Since losing my blog because I used an infected computer at the homeless shelter, during a week of almost constant rainfall which relegated me to that place, as a "sensible" alternative to laying out at the campsite and getting saturated, events have been pretty much divisible into a few categories.
Nine days ago, my
Mongoose was stolen from in front of the church where I play. I had gone behind the building to finish a beer, which I had
consumed only half of, and, in the time that it took to accomplish that feat, the
Mongoose had disappeared. It was probably stolen by one of the bums that sit across the street and listen to me play.
Mongoose (right)
Faced with a 3 mile walk to the campsite at the end of every evening, I basically opted for finding a place to sleep nearby
The Old City.
The Old Fort proved to be comfortable enough with its ocean breezes, though, a few mosquitos and things that they call "noseeums" ('cause you can't see-um, but you can feel them biting you in places like the forehead) were able to out-muscle the sea breezes and find their way to my forehead, or my cheeks; both equally annoying.
Sleeping close to town meant that I was up with the sun, dodging the park rangers, and had nothing better to do than to set up and start playing on
Hypolita St., for example, even before the first tourist had ventured forth from her bed and breakfast for a stroll through the oldest city. This was a source of consternation for
Larry, who, I am sure, was always determined to beat me into the city every morning and set up on the "best" spot. It was the "best spot" for
Larry, not so much such for the tourists whom might have wanted to hear good music...
I had the goal of making enough money to take the yellow bus up to
Jacksonville to retrieve the racer, which
Curtis had given me.
Curtis gave it to me because the back tire kept going flat on him, creating complications surrounding his daily quest for a half gallon of whiskey. I found that there was indeed a problem with the rim, and had to buy special tubes, which cost dearly...
My plan was to take the yellow bus up to
Jacksonville, take the L7 to Baymeadows, take the SS9 to the spot where the racer was hidden in the woods, take the back tire off of
the racer which was hidden in the woods, using the wrench, which I bought at
Big-Lots, which was hidden in the woods, and then carry the tire to the bike shop, buy the tube, take the tire to
the Gate, insert the tube and then pump it up with free air, go back to the woods and attach the inflated tire, and then ride the 3 miles to where
Bruce and Chelsea now have an apartment, hoping to spend at least a night.
Everything went according to plan, except that it wasn't
Bruce and Chelsea, it was
Bruce and Taylor. "Oh,
Chelsea is history...I'm with a fox now," said Bruce, when I met him at his workplace, Lowes on Phillips Highway...
I can't remember the point now, but, losing the bike was both a hardship and a blessing.
I Try To Call Mom
After fixing the bike and riding it to
Bruce's workplace and then having him toss it into the back of his pick-up truck ("I have a truck now, dude!") and drive us to his new apartment, and then spending the night with him and
Taylor, whom I find to be less affable towards
Bruce's older street musician friends than the nice
Chelsea was, I awoke the next morning almost broke, having bought the cigarettes for the lot of us.
Bruce works, but doesn't get paid "until Friday." There was a morning "ritual,' whereby Taylor picked clothing out for Bruce which she deemed "cute." Bruce was soon clad in white pants ("I don't know about white," said he) and his Ramones shirt. We were ready to show ourselves to the world outside.
I got a ride from them to the
Barnes and Noble. They dropped me off and then went to go get money from Bruce's parents. Luckily, the
Barnes and Noble patrons seemed to love me. They hadn't seen me in a couple of months. Money poured in, and, had I been of the mindset of
Larry, for example, I would have played every minute and wrung about 100 dollars out of them. I was worried about the cop that arrested me last time, on the warrant of "failure to pay a fine." I imagined him coming up and telling me "I thought I told you not to come back here," who, though he didn't, not having grounds to do so, would have been in a position to assert his authority and make trouble for me. As soon as I made ten bucks, I took a break and then came back later and made another 20. I was hoping that the cop would show up, having gotten "wind" of me being there, probably from some other off-duty cop chowing down on steak and beer at the
Ale House, and, not finding me there, would go off to find other downtrodden people to kick.
Then, I dialed
my mom on a payphone. As soon as I dialed the number the phone ejected a bunch of change. I thought this was a sign, but she wasn't home and I got a bunch of static and could hardly hear the answering machine.
Now I am at the library in South Mandarin, consuming some of my tips and staying out of trouble. I might play at the
Barnes and Noble after I leave here. It is almost 9pm, though.
I am faced with the ordeal of riding the racer back to
St. Augustine sometime. The money is so good at
Barnes and Noble that I might just extend my stay, even though it means sleeping "wherever I lay my head."
