Losantiville Lines: A Baboon Turns 40 (Like A Pope Shits In The Woods)

They see him out dressed in my clothes, patently unclear
whether it's New York or New Year. - Nick Lowe

The road stretched, cracks and crumbles.
It all falls apart and underneath,
exposes fresh earth made
for fresh feet to traverse
and for new eyes to spy
golden valleys and endless skyways. - Cincinnati Day Book




I turn 40 tomorrow. And while it's considered insignificant by some to even pay attention to birthdays after 21 -- 25 if you're one of the lucky ones whose car insurance payment goes down -- I have to admit I'm pretty excited at the prospect.

I realize that this, too, sounds odd. I am, at this moment, supposed to be chasing age inappropriate girls, starting regular regiments of Rogaine and Viagra, buying a gym membership and a tiny red sports car that will reflect the youth in my heart that is not reflected in either my hairline or my waistline.

Men, it has been told to me... generally by women who obsess over their looks or who feel pressured to do so... age gracefully.

I am not particularly sure that is what I am doing, especially since the adjective "graceful" has NEVER been applied to me or anything I do. If anything I have learned and adapted to well to my lack of grace (physical and otherwise) that I am hopefully transcending the mere uncoordinated and entering a realm of something like Art.

Or not. Probably not. But it is good to have a goal.

But probably because of the nature of birthdays... like all arbitrarily important annual markings of the passage of time... I find myself thinking about this time last year, and of the days in between.

I certainly feel like I'm in a better place -- mentally and spiritually, anyway. I chose to stay put here in Porkopolis for the winter in order to spend time with my girlfriend and to save money back for a road stake. On a daily basis I mentally unpack and repack my blue rucksack; my last jaunt taught me that I needed some things I didn't have and that I carried a few things I didn't need. I'm working on lightening the load to make it easier to live on the road... the leaner, meaner rucksack... which I tell myself isn't the same as a little red sports car. Occasionally someone will still ask WHY I feel the pull to go, and I usually shrug and smile and say something cryptic or nonsensical. I'm grateful that Amanda isn't among them. Not that she doesn't have concerns about my need to go Out and About -- but she tries to embrace me as I am.

Or, she is simply lulling me into a state of dizzying bliss before she puts some domestication plan into action.

You will excuse me if I accept the former and reject the latter.

Sometimes in the process of growing into a new relationship, I come across echoes of the old. Sometimes when I am restless ... which happens often... I think about the ways I have tried to soothe my restlessness... AKA, my itchy foot. I have tried drowning it in booze. I have tried burying it in bitterness and in uncommunicative silence. All I can do is stay mindful of these things in the same way I am mindful of my anger and my ability to commit violence.

And sometimes, other nerves are exposed, other pains laid open. Familial drama, pecking order and placement, and the shadows of the fathers that all sons live under. All families have drama, and all families have drama queens. Mine is no different. I have extended relatives who fight over bloodlines, over ashes, and over ownership of the dead. I have had to remind myself over the past few days that the only things I have control over are those things I do or don't do. One of the casualties of all this ego driven bullshit-- which is exactly what it is -- is that while I have a deep desire to understand my father's family, to find some echo and connection with it, I will probably never find it. When parts of The Long Memory are lost, everyone suffers, whether they know it or not.

But all I can control is what I do, or what I don't do.

This, more than anything, probably explains why I will end up going back Out on the road. The Long Memory demands it, and the hole to fill is deeper than I can fill in a lifetime. And while it may sound strange, I find a certain comfort in knowing that.

Location:Cincinnati, OH

Chicago Intermezzo 2: First World Problems, Part 1 (Juan of the World)

Throw away the lights, the definitions,
And say of what you see in the dark

That it is this or that is that,
But do not use the rotted names. 
                                                       -- Wallace Stevens

from www.worldarchitecture.org

The area of downtown Chicago around Union Station turns into a ghost town after one in the morning. And when you're pushed out into the night when Union Station closes -- at one in the morning -- there are few options for places to go. The bus stop shelters are already taken, and the nearest 24 hour anything is a Dunkin Donuts manned by a grouchy old man of Middle Eastern descent with a cell phone ear bud that he talks into all night while listening to gangster rap. None of those things are issues alone. But when those are combined with a clear contempt for customers and an even clearer contempt for anyone trying to find a place  to wait out the night, any other option is preferable.

Of course, there's the Day's Inn on the corner of Canal and Harrison; but rooms there start out at $159.00 a night (not including the city tax rate on hotels).

My other option, and the best one I could come up with since there was a threat of rain, was further down on Harrison Avenue; and it was one I am very familiar with: The Greyhound Bus Station. Since I didn't have a ticket, I knew it would only be a matter of time before I got booted. Experience told me that overnight they do ticket checks to make sure that everyone there actually belongs there. Union Station opened again at 5 in the morning, and I knew better than to think I could get away with staying at the bus station all night no matter how much I moved around.

At 3 in the morning, the announcement I didn't want to hear rang out over the intercom: ticket check. The security guard and off-duty cop were making their way around, looking at everyone's tickets. It was time for me to go. Although it was little comfort, I was not the only one ejected into the night; but I was the only one that didn't have an idea of where to go. The handful of people who exited the station at the same time I did clearly had ideas on where to go and wasted no time in getting there. They dispersed and disappeared into the darkness. As I turned the corner at Harrison and Canal, a cold spitting rain started to fall.

I made it to Union Station's main entrance before the rain got too heavy. There were already a few people in front of the station, waiting for it to open, but I was able to find some shelter from the weather huddled behind a cement doorway under the overhang. It was almost 3:30. If I was lucky, a custodian would unlock the doors maybe ten minutes before 5. Any other options meant exposing myself to the weather and potentially losing a spot that, even if I had to stay on my feet, was, at least, shelter.  So I stayed put.

With that part of Chi-town still being a ghost town at 3:30 in the morning, I leaned against the doorway, my back to the wind and rain, and allowed myself to close my eyes and enjoy the relative quiet ...

which was broken by the sound of a truck (sans muffler), the tumbling open of rusty door hinge and the shuffle and tumble of fast food wrappers, the clinking of bottles, some muttered conversation, and a quick slam of the door. The truck sped off before the intoxicated idjit realized Union Station was closed.

I quickly discovered why when he did his best attempt at a sober stride up to the door, reached out to open as if he expected it to swing wide open to greet him, only to be denied.

"What? Not open? How can it not be open? This IS the train station, right?"

He looks around, waiting for one of the three of us huddling out of the weather to answer.

Right??"

I nod, hoping mainly that stating the obvious will shut him up.

"And it's CLOSED?"

Again, I nod.

When'll it open?" He sets down a bottle of beer that he'd been hiding in one of the inside coats of his pocket. I raise my right hand, palm open and mutter "5." Then I nod towards the very visible signs on the inside doors indicating the station's hours.

He immediately got his cell phone out and called someone. Having no luck, he muttered something in broken Spanish and punched in another number.

"Oye!" He said when someone answered. He went on to explain mostly in English that the station was closed. Whoever he talked to was clearly not impressed.

"What you mean, you're not picking me up?!"

Apparently not. He hung up, cussing in two slurred, broken languages. He dialed a few more numbers, to no avail. Finally, someone picked up. But she would have none of him either. I say she because first he tried sweet talking her, and he didn't even blink when the bottle of booze at his feet exploded from being shaken and placed heavily on the sidewalk.  The sweet talk quickly faded, though -- I got the feeling she had been the recipient of his "Baby please..." before -- and when he could not use game to talk her into driving downtown from West Elgin to pick his drunk ass up, he tried another tact.

He offered her jewelry.

Yes, really.

Personally, I'm shocked she didn't wet her panties right there and promise to chauffeur him around all of Chicago and collar counties wearing a thong.

When his phone battery died, he dropped it on the ground, stomped on it, and walked out into Canal Street, hoping to catch one of the taxis that had been driving by and slowing down a bit hoping for an easy fare at the end of shift.  Naturally, when he was trying to actually hail one, they would have none of it. He even managed to stop two of them by narrowly avoiding getting ran over. Neither of them would have anything to do with his too-hyper-to-just-be-drunk ass.

Maybe he should have promised them jewelry.

Then he yelled "FUCK IT!" and threw the rest of his hidden bottles of booze into the street. The shattering glass and murdered booze echoed in the night. After that he ran a block towards Harrison, hoping to catch another taxi. On his way back towards Union Station, he nearly ran into yet another taxi that narrowly avoided hitting him. I was surprised ... and relieved... when this driver, who was clearly desperate for a fare, agreed to take him off into the night. It was 4 in the morning. The rain stopped and I could feel the first inkling of moonset and sunrise in the temperature of the wind and a faint change in the color behind the clouds.