out. He also advised me not to stay in the city, but to end my ride in Sainte Foy. I did. After a much-too-long tirade about the US-Canadian dollar exchange rate, the hotel manager in Sainte Foy took my traveler's checks and gave me a key. It was 1:00am on Wednesday.
Wednesday late morning I cleaned up, paid for another night in the hotel, and set out for the city. I rode a city bus part of the way, bought a map and walked into the heart of the city. It was a charming old French city, and it took all of my High School French to barely make myself understood. I found the textbook company, found my fellow passenger and his girlfriend (who had much more English than he) and was given the deluxe tour of the place. I said my au revoirs and mercis, and was on my way again.
I was hungry, so when a sidewalk cafe all but blocked the sidewalk, I sat down. I ordered the Salade Gargantuesque- a really really big salad- and a cup of coffee. My favorite part was when a leaf from the tree overhead fell into my salad, and I couldn't find it. I guess it was delicieux, because I ate it. I walked over to the Parc Des Champs Du Bataille- Battlefield Park, and gazed out over the St. Lawrence for a spell before heading back in the direction of Sainte Foy.
On the way I passed a park with a baseball diamond, where a bunch of Quebecois were engaged in a lively game of baseball. I sat down by a tree and watched and listened to this game I knew so well being shouted in French. It would have been fun to play, but I didn't want to intrude, so I chased down the occasional foul ball for them, and continued to watch. After a while I saw a father with his son arriving at the park. The son was around eleven or twelve, and obviously Down's Syndrome. The dad had a baseball and a glove. The son had a glove, but when he saw the swingset, he threw down the glove and took off running. The dad stared wistfully after him. I picked up the boy's glove and put it on, signalling my readiness to catch. Dad and I never said a word to each other, but played catch for nearly a half hour until the boy was bored with the swings and came back. I handed over the glove and faded away, noting the gratitude on Dad's face as I did so.
I bought some snacks and drinks on the way back to Ste. Foy, and retired to my room, ready to move on. Thursday morning early I was checked out, packed and at the bus station, trying to convince the ticket guy to validate me to New Brunswick. All he was willing to do was to send me back to Montreal. Batard! Pardon my French. Four hours back to Montreal, a four hour wait for the next bus east. Batard! While in the Montreal bus station I happened upon a scruffy young Quebecois playing his guitar and singing songs I'd never heard before in French. I sat down near him and listened, enchanted. He saw me, and when he finished the next song, he handed the guitar to me. I played and sang "Catch The Wind" by Donovan, and it was his turn to be enchanted. Then his bus was called, and he was gone. A magical brief moment in time.
The bus to Fredericton, New Brunswick took all that night and part of the next day. Dawn was breaking when we crossed the Quebec-New Brunswick line. This was when I heard my favorite quote I've ever heard in my whole life. The guy across the aisle saw the border go by and said, in a thick French Canadian accent, "Haw haw, I yam so happeee to get out of Quebec backause in Quebec all zey speak ees zee French, and I do not speak zee French!" My head twitched involuntarily for several minutes afterward.
Looking at the schedules in Fredericton, I realized that if I were going to get to Prince Edward Island and back, I would probably need to extend my Ameripass in order to make it all the way to Baltimore. The ticket agent looked at me doubtfully when I asked him about it. I made a quick decision: bag the PEI leg and get to Maine and Vermont, the whole reason for the trip. I validated to Saint John and got right back on the bus I came in on.
Lunch in Saint John was memorable. I found a little restaurant that claimed "Fresh Fried Clams" on the sign out front. I liked fried clams. I went in. There were two long tables inside. Working class people were seated around both tables, talking, laughing, drinking beer with their lunch. I turned to leave, but Mama, the hostess, cook and waitress, grabbed my arm and steered me to an empty seat at one of the tables. Nobody seemed to pay any attention. "What would you like?" she asked me. "Fried clams?" I answered. She bustled away, and within a few minutes I had a big heap of plump, juicy fried clams, the best I've ever had, on a plate in front of me. Somebody asked me where I was from, which sparked a rowdy discussion of the pros and cons of Florida. I didn't say much. I had clams to eat.
The bus ride from Saint John to Saint Stephen was narrated by my seatmate, a ten-year-old boy who knew everything about this region of the world, the climate, the tidal flows, the history, the economy. I wish I could remember half of what he told me. I remember that I was mightily impressed. That kid is probably governor of New Brunswick now.
Re-entering the United States from Canada was way harder than entering Canada. I felt like saying "You know, if you really don't want me back, I'll just stay here." One person I talked to in Canada told me he'd been all over the States- Florida, Carolinas, Midwest, California, New York, and he always went back to Canada "because it's a free country." That hurt.
BUT! The good news- I was in Calais, Maine, validated to Burlington, Vermont. By this time tomorrow, the contiguous US would all be mine! Mine, I tell you! HA HA! The bad news- Greyhound had to route me through Boston. No matter. Such is life with the hound.
Bangor was in the dead of night, Boston early in the morning- let's see, that would be Saturday. My ninth day on the road. In Burlington I wandered the streets for a few hours. I was looking for a University of Vermont T-shirt for my friend Fay back in Vero Beach. She was born in Burlington, and her parents had been teachers at UV. I'm guessing today one could easily buy one anywhere, but back then the only place was on campus, and the store was closed. I bought her a Burlington shirt, and was on the next bus to New York. I had to stop in New York City to pick up a City Edition Sunday New York Times for Michael Buinickas. It was the only way he could get the full Classified Ads section. So on early Sunday morning a fresh New York bagel went in me, and a big fat Sunday New York Times went into my bag.
So that about wraps it up. I arrived in Baltimore that afternoon, spent a couple of days with the Shetrone family, and went to a wedding with the Buinickases. Michael was excited to hear all about Oshkosh, but sadly, our heroes never arrived there. I doubt they ever will.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
By Way Of Vancouver
During the last days of TR Transport, I was marking up my road atlas with the routes I had taken all around the US over the years. I ascertained that I had visited thirty two states. A plan began taking shape that would, in one long bus trip, bring my total to forty six- if I was lucky, maybe forty seven.
In March of 1978 I moved back to Vero Beach, Florida and began to work with my dad upgrading Gil Emerson Commercial Art to the new Emerson Art Service. The best part of this situation, from a Gospel point of view, was that my summers were free from pressure. During the summer of '79 I snagged my next opportunity.
There was a booklet of tickets offered by Greyhound called the Ameripass, either seven or fifteen days of unlimited travel in the US and Canada. My plan was to clean up the holes on my map: Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona. California, Nevada, Oregon, Washington, South Dakota, Nebraska, Oklahoma and Arkansas. I didn't want to waste precious days retracing states I'd already touched, so my plan was to enter Canada from Washington and reenter the US south of Winnipeg, Manitoba. I figured fifteen days would do the trick. Plus, I had the option of adding more days if the need arose.
On a Sunday evening in July I set out from Vero Beach. The bus station didn't have any Ameripasses in stock, so they sold me a ticket to Orlando, the price of which would be deducted from the pass when I bought it there. That all worked out well. At 11:00 Saturday night I was on my way with a page of my pass validated to Los Angeles. I found out that this schedule, Miami to Los Angeles, was the longest single bus route in the world. How 'bout them apples!
Monday morning I awoke in DeFuniak Springs, Florida. We had breakfast and continued on. This was when I learned that getting out of Florida across the panhandle takes a looooong time. Lunch was in Mobile, in my first new state. That little chunk Mississippi that hangs down to the Gulf went by the windows, and we were in Louisiana. This was when I learned that the causeway over Lake Ponchartrain gives me the willies- for a looooong time! Supper and buying post cards happened in New Orleans. It was getting dark as we approached Baton Rouge. I missed the Mississippi completely.
Tuesday morning we were in San Antonio, with two hours to spend eating breakfast etc. while they cleaned and refueled the bus. I, of course, went for a walk around the area of the bus station. I didn't see the Alamo. The most exciting thing: I was approached by a guy who was hanging out by a phone booth on the street. He wanted me to call some guy and tell him some line of shit, and I would get twenty bucks for my trouble. All I could see was the trouble. I told him no, repeatedly and vehemently.
Later that morning, the longest bus route in the world broke down just oustide if Midland, Texas. They called in a replacement bus from the Kerrville Bus Company, which took us all the way to El Paso. It was 9:30pm when we stopped, and a hundred five degrees in the dark. I don't know what the humidity was, but it was hot hot hot in El Paso.
The T-shirt I bought after breakfast Wednesday morning said, "Dateland Arizona: Two Miles From Water, Two Feet From Hell." Before we stopped, I had been awake for a little while watching the shadowy forms of sajuaro cacti stretching their arms to the sunrise. Very cool. I was really in the desert now. Western Arizona and eastern California went by the windows, and lunch was in San Diego. I peed next to a guy who kept leaning over the divider to try to see my business. He's really the only weirdo I've ever encountered in bus stations around North America. This is completely contrary to my mother's repeated warnings about the dangers of bus travel.
Los Angeles seemed completely uncomfortable to me. I had anticipated spending a night there to get cleaned up and sleep lying down. After walking around the blocks adjacent to the station, being offered ten or twelve different kinds of illegal substances, I returned to the ticket counter and got my next page validated to San Francisco.
I arrived there early Thursday morning and got a room in the first hotel I came to. I didn't sleep at all. I took a shower, changed clothes, put my stuff in a locker and set out to explore the city. My primary objective: to dip my toe in the Pacific. Secondary: buy a sweatshirt. Mark Twain said, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." He was right. It was coooold! I never found a sweatshirt for less than sixteen bucks (a lot in 1979) and my mother's voice in my head wouldn't let me buy one. But with the help of a map and a homeless guy, I figured out where to grab a trolley to the ocean. A twenty minute ride later I got off, walked out onto the beach, which was strewn with hundreds of sand dollars, took off my shoes and let the Pacific wash my feet. I picked up three sand dollars, got back on the same trolley to the bus station, and validated my next pages to Reno, Nevada by way of Sacramento. The scenery on the ride through northeastern California was among the most beautiful I've ever seen, a long stretch of green rolling countryside.
Reno seemed like a total waste of energy. Gambling doesn't appeal to me, and that's all I saw during the four hours I was there waiting for the next bus back to Sacramento. I bought some snacks, and my change was in Eisenhower silver dollars, which I was expected to drop into the nearest slot machine- two feet away from the cash register in the convenience store. I returned to the bus station and watched people, who were obviously weighed down by way too much money, dump it all into slot machines. I don't get it.
Friday morning I was rolling through the northern end of California. Mount Shasta was my first encounter with a mountain that just rose up out of the landscape with no preliminary hills. It just jumped straight up from the surrounding city like a huge conical wall. Oregon was charming, green and hilly, and Washington was a continuation of it.
Around 8:00 Friday night I arrived at my first real destination: Seattle. My hope was to catch a ferry to Alaska. A police officer directed me to the Savoy hotel, around the corner from the station. I took a bath in the claw-foot tub, and went to bed. It was 10:00am Saturday when my phone rang. It was the front desk person asking me if I was checking out or what. I told him I'd call him right back. I called the Alaska Ferry number. The ferry had left Friday morning and would be back in time to leave Tuesday morning. Damn! I called the desk to report that I would stay one more night. I set out to explore the city. I didn't have to ask where the Space Needle was. I could see it from nearly everywhere in the city. On my way there I passed a movie theater showing The Muppet Movie, noted the times, and continued on.
The area around the Space Needle was now the Pacific Science Center. I wandered it for a while, went to the top of the needle, and hustled back to the movie theater for the 2:30 show. Did I like it? Let's see, I saw it six times in theaters, twice on HBO, bought the soundtrack album on vinyl, then cassette, then CD, and now it's on my MP3 player; I bought the VHS and then the DVD. I think it's safe to say I liked it. Anyway, I wandered down to Pike Place Market and bought a few items, then went to a pizza place where they advertised free pizza if you didn't get it in twenty minutes. Mine came in twenty three, and it was free!
Sunday morning I packed up and checked out. Now maybe it's just on Sundays when I'm departing a city I really like, but the diarrhea tradition picked up where it left off in Chicago in 1974. I was in that bus rest room most of the way to Vancouver, and wasn't any better in Canada for the first few hours. That passed. The next affliction: it was cooooold on that bus eastbound across Canada. It was so cold that when a fellow passenger went to the back of the bus to smoke, I pulled his coat over me. He came right back and rousted me out of his coat.
Monday morning, my first waking moments were a picture I'll retain for the rest of my life. We were in the middle of the Canadian Rockies, rugged mountains, huge rocks, sparse trees and ice-rimmed meandering streams abounded. I looked down into a valley where two big deer were drinking from a stream. They heard the bus and looked up at me, then continued drinking.
Breakfast was in Banff, lunch in Medicine Hat, and that afternoon I finally got my cheap sweatshirt in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Of course, it never got cold again the whole trip. Tuesday morning we were in Manitoba, having breakfast in Brandon. It was about 8:30 when we arrived in Winnipeg, and I was enchanted by the string of parklands along the highway. When I got off the bus I checked the schedule. The next bus south was at 4:30pm. I had eight hours to stow my stuff in a locker and wander the city. It was wonderful, sitting in cool grass watching red squirrels, breathing crisp clean air. Mmmmm
Back to reality. I tried to get another book of tickets from the guy at the desk in Winnepeg. He scowled and told me to get it in the States. Thank you too! I got it later that night in Fargo, North Dakota. That guy validated me to Sioux Falls South Dakota- a Reno-styled in-and-out stealth state collection. Greyhound didn't serve South Dakota or Nebraska. I had to go by way of Minneapolis. In Minneapolis Wednesday morning I rode to Worthington with a very chatty woman from whom I learned the midwestern accent. She asked me where I was going. I explained my mission. "Oh, well, you're almost home!" she said. I pulled out my Rand McNally Road Atlas. She was right.
In March of 1978 I moved back to Vero Beach, Florida and began to work with my dad upgrading Gil Emerson Commercial Art to the new Emerson Art Service. The best part of this situation, from a Gospel point of view, was that my summers were free from pressure. During the summer of '79 I snagged my next opportunity.
There was a booklet of tickets offered by Greyhound called the Ameripass, either seven or fifteen days of unlimited travel in the US and Canada. My plan was to clean up the holes on my map: Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona. California, Nevada, Oregon, Washington, South Dakota, Nebraska, Oklahoma and Arkansas. I didn't want to waste precious days retracing states I'd already touched, so my plan was to enter Canada from Washington and reenter the US south of Winnipeg, Manitoba. I figured fifteen days would do the trick. Plus, I had the option of adding more days if the need arose.
On a Sunday evening in July I set out from Vero Beach. The bus station didn't have any Ameripasses in stock, so they sold me a ticket to Orlando, the price of which would be deducted from the pass when I bought it there. That all worked out well. At 11:00 Saturday night I was on my way with a page of my pass validated to Los Angeles. I found out that this schedule, Miami to Los Angeles, was the longest single bus route in the world. How 'bout them apples!
Monday morning I awoke in DeFuniak Springs, Florida. We had breakfast and continued on. This was when I learned that getting out of Florida across the panhandle takes a looooong time. Lunch was in Mobile, in my first new state. That little chunk Mississippi that hangs down to the Gulf went by the windows, and we were in Louisiana. This was when I learned that the causeway over Lake Ponchartrain gives me the willies- for a looooong time! Supper and buying post cards happened in New Orleans. It was getting dark as we approached Baton Rouge. I missed the Mississippi completely.
Tuesday morning we were in San Antonio, with two hours to spend eating breakfast etc. while they cleaned and refueled the bus. I, of course, went for a walk around the area of the bus station. I didn't see the Alamo. The most exciting thing: I was approached by a guy who was hanging out by a phone booth on the street. He wanted me to call some guy and tell him some line of shit, and I would get twenty bucks for my trouble. All I could see was the trouble. I told him no, repeatedly and vehemently.
Later that morning, the longest bus route in the world broke down just oustide if Midland, Texas. They called in a replacement bus from the Kerrville Bus Company, which took us all the way to El Paso. It was 9:30pm when we stopped, and a hundred five degrees in the dark. I don't know what the humidity was, but it was hot hot hot in El Paso.
The T-shirt I bought after breakfast Wednesday morning said, "Dateland Arizona: Two Miles From Water, Two Feet From Hell." Before we stopped, I had been awake for a little while watching the shadowy forms of sajuaro cacti stretching their arms to the sunrise. Very cool. I was really in the desert now. Western Arizona and eastern California went by the windows, and lunch was in San Diego. I peed next to a guy who kept leaning over the divider to try to see my business. He's really the only weirdo I've ever encountered in bus stations around North America. This is completely contrary to my mother's repeated warnings about the dangers of bus travel.
Los Angeles seemed completely uncomfortable to me. I had anticipated spending a night there to get cleaned up and sleep lying down. After walking around the blocks adjacent to the station, being offered ten or twelve different kinds of illegal substances, I returned to the ticket counter and got my next page validated to San Francisco.
I arrived there early Thursday morning and got a room in the first hotel I came to. I didn't sleep at all. I took a shower, changed clothes, put my stuff in a locker and set out to explore the city. My primary objective: to dip my toe in the Pacific. Secondary: buy a sweatshirt. Mark Twain said, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." He was right. It was coooold! I never found a sweatshirt for less than sixteen bucks (a lot in 1979) and my mother's voice in my head wouldn't let me buy one. But with the help of a map and a homeless guy, I figured out where to grab a trolley to the ocean. A twenty minute ride later I got off, walked out onto the beach, which was strewn with hundreds of sand dollars, took off my shoes and let the Pacific wash my feet. I picked up three sand dollars, got back on the same trolley to the bus station, and validated my next pages to Reno, Nevada by way of Sacramento. The scenery on the ride through northeastern California was among the most beautiful I've ever seen, a long stretch of green rolling countryside.
Reno seemed like a total waste of energy. Gambling doesn't appeal to me, and that's all I saw during the four hours I was there waiting for the next bus back to Sacramento. I bought some snacks, and my change was in Eisenhower silver dollars, which I was expected to drop into the nearest slot machine- two feet away from the cash register in the convenience store. I returned to the bus station and watched people, who were obviously weighed down by way too much money, dump it all into slot machines. I don't get it.
Friday morning I was rolling through the northern end of California. Mount Shasta was my first encounter with a mountain that just rose up out of the landscape with no preliminary hills. It just jumped straight up from the surrounding city like a huge conical wall. Oregon was charming, green and hilly, and Washington was a continuation of it.
Around 8:00 Friday night I arrived at my first real destination: Seattle. My hope was to catch a ferry to Alaska. A police officer directed me to the Savoy hotel, around the corner from the station. I took a bath in the claw-foot tub, and went to bed. It was 10:00am Saturday when my phone rang. It was the front desk person asking me if I was checking out or what. I told him I'd call him right back. I called the Alaska Ferry number. The ferry had left Friday morning and would be back in time to leave Tuesday morning. Damn! I called the desk to report that I would stay one more night. I set out to explore the city. I didn't have to ask where the Space Needle was. I could see it from nearly everywhere in the city. On my way there I passed a movie theater showing The Muppet Movie, noted the times, and continued on.
The area around the Space Needle was now the Pacific Science Center. I wandered it for a while, went to the top of the needle, and hustled back to the movie theater for the 2:30 show. Did I like it? Let's see, I saw it six times in theaters, twice on HBO, bought the soundtrack album on vinyl, then cassette, then CD, and now it's on my MP3 player; I bought the VHS and then the DVD. I think it's safe to say I liked it. Anyway, I wandered down to Pike Place Market and bought a few items, then went to a pizza place where they advertised free pizza if you didn't get it in twenty minutes. Mine came in twenty three, and it was free!
Sunday morning I packed up and checked out. Now maybe it's just on Sundays when I'm departing a city I really like, but the diarrhea tradition picked up where it left off in Chicago in 1974. I was in that bus rest room most of the way to Vancouver, and wasn't any better in Canada for the first few hours. That passed. The next affliction: it was cooooold on that bus eastbound across Canada. It was so cold that when a fellow passenger went to the back of the bus to smoke, I pulled his coat over me. He came right back and rousted me out of his coat.
Monday morning, my first waking moments were a picture I'll retain for the rest of my life. We were in the middle of the Canadian Rockies, rugged mountains, huge rocks, sparse trees and ice-rimmed meandering streams abounded. I looked down into a valley where two big deer were drinking from a stream. They heard the bus and looked up at me, then continued drinking.
Breakfast was in Banff, lunch in Medicine Hat, and that afternoon I finally got my cheap sweatshirt in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Of course, it never got cold again the whole trip. Tuesday morning we were in Manitoba, having breakfast in Brandon. It was about 8:30 when we arrived in Winnipeg, and I was enchanted by the string of parklands along the highway. When I got off the bus I checked the schedule. The next bus south was at 4:30pm. I had eight hours to stow my stuff in a locker and wander the city. It was wonderful, sitting in cool grass watching red squirrels, breathing crisp clean air. Mmmmm
Back to reality. I tried to get another book of tickets from the guy at the desk in Winnepeg. He scowled and told me to get it in the States. Thank you too! I got it later that night in Fargo, North Dakota. That guy validated me to Sioux Falls South Dakota- a Reno-styled in-and-out stealth state collection. Greyhound didn't serve South Dakota or Nebraska. I had to go by way of Minneapolis. In Minneapolis Wednesday morning I rode to Worthington with a very chatty woman from whom I learned the midwestern accent. She asked me where I was going. I explained my mission. "Oh, well, you're almost home!" she said. I pulled out my Rand McNally Road Atlas. She was right.
The bus station in Sioux Falls (pronounced SUCKS! Falls) was a menagerie. Obviously the guy that operated it was a big game hunter, because there were bears, antelope, mountain sheep, deer, moose, caribou etc. stuffed and on display. I had two hours to sit there and wait for the bus to Omaha. I tried walking around, but there was nothing to see. It was worse than Reno!
The best thing about Omaha was that the next bus to Tulsa left soon after the one from Sucks Falls arrived. It was pretty late Wednesday night, and I didn't have time for anything but to validate my ticket and get on the bus. But I've been to Nebraska! That's the important thing.
There was a lot of grass in northern Oklahoma, grass and farm land. It was hot in Tulsa, too hot to walk around much. I had lunch and dozed in front of one of those quarter TV sets until the next bus to Memphis. Eastern Oklahoma and western Arkansas were very pretty, especially the Ozark foothills. supper was in Fayetteville, and I could see outside most of the way to Fort Smith. Breakfast was in Memphis. I shaved in Memphis, then validated to Vero Beach, Florida. After supper in Atlanta I called my dad to tell him I would be arriving Saturday morning around 11:00. I was back on familiar territory now, and did a lot of sleeping all the way home. I was out of money after Atlanta, so it worked out well.
So there you have it- my longest bus trip ever, from Vero Beach, Florida to Vero Beach, Florida by way of Vancouver, British Columbia. Fourteen new States were added to my list, and four Provinces of Canada. I still had one day left on my Ameripass. I told Greyhound they could keep it.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Hassa Tyler!
I done told you I'd remember more stories after I published the "New Adventure Every Day" post. So this one involved two trucks to Thermo King, a refrigeration installer in Carlstadt, New Jersey. Jerrell and I cruised up the Turnpike as usual, Route 3 to Lyndhurst as usual, but north instead of south on route 17. We came to Carlstadt, but were unclear about how to proceed to our destination. I followed Jerrell into a gas station. I figured we were using the phone. I was wrong. Jerrell got out and went over the the middle-aged (probably about the age I am now, 32 years later) attendant. He showed the guy the paperwork with the address on it. The old guy frowned and scratched his head a minute, then looked up brightly.
In a thick Italian accent he said, "Okay, so you-a-go-a down-a-here to the light, make a left, and keep agoing until you asee the hassa tyler, and make a right." He handed the paper back.
Jerrell repeated it back. "Left at the light, keep going to the House of Tyler, and turn right. House of Tyler, is that a restaurant?"
"No, no, no! Hassa tyler, hassa tyler!"
Jerrell shook his head. "House of Tyler. What?"
The little guy started jumping up and down waving his arms frantically. "Hassa tyler, hassa tyler! Hassa- you Live in a hassa?" Jerrell nodded. "Hassa tyler, hassa tyler!"
Jerrell and I looked at each other, mystified. "Maybe we should ask somebody else," I suggested. "We could call Thermo King." Meanwhile the little guy was still jumping up and down. "Hassa tyler! Hassa tyler!" suddenly, Jerrell got a glimmer of recognition in his eye. "House Trailer?" "Si!! Hassa tyler!" So we turned left at the light, right at the mobile home park and were there before you could say hassa tyler.
In a thick Italian accent he said, "Okay, so you-a-go-a down-a-here to the light, make a left, and keep agoing until you asee the hassa tyler, and make a right." He handed the paper back.
Jerrell repeated it back. "Left at the light, keep going to the House of Tyler, and turn right. House of Tyler, is that a restaurant?"
"No, no, no! Hassa tyler, hassa tyler!"
Jerrell shook his head. "House of Tyler. What?"
The little guy started jumping up and down waving his arms frantically. "Hassa tyler, hassa tyler! Hassa- you Live in a hassa?" Jerrell nodded. "Hassa tyler, hassa tyler!"
Jerrell and I looked at each other, mystified. "Maybe we should ask somebody else," I suggested. "We could call Thermo King." Meanwhile the little guy was still jumping up and down. "Hassa tyler! Hassa tyler!" suddenly, Jerrell got a glimmer of recognition in his eye. "House Trailer?" "Si!! Hassa tyler!" So we turned left at the light, right at the mobile home park and were there before you could say hassa tyler.
The Last Trip- The One From Hell!
Superbowl Sunday, 1978. This trip was laid out carefully in advance by Ted Rutherford. Jerrell and I were to travel together- AND STAY TOGETHER from beginning to end. We were starting out with two trucks. Jerrell was delivering his to Dayton, Ohio, and from there he would ride with me to Fort Wayne, Indiana. There would be two plane tickets waiting there to Des Moines, Iowa, where we would take the bus to Mason City, call the truck place in Garner, and they would send somebody to fetch us. In Garner, we would pick up two chassis to be delivered to Turtle Creek, Pennsylvania, and from there we would bus it back to Baltimore. Got it? Easy.
Everything was going fine until we got near Breezewood, Pennsylvania, where I-70 meets the Pennsylvania Turnpike. My truck blew one of the back tires. I got that intelligence from the CB radio. Jerrell didn't have a CB. He was leading the way, so I had to catch up and pass him so I could lead the way to a truck stop with repair capability in Breezewood. It turned out I ruined the rim doing all that driving after the tire blew. Plus it was Super Bowl Sunday. It was going to take a long time to get back on the road.
The game was boring, believe it or not. It was nearly midnight when we fired up our trucks and headed out for Dayton. This was when we found out that Jerrell's truck had a blown low-beam headlight. He opted to drive through the night on high beams. Don't think that didn't deserve a mention or two on the CB!
Now I'll tell you about the Allegheny Tunnel. It was blasted and hacked straight through the Allegheny Mountains way back during the last century for the purpose of entertaining drivers. It was a pretty good bet that if the weather was clear and beautiful when you went in, it would be raining, snowing, hailing, sleeting, something when you came out the other side. The first time I ever drove in snow was when I came out the west side of the tunnel a few weeks before Superbowl Sunday 1978. Here was another opportunity to practice. First thing, a big ol' semi blew by, sloshed a slab of slush onto my windshield, and it froze before I could turn on my wipers. The washer fluid either was clogged or had never been filled. I had to roll down my window to see the S-curves I was negotiating all the way to the bottom of the hill. Whew!
I was happy when the sun came up. Driving south through Ohio in daylight was much nicer than the Alleghenys in the dark. We found the place for Jerrell's delivery easily. Yay, something was easy. Then Jerrell joined me in my truck and immediately started lobbying for stopping for breakfast. I refused. Our flight to Des Moines was at noon, and we were barely going to make it as it was. He ate up my road snacks. It was near eleven when we reached Fort Wayne, we had trouble finding the place, the receiving guy did a thorough inspection before signing the paperwork, and we missed the plane anyway.
So we went to the train station. It was nearly one o'clock when we got there. The train to Chicago was scheduled at 11:15. Damn! We were headed out the door when we heard the announcement: Train to Chicago now boarding. We bought tickets and ran for the train, making it easily. It sat there for fifteen minutes more while a porter came by taking lunch orders. The train was so late (How late was it?) they were giving a free lunch to all passengers, even those who were only able to catch it because it was so late. Jerrell was very happy about that.
We arrived in Chicago about supper time. Jerrell knew a great barbecue place near the bus station, so we had some fine barbecue in our bellies on the way to Mason City.
Early the next morning (this is Tuesday now, if you're keeping track) we called the place in Garner. As promised, they sent someone to pick us up. It was well before noon that we set out from Garner in two chassis, with crappy sticks holding our mudflaps on. We had lunch in Des Moines, and I picked up a stranded trucker to take home to Iowa City. He was grateful for the ride. I took him to his house, and he tore off the tattered remnants of my mudflaps as a gesture of thanks.
We hauled ass across the rest of Iowa and on into Illinois before Jerrell pulled his truck over to the shoulder. I followed him. It took him a long time to stop. The reason: his brakes didn't work at all any more. We decided to pull into the next available truck stop and call Ted. Atkinson, Illinois, I believe was where we left that truck for repairs, while Jerrell and I continued on in my chassis.
Just about at the Indiana line, the blizzard started. We crawled along in a stream of slow moving traffic. At every rest area we pulled in, looking for a place to park. Every space, legal or illegal, was taken. So, battling sleep, following taillights, mesmerized by snowflakes, I kept going. After I woke up from an unplanned lane change, Jerrell took over driving. That's how he got the ticket for the missing mudflaps.
Ohio and part of Pennsylvania flew by after daylight. It was early afternoon when we arrived at the place in Turtle Creek. When we stopped there was smoke coming out from under the hood. The truck place guys opened the hood, and flames shot up. They quickly extinguished the fire, signed my paperwork, and told us how to catch a bus to Pittsburgh- "Go across the road, climb the (snow covered) path up that hill, cross the parking lot of the big mall up there, and you'll see the bus stop." We did all that. We didn't have to wait long for the bus, either. We boarded, sat down, and watched in dismay as the bus went around a big curve, down a big hill, and right past the truck place. Good one, guys.
I woke up to sharp pains in my leg. I opened my eyes in time to see Jerrell rearing back and punching me in the leg. "Wake up!" he said. We were almost to the bus station in Pittsburgh. We exited the city bus and bought tickets for the Greyhound bus. I got home at around 10:00 Wednesday night. I lay down, and woke up around noon Thursday. I didn't even bother to show up at TR Transport that day.
I went in Friday morning, handed in my transporter tag and registration with my paperwork, and was done with that job. Ted tried to fire me for not showing up on Thursday. I quit before he had the chance.
Everything was going fine until we got near Breezewood, Pennsylvania, where I-70 meets the Pennsylvania Turnpike. My truck blew one of the back tires. I got that intelligence from the CB radio. Jerrell didn't have a CB. He was leading the way, so I had to catch up and pass him so I could lead the way to a truck stop with repair capability in Breezewood. It turned out I ruined the rim doing all that driving after the tire blew. Plus it was Super Bowl Sunday. It was going to take a long time to get back on the road.
The game was boring, believe it or not. It was nearly midnight when we fired up our trucks and headed out for Dayton. This was when we found out that Jerrell's truck had a blown low-beam headlight. He opted to drive through the night on high beams. Don't think that didn't deserve a mention or two on the CB!
Now I'll tell you about the Allegheny Tunnel. It was blasted and hacked straight through the Allegheny Mountains way back during the last century for the purpose of entertaining drivers. It was a pretty good bet that if the weather was clear and beautiful when you went in, it would be raining, snowing, hailing, sleeting, something when you came out the other side. The first time I ever drove in snow was when I came out the west side of the tunnel a few weeks before Superbowl Sunday 1978. Here was another opportunity to practice. First thing, a big ol' semi blew by, sloshed a slab of slush onto my windshield, and it froze before I could turn on my wipers. The washer fluid either was clogged or had never been filled. I had to roll down my window to see the S-curves I was negotiating all the way to the bottom of the hill. Whew!
I was happy when the sun came up. Driving south through Ohio in daylight was much nicer than the Alleghenys in the dark. We found the place for Jerrell's delivery easily. Yay, something was easy. Then Jerrell joined me in my truck and immediately started lobbying for stopping for breakfast. I refused. Our flight to Des Moines was at noon, and we were barely going to make it as it was. He ate up my road snacks. It was near eleven when we reached Fort Wayne, we had trouble finding the place, the receiving guy did a thorough inspection before signing the paperwork, and we missed the plane anyway.
So we went to the train station. It was nearly one o'clock when we got there. The train to Chicago was scheduled at 11:15. Damn! We were headed out the door when we heard the announcement: Train to Chicago now boarding. We bought tickets and ran for the train, making it easily. It sat there for fifteen minutes more while a porter came by taking lunch orders. The train was so late (How late was it?) they were giving a free lunch to all passengers, even those who were only able to catch it because it was so late. Jerrell was very happy about that.
We arrived in Chicago about supper time. Jerrell knew a great barbecue place near the bus station, so we had some fine barbecue in our bellies on the way to Mason City.
Early the next morning (this is Tuesday now, if you're keeping track) we called the place in Garner. As promised, they sent someone to pick us up. It was well before noon that we set out from Garner in two chassis, with crappy sticks holding our mudflaps on. We had lunch in Des Moines, and I picked up a stranded trucker to take home to Iowa City. He was grateful for the ride. I took him to his house, and he tore off the tattered remnants of my mudflaps as a gesture of thanks.
We hauled ass across the rest of Iowa and on into Illinois before Jerrell pulled his truck over to the shoulder. I followed him. It took him a long time to stop. The reason: his brakes didn't work at all any more. We decided to pull into the next available truck stop and call Ted. Atkinson, Illinois, I believe was where we left that truck for repairs, while Jerrell and I continued on in my chassis.
Just about at the Indiana line, the blizzard started. We crawled along in a stream of slow moving traffic. At every rest area we pulled in, looking for a place to park. Every space, legal or illegal, was taken. So, battling sleep, following taillights, mesmerized by snowflakes, I kept going. After I woke up from an unplanned lane change, Jerrell took over driving. That's how he got the ticket for the missing mudflaps.
Ohio and part of Pennsylvania flew by after daylight. It was early afternoon when we arrived at the place in Turtle Creek. When we stopped there was smoke coming out from under the hood. The truck place guys opened the hood, and flames shot up. They quickly extinguished the fire, signed my paperwork, and told us how to catch a bus to Pittsburgh- "Go across the road, climb the (snow covered) path up that hill, cross the parking lot of the big mall up there, and you'll see the bus stop." We did all that. We didn't have to wait long for the bus, either. We boarded, sat down, and watched in dismay as the bus went around a big curve, down a big hill, and right past the truck place. Good one, guys.
I woke up to sharp pains in my leg. I opened my eyes in time to see Jerrell rearing back and punching me in the leg. "Wake up!" he said. We were almost to the bus station in Pittsburgh. We exited the city bus and bought tickets for the Greyhound bus. I got home at around 10:00 Wednesday night. I lay down, and woke up around noon Thursday. I didn't even bother to show up at TR Transport that day.
I went in Friday morning, handed in my transporter tag and registration with my paperwork, and was done with that job. Ted tried to fire me for not showing up on Thursday. I quit before he had the chance.
Happy Birthday!
January 12th, 1978- this was a different sort of TR Transport trip. I was boarding a train in Baltimore, changing trains in Petersburg, Virginia, and picking up a chassis to drive back from Roanoke. I started out at mid-morning, arrived in Petersburg in mid-afternoon, got on my next train, and sat there and sat there. The rumor was that there was some difficulty with frozen pipes in the rest rooms. So it was late afternoon when we began rolling. It was after 6:00 when we pulled into Roanoke. Snow was falling. I called the truck place. No answer. I checked into a motel and spent my birthday all alone in a strange place. Those who know me would know that this was an excellent birthday present for me.
I called my brother and sister-in-law and had a cheery birthday conversation with them. I was supposed to come over that evening, but it wasn't going to happen. I think we all were relieved.
Early the next morning I checked out, and slogged through the ten inches of snow for about two miles to the place. My boots were soaked. "We woulda come gotcha if you'da called," the guy told me. I always get that kind of information too late.
I got my chassis, which is a cab on a stick with wheels, and spent a harrowing six or seven hours slip-sliding, driving barefooted through the mountains, hills and valleys of Virginia and Maryland back to Baltimore. My boots were almost dry when I got home. Happy birthday!
I called my brother and sister-in-law and had a cheery birthday conversation with them. I was supposed to come over that evening, but it wasn't going to happen. I think we all were relieved.
Early the next morning I checked out, and slogged through the ten inches of snow for about two miles to the place. My boots were soaked. "We woulda come gotcha if you'da called," the guy told me. I always get that kind of information too late.
I got my chassis, which is a cab on a stick with wheels, and spent a harrowing six or seven hours slip-sliding, driving barefooted through the mountains, hills and valleys of Virginia and Maryland back to Baltimore. My boots were almost dry when I got home. Happy birthday!
Homeless in Hartford
December, 1977-another routine trip. My paperwork said to deliver this truck to New Haven. I knew that I would be going on to Hartford, but I also knew that if I went straight there, the New Haven truck rental place would in fact be open and ready to accept trucks. Best to try New Haven first. Five hours up the I-95/Turnpike corridor, including the Connecticut Turnpike, which in 1977 included, at no extra cost, stopping for a ten cent toll every five miles or so.
The New Haven truck rental place was indeed not open yet. Back to I-95 and up I-91. It was getting dark and starting to snow as I arrived at the place in Hartford. I got my truck delivered and signed for, took a city bus to the Amtrak station, and found that I was way short for train fare to Baltimore. I called Ted, but his wife answered the phone. I described the situation to her. She promised to alert Ted as soon as she heard from him. I hung out at the train station, waiting for the pay phone to ring. Ah, how much simpler this all would have been ten years later with cellular phones.
The phone finally rang. Ted was driving up to the Baltimore Amtrak station to pay for my ticket home. Yay. The bad news: the last train south was leaving soon. I allowed enough time for the deed to be done, and went to the ticket counter. "There should be a prepaid ticket to Baltimore for me." The agent checked. "There is a ticket to Baltimore here, for James Henderson. Is that you?" "Well, it's probably for me, but My name is Emerson, not Henderson." "Unless you have identification in the name of Henderson, it's not for you." Hmmm. By the time I was able to get Ted back on the phone, the last train south was gone. Ted said, "Do you have enough money to get you to New York City?" I ascertained that I did. "I'll get you a ticket from there first thing in the morning. Great.
The next bad news: after the last train to anywhere was gone, they closed the station and tossed my sorry ass out into the cold, windy snow storm. I crossed the street to a diner. Being careful not to spend past my ticket to NYC, I had a meager dinner, nursing my coffee cup until I was thrown out of there. After 11:00 in Hartford, I found out, the homeless people congregated in a nice, warm all night-laundromat. The chairs were all taken by the time I got there. I wandered around inside, occasionally staring wistfully across the street to the train station. Time passes slowly when you're standing around in a laundromat in the wee hours.
The snow stopped some time in the night, the wind died, and lo and behold, I saw the lights come on in the train station. I ran gleefully across the street, bought my ticket, and was through being Homeless in Hartford. I slept most of the way to New York, picked up my ticket and slept most of the way to Baltimore. It was near noon when I arrived. I took buses to the Duralite yard, turned in my paperwork, and was given a delivery to Richmond. No rest for the weary.
The New Haven truck rental place was indeed not open yet. Back to I-95 and up I-91. It was getting dark and starting to snow as I arrived at the place in Hartford. I got my truck delivered and signed for, took a city bus to the Amtrak station, and found that I was way short for train fare to Baltimore. I called Ted, but his wife answered the phone. I described the situation to her. She promised to alert Ted as soon as she heard from him. I hung out at the train station, waiting for the pay phone to ring. Ah, how much simpler this all would have been ten years later with cellular phones.
The phone finally rang. Ted was driving up to the Baltimore Amtrak station to pay for my ticket home. Yay. The bad news: the last train south was leaving soon. I allowed enough time for the deed to be done, and went to the ticket counter. "There should be a prepaid ticket to Baltimore for me." The agent checked. "There is a ticket to Baltimore here, for James Henderson. Is that you?" "Well, it's probably for me, but My name is Emerson, not Henderson." "Unless you have identification in the name of Henderson, it's not for you." Hmmm. By the time I was able to get Ted back on the phone, the last train south was gone. Ted said, "Do you have enough money to get you to New York City?" I ascertained that I did. "I'll get you a ticket from there first thing in the morning. Great.
The next bad news: after the last train to anywhere was gone, they closed the station and tossed my sorry ass out into the cold, windy snow storm. I crossed the street to a diner. Being careful not to spend past my ticket to NYC, I had a meager dinner, nursing my coffee cup until I was thrown out of there. After 11:00 in Hartford, I found out, the homeless people congregated in a nice, warm all night-laundromat. The chairs were all taken by the time I got there. I wandered around inside, occasionally staring wistfully across the street to the train station. Time passes slowly when you're standing around in a laundromat in the wee hours.
The snow stopped some time in the night, the wind died, and lo and behold, I saw the lights come on in the train station. I ran gleefully across the street, bought my ticket, and was through being Homeless in Hartford. I slept most of the way to New York, picked up my ticket and slept most of the way to Baltimore. It was near noon when I arrived. I took buses to the Duralite yard, turned in my paperwork, and was given a delivery to Richmond. No rest for the weary.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A Long Ride To Lyndhurst, NJ
It was sometime in mid-November, 1977. I got into today's truck and fired it up. It fired up just fine. I pulled out of the Duralite lot, bound for Motor Truck Equipment in Lyndhurst, New Jersey. This was going to be one of the good ones: deliver a truck, pick up a chassis and drive back to Baltimore- eight hours of driving, paid both ways. I had driven this particular route probably eight or ten times already, so I anticipated no problems. By the time I got onto the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel Throughway, however, I was noticing a reluctance on the part of the vehicle to reach the speed limit. Still, it was going faster than the minimum speed, 40, and downhill it did fine. The first hurdle, clearing the Tunnel without incident, was met, and I cruised on up I-95.
By the Delaware Bridge, I was worried. Uphill- such as the south face of the bridge, the truck was very sluggish. Minimum speed was not maintained. I built up speed going down the other side and hit the New Jersey Turnpike at about 40. This blazing speed did not last long. I was topping out at 35 on the flat, and eliciting glares, light flickers, finger gestures and horn blasts all the way. I pulled off into the first rest area and called the office. Ted happened to be in. "Just keep going," he counselled me. I returned to the glares, flickers, horn blasts and finger communication. Before I got to the next rest area, a New Jersey State Trooper was on my tail (my donkey, in CB talk) and he turned on his lights to indicate that I should pull off into the rest area. I did. He told me that I needed to either speed up or get off the Turnpike. I said Okay, just to get him off my donkey. Then I used the rest room, refilled my thermos with coffee and climbed back into the truck, fully intending to keep going. I guess the Trooper anticipated this possibility, because he was waiting for me, lights flashing, to escort me off the Superslab.
U.S. 1&9 goes pretty much parallel to the Turnpike through New Jersey, but it's not nearly as fast. It was very congested, packed with traffic lights and my truck pretty much kept up. I was still driving it at rush hour, aggravated to the max, hungry and tired. I had been on this four-hour trip for eight hours already, and was only as far as Elizabeth. I was stopped in traffic at the entrance to the parking lot of a tavern. I pulled in. I went inside, drank a beer, ate some pretzels, and was ready to do battle again. When I came out, it was raining. Excellent.
It was dark as I neared Lyndhurst. There was an uphill section of 3 where I had to stop, rev the engine up high, pop the clutch, gain fifteen or twenty feet, and slam on the brakes to maintain what I'd gained. That one hill took me fifteen minutes to scale. From there it was all flat or downhill. I pulled up to the gates of Motor Truck Equipment- and it was locked. Everyone was gone. I looked at my watch. It was 7:30- I'd been on this four hour trip for over ten hours.
I was still hungry. I left my bag with my paperwork, CB, tag and tools locked in the truck and went looking for something to eat. The main street, where I normally caught the bus to Newark, was only a couple of blocks away. There I found an open pizza joint. I went inside. It was a family operation, and the family was busy cleaning up. They closed at 8:00. I turned around to leave, but Mama called me back and said I was welcome to have my pizza while they closed up the place. They made me a very yummy pizza (of course I was very hungry, which makes anything taste better) and I entertained them while they worked, regaling them with the story of how I came to be in their shop, cold, wet and hungry at 8:00 this evening. I also told them some of my other stories just to pass the time. We were all ready to leave by about 8:30. They had no coffee left to fill my thermos, but that was okey dokey.
I walked back to where I'd left the truck and my stuff. The truck was now inside the gate. I guess they had another key to it. Whoever had moved it was gone again. Now I had to spend the night in Lyndhurst. I walked to the nearest hotel, and was told a room cost $28.00. I had about $14 on me. Damn. I walked back to the truck place to see if anyone was there- a watchman or anybody- who could give me my bag of stuff. Nobody.
A police car turned down the road. Great! I lurked, making sure the cop could see me lurking. He stopped. I explained the whole story to him in three part harmony and full orchestration. He bought it. He offered to take me somewhere where I could spend the night out of the rain. Great!Maybe a nice warm dry jail cell! I'd never been to jail. I got into his car and he took me to MTE's other lot where they had many many vehicles parked, waiting for parts or whatever. The cop found a school bus that was unlocked. "Here you go!" he said.
A cold, rainy night in a drafty school bus doesn't make for very good sleeping. Plus, the pizza had made me thirsty. I set my thermos cup on the hood and tried to sleep some while the New Jersey rain filled it. It worked a little bit, better than nothing.
The morning dawned clear and cold. I was mostly dry by the time I arrived at Motor Truck Equipment, bleary-eyed from my (maybe) two hours of broken, uncomfortable sleep. The evil truck was sitting there with the hood up, a mechanic deep inside it. I grabbed my bag out of the seat, and went toward the office. The mechanic came up for air and said to me, "See this screw? If you had tightened it there would have been no problem." Thanks.
I got my paperwork signed, picked up the chassis going back to Duralite, fired it up and hauled ass- 95mph all the way home. I made it in just under three hours.
By the Delaware Bridge, I was worried. Uphill- such as the south face of the bridge, the truck was very sluggish. Minimum speed was not maintained. I built up speed going down the other side and hit the New Jersey Turnpike at about 40. This blazing speed did not last long. I was topping out at 35 on the flat, and eliciting glares, light flickers, finger gestures and horn blasts all the way. I pulled off into the first rest area and called the office. Ted happened to be in. "Just keep going," he counselled me. I returned to the glares, flickers, horn blasts and finger communication. Before I got to the next rest area, a New Jersey State Trooper was on my tail (my donkey, in CB talk) and he turned on his lights to indicate that I should pull off into the rest area. I did. He told me that I needed to either speed up or get off the Turnpike. I said Okay, just to get him off my donkey. Then I used the rest room, refilled my thermos with coffee and climbed back into the truck, fully intending to keep going. I guess the Trooper anticipated this possibility, because he was waiting for me, lights flashing, to escort me off the Superslab.
U.S. 1&9 goes pretty much parallel to the Turnpike through New Jersey, but it's not nearly as fast. It was very congested, packed with traffic lights and my truck pretty much kept up. I was still driving it at rush hour, aggravated to the max, hungry and tired. I had been on this four-hour trip for eight hours already, and was only as far as Elizabeth. I was stopped in traffic at the entrance to the parking lot of a tavern. I pulled in. I went inside, drank a beer, ate some pretzels, and was ready to do battle again. When I came out, it was raining. Excellent.
It was dark as I neared Lyndhurst. There was an uphill section of 3 where I had to stop, rev the engine up high, pop the clutch, gain fifteen or twenty feet, and slam on the brakes to maintain what I'd gained. That one hill took me fifteen minutes to scale. From there it was all flat or downhill. I pulled up to the gates of Motor Truck Equipment- and it was locked. Everyone was gone. I looked at my watch. It was 7:30- I'd been on this four hour trip for over ten hours.
I was still hungry. I left my bag with my paperwork, CB, tag and tools locked in the truck and went looking for something to eat. The main street, where I normally caught the bus to Newark, was only a couple of blocks away. There I found an open pizza joint. I went inside. It was a family operation, and the family was busy cleaning up. They closed at 8:00. I turned around to leave, but Mama called me back and said I was welcome to have my pizza while they closed up the place. They made me a very yummy pizza (of course I was very hungry, which makes anything taste better) and I entertained them while they worked, regaling them with the story of how I came to be in their shop, cold, wet and hungry at 8:00 this evening. I also told them some of my other stories just to pass the time. We were all ready to leave by about 8:30. They had no coffee left to fill my thermos, but that was okey dokey.
I walked back to where I'd left the truck and my stuff. The truck was now inside the gate. I guess they had another key to it. Whoever had moved it was gone again. Now I had to spend the night in Lyndhurst. I walked to the nearest hotel, and was told a room cost $28.00. I had about $14 on me. Damn. I walked back to the truck place to see if anyone was there- a watchman or anybody- who could give me my bag of stuff. Nobody.
A police car turned down the road. Great! I lurked, making sure the cop could see me lurking. He stopped. I explained the whole story to him in three part harmony and full orchestration. He bought it. He offered to take me somewhere where I could spend the night out of the rain. Great!Maybe a nice warm dry jail cell! I'd never been to jail. I got into his car and he took me to MTE's other lot where they had many many vehicles parked, waiting for parts or whatever. The cop found a school bus that was unlocked. "Here you go!" he said.
A cold, rainy night in a drafty school bus doesn't make for very good sleeping. Plus, the pizza had made me thirsty. I set my thermos cup on the hood and tried to sleep some while the New Jersey rain filled it. It worked a little bit, better than nothing.
The morning dawned clear and cold. I was mostly dry by the time I arrived at Motor Truck Equipment, bleary-eyed from my (maybe) two hours of broken, uncomfortable sleep. The evil truck was sitting there with the hood up, a mechanic deep inside it. I grabbed my bag out of the seat, and went toward the office. The mechanic came up for air and said to me, "See this screw? If you had tightened it there would have been no problem." Thanks.
I got my paperwork signed, picked up the chassis going back to Duralite, fired it up and hauled ass- 95mph all the way home. I made it in just under three hours.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Scamming In Atlanta
Three of us set out from Baltimore with three Avis trucks to be delivered to Atlanta one late afternoon. We were advised to stay together, and we did until after a late supper in Richmond. Herschel and Jerrell wanted to catch a nap before continuing on. I left them behind and hauled ass. I arrived about mid-morning in Doraville, north of Atlanta, at the address on my delivery paperwork. It was an Avis Truck Rental place, all right, a brand new building, so new it wasn't open yet. The piece of paper taped to the door said it was opening soon, and included a phone number to call. This was 1977, ten years before cell phones, so I had to find a pay phone. The guy who answered gave me directions to the Avis place on Howell Mill Road, and I was there with my truck signed for and my CB radio, antenna and transporter tag in my truckin' bag well before noon.
I called several airlines to inquire about flights to Baltimore, and soon discovered that I didn't have enough expense money left to get home! I tried Amtrak and it was no better. The only thing I had money for was Greyhound, which involved a twenty hour trip starting in three hours. From the bus station I called my brother in Baltimore and explained the situation to him. He offered to Moneygram me enough for the plane, and that sounded good to me. It would take him a couple of hours to get it all sorted out and wired to me. The plane was at 7:30, so that was no problem.
When I got off the phone, there was a dazzling urbanite watching me. He couldn't help overhearing my half of the conversation. He told me he worked for Greyhound, and he could get me on that bus to Baltimore for free, for a fee. I declined, he kept talking, I kept declining and he kept talking until I finally agreed. He laid out the plan. He would vouch for me as a Greyhound mechanic visiting Atlanta who needed to get back to Baltimore. Employees rode for free. They would buy it because he would vouch for me. What the heck, I was in it for the adventure, right?
I went across the street to Western Union, collected my cash, and came back. He (I wish I could remember his name) took me through to the back where the bus to Baltimore was being readied for departure. He made a big show of my mechanichood and my urgent need to get back to Baltimore. The boss-man said, "Sure. Just go to the office and get your voucher, and come on board." Dazz folded. "Well, you can't say I didn't try!" I couldn't. I gave him twenty bucks for the fun, and hopped the MARTA train to the airport.
I bought my plane ticket and sat down to wait the hour or so until boarding. I hadn't been there long when Herschel and Jerrell came along. They were happy to see me. They went to the ticket counter and came away with tickets. "How did you have enough expense money?" I asked.
Ted had bought three tickets that were waiting for us at the desk. If I had stuck with them, I would have found that out. I probably should have been told anyway, just in case we happened to get separated, but I learned a valuable lesson that day: I'm a dumb-ass!
I called several airlines to inquire about flights to Baltimore, and soon discovered that I didn't have enough expense money left to get home! I tried Amtrak and it was no better. The only thing I had money for was Greyhound, which involved a twenty hour trip starting in three hours. From the bus station I called my brother in Baltimore and explained the situation to him. He offered to Moneygram me enough for the plane, and that sounded good to me. It would take him a couple of hours to get it all sorted out and wired to me. The plane was at 7:30, so that was no problem.
When I got off the phone, there was a dazzling urbanite watching me. He couldn't help overhearing my half of the conversation. He told me he worked for Greyhound, and he could get me on that bus to Baltimore for free, for a fee. I declined, he kept talking, I kept declining and he kept talking until I finally agreed. He laid out the plan. He would vouch for me as a Greyhound mechanic visiting Atlanta who needed to get back to Baltimore. Employees rode for free. They would buy it because he would vouch for me. What the heck, I was in it for the adventure, right?
I went across the street to Western Union, collected my cash, and came back. He (I wish I could remember his name) took me through to the back where the bus to Baltimore was being readied for departure. He made a big show of my mechanichood and my urgent need to get back to Baltimore. The boss-man said, "Sure. Just go to the office and get your voucher, and come on board." Dazz folded. "Well, you can't say I didn't try!" I couldn't. I gave him twenty bucks for the fun, and hopped the MARTA train to the airport.
I bought my plane ticket and sat down to wait the hour or so until boarding. I hadn't been there long when Herschel and Jerrell came along. They were happy to see me. They went to the ticket counter and came away with tickets. "How did you have enough expense money?" I asked.
Ted had bought three tickets that were waiting for us at the desk. If I had stuck with them, I would have found that out. I probably should have been told anyway, just in case we happened to get separated, but I learned a valuable lesson that day: I'm a dumb-ass!
A New Adventure Every Day!
My next great adventure began in September of 1977. My old Scoutmaster, Michael B's dad, recommended me to a dad of another Troop 721 Scout who had a business delivering new trucks for the Duralite Truck Body Company in Baltimore. They built and installed boxes and other forms of hauling technologies onto truck chassis for companies all over the eastern United States. So I went to the DMV and got a Maryland Class B Learner's Permit to go with My Florida license. Next thing I knew, I was driving trucks to Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Ohio, Iowa, West Virginia, Virginia and Georgia. At first I was in hog heaven, experiencing A New Adventure Every Day! After a couple of months, however, I had come to dread every day, because the New Adventures were getting very old.
First I'll tell you about the "company," TR Transport. Ted Rutherford had a small trailer parked on the Duralite lot. If the gate to the lot was locked, we were shut out. He had power, a desk and a phone in there, and that was it. In November we showed up for work one day and it was gone! Ted's wife came along, gave us our driving orders and told us that Ted had taken the trailer deer hunting- he'd be back in a couple days. Hmmmm.
The usual thing was to drive a truck with a new box on it to, say, Lyndhurst, New Jersey, take a city bus to Newark and a train back to Baltimore. The best gigs were those few that involved a delivery to the customer and then driving a chassis back, because I got paid 10 cents a mile both ways. Our travel expenses were paid both ways regardless, but twenty bucks for twelve hours on the road just wasn't much, even in 1977.
Several of these adventures will require dedicated postings. Scamming In Atlanta; The Longest Day to Lyndhurst in a truck that didn't want to go; the Homeless In Hartford trip; the Birthday in Roanoke; The Final Trip From Hell to Garner Iowa in which just about everthing went wrong. These will fly on their own. For this posting I will mention some of the lesser adventures.
The most used routes for this "company" were Interstate 95 to the New Jersey Turnpike to somewhere usually very near our destination. I had memorized the Turnpike exit names and rest area names after about ten trips on the Green Stamp. Coming out of Delaware onto the Pike it was two lanes each direction. Long about Philadephia it grew to three. Soon after it split into the truck friendly three and the cars only three. Up near New York it split into the Lincoln Tunnel six, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge six and some other six. I don't really remember. What I do remember is that every time it grew, it became exponentially harder to drive. It seemed that the more options there were of where to drive, the more diluted the driving ability became.
A couple of little memories of the Pike: I was speeding along at about 65 (this was back in the Nationwide 55mph speed limit days) when a big station wagon whizzed by me and hauled ass down the road. I was able to read the sign on the side- "Department of Energy." Another day I was tooling along, reading the signs along the way: Center Lane Closed 1 Mile Ahead; Center Lane Closed 1/2 Mile Ahead; Center Lane Closed 1000 Feet. I was in the right lane watching a car blazing along in the center lane. Obviously not reading the signs. Traffic was very light- there were many wonderful opportunities to change lanes either way. I became nervous about the situation and slowed way down. The car drove right up to the cones and barriers, and screeched to a halt, skidding sideways across my lane, and stopped. I stopped easily and waited a minute or two for Dufus to fire up and get on his way. Idiot. I ran out of diesel on the Pike early one very cold December morning in an illegally licensed truck, no transporter tag (I'd lost it in Philly the day before) and not really licensed to drive it (I never had my Learner's Permit legitemized.) Despite my apprehensions, no charges were filed, indeed no questions were asked by the police. They got me fuel and a cup of coffee and sent me on my way.
I got sent to Richmond one day, down US 301. The boss gave me a hundred dollar bill for expenses. I stopped to get gas, and the station couldn't break the hundred. I used my own money. Next gas stop same thing. I bought gas in the amount of the money I had left. My next expense was the Eisenhower Bridge over the Potomac- a one dollar toll. Damn, I should have kept a dollar. I timidly handed over the hundred. She didn't bat an eye, but quickly whipped out $99.00 and said Thank You.
On my way to Atlanta one night, I was getting sleepy. I pulled off into a rest area, parked between two trucks in the truck parking area and went to sleep. The space I was in faced the direction of the Interstate 85 flow of traffic, looking right down the highway. Some time later I woke with a start! There I was between two trucks looking down the road! Heart hammering, I grabbed the wheel, hit the brakes and tried to get 'er under control. Oh Yeah. I was parked. I didn't get sleepy again all the way to A-town.
The four trips to Atlanta I drove were Avis trucks bound for Doraville. Each time I went directly to Doraville and found the place still wasn't open. I had to go on to Howell Mill Road to the Avis truck rental place there. This mirrored the three trips to New Haven, Connecticut, where the Avis place still wasn't open and I had to drive on to Hartford. One would think this wouldn't keep happening, but it did.
A chassis coming back to Baltimore for a box installation suddenly went to hot, with steam spewing out from under the hood. I pulled off the interstate and into a service station. The attendant looked under the hood and found that none of the hose clamps on the cooling system hoses had ever been tightened down. He fixed me up for free.
Right this moment I can't think of any more small adventures. I know I will sooner or later, but for now I guess I'll publish this and move on to the big five. Coming soon: Scamming In Atlanta.
First I'll tell you about the "company," TR Transport. Ted Rutherford had a small trailer parked on the Duralite lot. If the gate to the lot was locked, we were shut out. He had power, a desk and a phone in there, and that was it. In November we showed up for work one day and it was gone! Ted's wife came along, gave us our driving orders and told us that Ted had taken the trailer deer hunting- he'd be back in a couple days. Hmmmm.
The usual thing was to drive a truck with a new box on it to, say, Lyndhurst, New Jersey, take a city bus to Newark and a train back to Baltimore. The best gigs were those few that involved a delivery to the customer and then driving a chassis back, because I got paid 10 cents a mile both ways. Our travel expenses were paid both ways regardless, but twenty bucks for twelve hours on the road just wasn't much, even in 1977.
Several of these adventures will require dedicated postings. Scamming In Atlanta; The Longest Day to Lyndhurst in a truck that didn't want to go; the Homeless In Hartford trip; the Birthday in Roanoke; The Final Trip From Hell to Garner Iowa in which just about everthing went wrong. These will fly on their own. For this posting I will mention some of the lesser adventures.
The most used routes for this "company" were Interstate 95 to the New Jersey Turnpike to somewhere usually very near our destination. I had memorized the Turnpike exit names and rest area names after about ten trips on the Green Stamp. Coming out of Delaware onto the Pike it was two lanes each direction. Long about Philadephia it grew to three. Soon after it split into the truck friendly three and the cars only three. Up near New York it split into the Lincoln Tunnel six, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge six and some other six. I don't really remember. What I do remember is that every time it grew, it became exponentially harder to drive. It seemed that the more options there were of where to drive, the more diluted the driving ability became.
A couple of little memories of the Pike: I was speeding along at about 65 (this was back in the Nationwide 55mph speed limit days) when a big station wagon whizzed by me and hauled ass down the road. I was able to read the sign on the side- "Department of Energy." Another day I was tooling along, reading the signs along the way: Center Lane Closed 1 Mile Ahead; Center Lane Closed 1/2 Mile Ahead; Center Lane Closed 1000 Feet. I was in the right lane watching a car blazing along in the center lane. Obviously not reading the signs. Traffic was very light- there were many wonderful opportunities to change lanes either way. I became nervous about the situation and slowed way down. The car drove right up to the cones and barriers, and screeched to a halt, skidding sideways across my lane, and stopped. I stopped easily and waited a minute or two for Dufus to fire up and get on his way. Idiot. I ran out of diesel on the Pike early one very cold December morning in an illegally licensed truck, no transporter tag (I'd lost it in Philly the day before) and not really licensed to drive it (I never had my Learner's Permit legitemized.) Despite my apprehensions, no charges were filed, indeed no questions were asked by the police. They got me fuel and a cup of coffee and sent me on my way.
I got sent to Richmond one day, down US 301. The boss gave me a hundred dollar bill for expenses. I stopped to get gas, and the station couldn't break the hundred. I used my own money. Next gas stop same thing. I bought gas in the amount of the money I had left. My next expense was the Eisenhower Bridge over the Potomac- a one dollar toll. Damn, I should have kept a dollar. I timidly handed over the hundred. She didn't bat an eye, but quickly whipped out $99.00 and said Thank You.
On my way to Atlanta one night, I was getting sleepy. I pulled off into a rest area, parked between two trucks in the truck parking area and went to sleep. The space I was in faced the direction of the Interstate 85 flow of traffic, looking right down the highway. Some time later I woke with a start! There I was between two trucks looking down the road! Heart hammering, I grabbed the wheel, hit the brakes and tried to get 'er under control. Oh Yeah. I was parked. I didn't get sleepy again all the way to A-town.
The four trips to Atlanta I drove were Avis trucks bound for Doraville. Each time I went directly to Doraville and found the place still wasn't open. I had to go on to Howell Mill Road to the Avis truck rental place there. This mirrored the three trips to New Haven, Connecticut, where the Avis place still wasn't open and I had to drive on to Hartford. One would think this wouldn't keep happening, but it did.
A chassis coming back to Baltimore for a box installation suddenly went to hot, with steam spewing out from under the hood. I pulled off the interstate and into a service station. The attendant looked under the hood and found that none of the hose clamps on the cooling system hoses had ever been tightened down. He fixed me up for free.
Right this moment I can't think of any more small adventures. I know I will sooner or later, but for now I guess I'll publish this and move on to the big five. Coming soon: Scamming In Atlanta.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Four Plays
So after a long nine months of working (mostly) seven days a week at just over minimum wage, after taxes and sharing grocery costs with my parents (plus bringing home some of the best grapefruit Indian River County had to offer) I ended up with two thousand dollars in the bank. In 1975 that was a pretty good chunk of change. What could I do with all that money? Buy a car? HELL NO!
It was Robert Morley who gave me the answer. "Take the London Show Tour. You'll fly British Airways round trip to London, stay five nights in a hotel, we'll include tickets to four plays, give you discounts at dozens of shops..." He had me at the plays. I went to the travel agency in downtown Vero Beach the next day after seeing the commercial. I believe the whole package cost me seven hundred or so. I got my plane tickets, my hotel voucher, my voucher for transportation from Heathrow Airport to Victoria Air Terminal and my voucher for the rest of my stuff to be picked up from a place on Knightsbridge Street. Cool.
I took a Greyhound bus to Miami and a cab to the airport, arriving two hours early- very early indeed in 1975. I got first pick of seats on the Boeing 747. It turned out that the plane was half full (or was it half empty?) and I had three seats to myself on the looooong flight to London. I listened to nearly the whole entertainment package on the headphones, including some Peter Cook and Dudley Moore routines that I had memorized by the time I got back to Miami a week later- but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Heathrow had three terminals. The bus to Victoria Air Terminal in downtown London left from one of them, but I couldn't seem to get a clear answer from anyone as to where I needed to go. I rode the shuttle around some, then got on a bus to London. "This one goes to the West London Air Terminal," the driver told me, "but Victoria's just a few stops away on the underground." Great. I get to figure out the underground first crack out of the box with luggage and US money. But I was tired of slogging from terminal to terminal, so I said okay.
London was a pretty cool city, I thought as we trundled through it. Steeling myself for the next leg of the adventure, I pulled out my hotel voucher. "The London Penta Hotel" it said. I put it in my shirt pocket where it would be handy. Soon we arrived at the terminal. I grabbed my suitcase and my carry-on bag and headed for the door. There was a tube station just down the block, I was told, and banks were nearby as well. Good. I walked outside, and there was a huge building taking up most of the view: The London Penta Hotel. Right across the street.
It was just after 1:00pm when I went to the desk. Check in time was after 3. They let me stow my suitcase behind the counter, and I went out for my first walk in a foreign country. True to what I was told, there were several banks nearby. I changed a couple hundred bucks into less than a hundred pounds and continued my walk, confident I could find my way back. If worse came to worst, I would buy a map. In about fifteen minutes I stepped onto Knightsbridge Street. Wow, how did that happen? I turned right instead of left. In another ten minutes I was at the London Show Tour place, picking up my theatre tickets, tour guidebook and discount coupon book. That was too easy!
I checked out my tickets. The first show was tonight! Oh crap! I found my way back using the crappy maps in the guidebook. I bought dinner to go from the Kentucky Fried Chicken by the hotel, checked in, took a shower and changed into my theatre duds- clean jeans. BTW, in 1975 I was one of the very few people in London wearing jeans, and the only one at the theatre. I went into the underground station and bought a fare to get me to Picadilly Circus. The theatre was on Shaftesbury Avenue. The show was "A Touch Of Spring" starring Hayley Mills. It was great.
Sunday I explored the city. I went back to Piccadilly Circus station and got my tourist kit, with a map of the transit system, a lot of information about where things were and how to get there, a ticket for a "Round London Bus Tour" and a five day transit pass. When I came up to street level with my camera, my tourist kit and my jeans, I was immediately pounced upon by a guy who would take photographs of me and mail them to me for only five pounds. What the heck? The oddest part about it was that about six weeks later, the black and white photos actually came in the mail.
Since I had arrived in town, I had been seeing posters all over the city advertising "Monty Python and the Holy Grail- Makes Ben Hur Look Like An Epic!" I found a movie theater showing it and enjoyed it first run on the big screen. Smoking was allowed- there were ashtrays in the arms of the seats. I used mine.
Sunday night I saw "The Sunshine Boys" starring Jimmy Jewel and Alfred Marks. It was the first performance of "The Sunshine Boys" I ever saw. It was great as well.
Monday would have been Memorial Day in the States. Here it was the May Bank Holiday For Remembrance of Those Who Died In War- or something like that. I left the hotel early enough to see the Changing of the Guard before I went for my Round London Bus Tour. Actually, though, there's no set time for the Changing. I saw the relieved Guard leaving. Oh well. I got on the next tour out and saw all of the major sights of London go by the windows. The highlight: the Osmond Brothers were in town, and their hotel was mobbed by prepubescent fans.
I had no play that night. I watched "The Longest Day" on TV back in my room.
Tuesday was shopping. I looked for a walking stick for Fred. I bought earrings for Liz, a pipe for Jack, a T-shirt for Sharyn, a belt for Don. I didn't find anything I wanted to buy in Harrod's. Tuesday night was "The Tempest" starring Paul Scofield. Wow wow wow was that good. The scenery was spare but very effective. The storm was frightening. I think I got the theatre bug from that show.
Wednesday I took the advice of a sneering salesman in a shop that sold men's accessories. His walking sticks were over 100 pounds. I was taken aback! "You need to go to (sneer) Portabello Road." I did, and found a nice stick for about seven pounds. He was right. On the way there, I passed the Zoo, so on the way back I stopped in. There in the Foreign Birds section were two carracarras, which happened to be the bird my dad was trying to paint back in Florida, and he was having a hard time finding good research pictures of them. I didn't have my camera, but looking at my map, I saw that there was a bus directly from the Zoo to the London Penta. I sped home, grabbed the camera and sped back. One of the birds was sitting on the ground with its feet sticking out in front of it. Carracarras do that. The other was walking from one end to the other of a stick hanging from chains, forcing the bird to spread wing feathers and tail feathers to maintain its bacance. I took a whole roll of pictures. They helped my dad a lot.
Thursday was a blah day. I was ready to go home and decide where to go from here. I walked barefoot in Hyde Park, though. I tracked down a theater showing "Young Frankenstein" and saw that. And Thursday night I was late for my last play, "Absurd Person Singular" starring Paul Eddington (Yes Minister, Good Neighbors.)
Friday, as I was packing to go home and listening to Capital Radio, I heard an interview with Don McLean. He had enjoyed his concert at Royal Albert Hall Wednesday night so much, he was doing a free concert in Hyde Park that afternoon. Damn! I didn't know a thing about him being in town. I missed it. My plane would leave about the time Don would be starting in Hyde Park. Damn!
On that sour note, my second Great Adventure reached the end of its interesting life. The only other thing I remember is sharing a cab back to the bus station, paying my share, and not having enough US dollars for a tip. So I tipped him a shilling, and he was delighted. I was glad to be almost home.
It was Robert Morley who gave me the answer. "Take the London Show Tour. You'll fly British Airways round trip to London, stay five nights in a hotel, we'll include tickets to four plays, give you discounts at dozens of shops..." He had me at the plays. I went to the travel agency in downtown Vero Beach the next day after seeing the commercial. I believe the whole package cost me seven hundred or so. I got my plane tickets, my hotel voucher, my voucher for transportation from Heathrow Airport to Victoria Air Terminal and my voucher for the rest of my stuff to be picked up from a place on Knightsbridge Street. Cool.
I took a Greyhound bus to Miami and a cab to the airport, arriving two hours early- very early indeed in 1975. I got first pick of seats on the Boeing 747. It turned out that the plane was half full (or was it half empty?) and I had three seats to myself on the looooong flight to London. I listened to nearly the whole entertainment package on the headphones, including some Peter Cook and Dudley Moore routines that I had memorized by the time I got back to Miami a week later- but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Heathrow had three terminals. The bus to Victoria Air Terminal in downtown London left from one of them, but I couldn't seem to get a clear answer from anyone as to where I needed to go. I rode the shuttle around some, then got on a bus to London. "This one goes to the West London Air Terminal," the driver told me, "but Victoria's just a few stops away on the underground." Great. I get to figure out the underground first crack out of the box with luggage and US money. But I was tired of slogging from terminal to terminal, so I said okay.
London was a pretty cool city, I thought as we trundled through it. Steeling myself for the next leg of the adventure, I pulled out my hotel voucher. "The London Penta Hotel" it said. I put it in my shirt pocket where it would be handy. Soon we arrived at the terminal. I grabbed my suitcase and my carry-on bag and headed for the door. There was a tube station just down the block, I was told, and banks were nearby as well. Good. I walked outside, and there was a huge building taking up most of the view: The London Penta Hotel. Right across the street.
It was just after 1:00pm when I went to the desk. Check in time was after 3. They let me stow my suitcase behind the counter, and I went out for my first walk in a foreign country. True to what I was told, there were several banks nearby. I changed a couple hundred bucks into less than a hundred pounds and continued my walk, confident I could find my way back. If worse came to worst, I would buy a map. In about fifteen minutes I stepped onto Knightsbridge Street. Wow, how did that happen? I turned right instead of left. In another ten minutes I was at the London Show Tour place, picking up my theatre tickets, tour guidebook and discount coupon book. That was too easy!
I checked out my tickets. The first show was tonight! Oh crap! I found my way back using the crappy maps in the guidebook. I bought dinner to go from the Kentucky Fried Chicken by the hotel, checked in, took a shower and changed into my theatre duds- clean jeans. BTW, in 1975 I was one of the very few people in London wearing jeans, and the only one at the theatre. I went into the underground station and bought a fare to get me to Picadilly Circus. The theatre was on Shaftesbury Avenue. The show was "A Touch Of Spring" starring Hayley Mills. It was great.
Sunday I explored the city. I went back to Piccadilly Circus station and got my tourist kit, with a map of the transit system, a lot of information about where things were and how to get there, a ticket for a "Round London Bus Tour" and a five day transit pass. When I came up to street level with my camera, my tourist kit and my jeans, I was immediately pounced upon by a guy who would take photographs of me and mail them to me for only five pounds. What the heck? The oddest part about it was that about six weeks later, the black and white photos actually came in the mail.
Since I had arrived in town, I had been seeing posters all over the city advertising "Monty Python and the Holy Grail- Makes Ben Hur Look Like An Epic!" I found a movie theater showing it and enjoyed it first run on the big screen. Smoking was allowed- there were ashtrays in the arms of the seats. I used mine.
Sunday night I saw "The Sunshine Boys" starring Jimmy Jewel and Alfred Marks. It was the first performance of "The Sunshine Boys" I ever saw. It was great as well.
Monday would have been Memorial Day in the States. Here it was the May Bank Holiday For Remembrance of Those Who Died In War- or something like that. I left the hotel early enough to see the Changing of the Guard before I went for my Round London Bus Tour. Actually, though, there's no set time for the Changing. I saw the relieved Guard leaving. Oh well. I got on the next tour out and saw all of the major sights of London go by the windows. The highlight: the Osmond Brothers were in town, and their hotel was mobbed by prepubescent fans.
I had no play that night. I watched "The Longest Day" on TV back in my room.
Tuesday was shopping. I looked for a walking stick for Fred. I bought earrings for Liz, a pipe for Jack, a T-shirt for Sharyn, a belt for Don. I didn't find anything I wanted to buy in Harrod's. Tuesday night was "The Tempest" starring Paul Scofield. Wow wow wow was that good. The scenery was spare but very effective. The storm was frightening. I think I got the theatre bug from that show.
Wednesday I took the advice of a sneering salesman in a shop that sold men's accessories. His walking sticks were over 100 pounds. I was taken aback! "You need to go to (sneer) Portabello Road." I did, and found a nice stick for about seven pounds. He was right. On the way there, I passed the Zoo, so on the way back I stopped in. There in the Foreign Birds section were two carracarras, which happened to be the bird my dad was trying to paint back in Florida, and he was having a hard time finding good research pictures of them. I didn't have my camera, but looking at my map, I saw that there was a bus directly from the Zoo to the London Penta. I sped home, grabbed the camera and sped back. One of the birds was sitting on the ground with its feet sticking out in front of it. Carracarras do that. The other was walking from one end to the other of a stick hanging from chains, forcing the bird to spread wing feathers and tail feathers to maintain its bacance. I took a whole roll of pictures. They helped my dad a lot.
Thursday was a blah day. I was ready to go home and decide where to go from here. I walked barefoot in Hyde Park, though. I tracked down a theater showing "Young Frankenstein" and saw that. And Thursday night I was late for my last play, "Absurd Person Singular" starring Paul Eddington (Yes Minister, Good Neighbors.)
Friday, as I was packing to go home and listening to Capital Radio, I heard an interview with Don McLean. He had enjoyed his concert at Royal Albert Hall Wednesday night so much, he was doing a free concert in Hyde Park that afternoon. Damn! I didn't know a thing about him being in town. I missed it. My plane would leave about the time Don would be starting in Hyde Park. Damn!
On that sour note, my second Great Adventure reached the end of its interesting life. The only other thing I remember is sharing a cab back to the bus station, paying my share, and not having enough US dollars for a tip. So I tipped him a shilling, and he was delighted. I was glad to be almost home.
Origin Issue
It was August 1974. The dark clouds of depression were my best friends. I quit my job at Montgomery Ward, wrapped up my puny affairs in Glen Burnie, Maryland and hit the road for my first great solo adventure. My destination: Kalispell, Montana. The reason: I read in my Atlas of the United States that in Montana cattle outnumber humans ten to one. Kalispell had a Montgomery Ward store, so I thought I might be able to work there. Plan A, however, was to wander into the wilderness and live by my wits. Boy, was I witless!
I fancied myself to be a writer in those dark days. It's true I wrote a lot in those dark days. In fifteen years I would come to the devastating realization that scribbling private thoughts and fantasies on lined paper does not a writer make. But that's another story.
I boarded a Greyhound bus in downtown Baltimore on Thursday afternoon. My first leg: Chicago, where I would stop in to visit my buddy Al Shewbridge. As the bus rolled away from the station, I felt the darkness lifting. This wasn't the same old life with the same old patterns, the same old people, the same old scenery. The evil spell was broken and I was free! Witless.
That night as we crossed from Pennsylvania into Ohio, my hobby of collecting states began. Indiana went by the windows in the dark. Early on Friday morning I got off the bus in Chicago. I didn't want to call Al at 6:30, so I went for a walk. Walking around cities is another hobby I started this trip. I went by a movie theater on State Street that was showing Uptown Saturday Night starring Bill Cosby and Sidney Poitier, first show at 8:00am. Perfect. I ate breakfast in a little hole in the wall nearby, and mosied back to watch my movie. It was fun, and there were only about ten people there. Perfect.
Al drove into town to pick me up, cheating me out of an opportunity to try the transit system. I was a long-time veteran of the Baltimore system, but to tell the truth I was a little timid back then. I was glad for the ride. I spent two days in Wheaton, Illinois, sleeping on the living room floor and hanging out with Al and his wife and newborn son. On Sunday we all went to downtown Chicago and walked around a bit, enjoying the cacaphony of preachers and other passionate speakers on every corner. Fascinating. They drove back home, and I went to the bus station. This was to be the last I ever saw or heard from Big Al.
I bought my next ticket to Kalispell, noting that there was a bus north at 11:30pm. This gave me time to walk five or six blocks to a little movie theater I'd seen Friday morning, showing Animal Crackers starring The Marx Brothers. That was fun too.
My next tradition started that trip: diarrhea. Luckily it hasn't happened a lot, but that night it was a long uncomfortable walk back to the station, with a hurried pit stop in between. So Wisconsin went by the windows, and breakfast was in Minneapolis. Lunch in Fargo. What happened to the trees? I only saw about a dozen trees in North Dakota. Supper in Bismark. Then came the long, long sunset, barreling west, following the sun over the plains. Breakfast was in Billings, where I was served a huge stack of pancakes I couldn't finish. When we left Billings, we could see the Crazy Mountains far in the distance over the flat flat treeless plains. The climb up the Rockies was labored. The trip down was a roller coaster ride of terrifying proportions. We were in Butte in time for lunch- I had my first Montana steak- yum! I decided a bath and a change of clothes was in order. I spent $8.00 for a hotel room. 1974.
Steak and eggs for breakfast, and I was on the road again. Lunch in Missoula, a little college town. I walked around between lunch and bus time. Nice. Then on to Kalispell. I pulled out my Super 8 movie camera to film the train we raced over the hills and mountains on the way.
I spent two nights in beautiful Kalispell. I inquired about jobs in four or five places, and was told there were no jobs in Kalispell. By the time I arrived there, I had figured out that plan A was a bust. There were no places to get lost in the woods. If there was water, there were humans. The forests looked dense from a distance, but up close I could see that hiding out in there was close to impossible. After two days I decided to follow John Denver to Denver. I picked up Idaho, Utah and Wyoming on the way to Colorado. It snowed in the mountains on the way to Laramie. In August.
It was pouring rain in Denver. I bought a newspaper and found no jobs for me. I had my first and last Colorado steak, and was on the road to Vero Beach, Florida. The dark clouds rolled in on me again. Plans A, B and C had all failed. At least I was among friends. Kansas and Missouri were my last two states collected on that trip.
Soon I was back in Vero Beach, living with my parents. I worked seven days a week as a forklift driver for a season in a grapefruit packing house, which served to finance my next great adventure. See you there, later.
I fancied myself to be a writer in those dark days. It's true I wrote a lot in those dark days. In fifteen years I would come to the devastating realization that scribbling private thoughts and fantasies on lined paper does not a writer make. But that's another story.
I boarded a Greyhound bus in downtown Baltimore on Thursday afternoon. My first leg: Chicago, where I would stop in to visit my buddy Al Shewbridge. As the bus rolled away from the station, I felt the darkness lifting. This wasn't the same old life with the same old patterns, the same old people, the same old scenery. The evil spell was broken and I was free! Witless.
That night as we crossed from Pennsylvania into Ohio, my hobby of collecting states began. Indiana went by the windows in the dark. Early on Friday morning I got off the bus in Chicago. I didn't want to call Al at 6:30, so I went for a walk. Walking around cities is another hobby I started this trip. I went by a movie theater on State Street that was showing Uptown Saturday Night starring Bill Cosby and Sidney Poitier, first show at 8:00am. Perfect. I ate breakfast in a little hole in the wall nearby, and mosied back to watch my movie. It was fun, and there were only about ten people there. Perfect.
Al drove into town to pick me up, cheating me out of an opportunity to try the transit system. I was a long-time veteran of the Baltimore system, but to tell the truth I was a little timid back then. I was glad for the ride. I spent two days in Wheaton, Illinois, sleeping on the living room floor and hanging out with Al and his wife and newborn son. On Sunday we all went to downtown Chicago and walked around a bit, enjoying the cacaphony of preachers and other passionate speakers on every corner. Fascinating. They drove back home, and I went to the bus station. This was to be the last I ever saw or heard from Big Al.
I bought my next ticket to Kalispell, noting that there was a bus north at 11:30pm. This gave me time to walk five or six blocks to a little movie theater I'd seen Friday morning, showing Animal Crackers starring The Marx Brothers. That was fun too.
My next tradition started that trip: diarrhea. Luckily it hasn't happened a lot, but that night it was a long uncomfortable walk back to the station, with a hurried pit stop in between. So Wisconsin went by the windows, and breakfast was in Minneapolis. Lunch in Fargo. What happened to the trees? I only saw about a dozen trees in North Dakota. Supper in Bismark. Then came the long, long sunset, barreling west, following the sun over the plains. Breakfast was in Billings, where I was served a huge stack of pancakes I couldn't finish. When we left Billings, we could see the Crazy Mountains far in the distance over the flat flat treeless plains. The climb up the Rockies was labored. The trip down was a roller coaster ride of terrifying proportions. We were in Butte in time for lunch- I had my first Montana steak- yum! I decided a bath and a change of clothes was in order. I spent $8.00 for a hotel room. 1974.
Steak and eggs for breakfast, and I was on the road again. Lunch in Missoula, a little college town. I walked around between lunch and bus time. Nice. Then on to Kalispell. I pulled out my Super 8 movie camera to film the train we raced over the hills and mountains on the way.
I spent two nights in beautiful Kalispell. I inquired about jobs in four or five places, and was told there were no jobs in Kalispell. By the time I arrived there, I had figured out that plan A was a bust. There were no places to get lost in the woods. If there was water, there were humans. The forests looked dense from a distance, but up close I could see that hiding out in there was close to impossible. After two days I decided to follow John Denver to Denver. I picked up Idaho, Utah and Wyoming on the way to Colorado. It snowed in the mountains on the way to Laramie. In August.
It was pouring rain in Denver. I bought a newspaper and found no jobs for me. I had my first and last Colorado steak, and was on the road to Vero Beach, Florida. The dark clouds rolled in on me again. Plans A, B and C had all failed. At least I was among friends. Kansas and Missouri were my last two states collected on that trip.
Soon I was back in Vero Beach, living with my parents. I worked seven days a week as a forklift driver for a season in a grapefruit packing house, which served to finance my next great adventure. See you there, later.
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