Busted Flat In Baton Rouge



 Feeling as faded as Howards jeans...

• Day 5 of being "stranded"
• More Friendly Cops
• What Next?

Last night, I played for almost two hours at the Chevron on Scenic Highway...
It being a Monday, I was happy to have gotten the 7 dollars or so, which I had, though half of it came from the guy who owns the store...
It is almost as if he is a patron of the "arts" (at the risk of sounding pretentious) and he has been nothing if not supportive.
He gave me a couple of meat pies after I finished playing and was on my way to the bus stop.
I would have played past 9:30 p.m., and probably made more money if I wasn't in a rush to catch the last bus back to the railyard.
If I knew what I know now, I would have saved the fare, played until midnight, and pushed the idea of train hopping out of my head entirely.
They wouldn't let Howard ride for the 35 cent Senior Citizen rate, because he didn't have a card, issued by the terminal downtown.
I'm pretty sure the cards are issued so that the drivers don't have to wait for senior citizens to dig their IDs out of their wallets (you know how slowly their crooked, wrinkled fingers move) while there are 27 people behind them, caught in a hailstorm, waiting to board.
This was not the case. It was the last bus of the night, and Howard and I were the only two people on it. The guy had plenty of time to card him and still make it home in time for the start of Tuesday Night Mixed Martial Arts Fighting on some cable network; or whatever.
It would have been probably a blessing had we missed the last bus and had to sleep in the spot near where I am allowed to play...I would have gone back and played some more and probably woken up this morning with more than 4 dollars and change...
But, we got back to the railyard, with the information in our heads that a train would be arriving after midnight.
We went into the hanger type building.
Howard lied down and went to sleep.
I went into an anterior part of it, which was dusty and had the remains of what was once probably an office, where I made a recording of guitar and harmonica on my mp3 player, using its built in microphone. The recording ran 4:27 in length.
This was long enough to attract the attention of some young "travelling kid," who appeared at the entrance to the hanger type building with a flashlight and told me that he had heard the guitar and that he too played guitar, but not recently because his girlfriend had smashed his the night before...wow, will you introduce me to her??
Trains showed up at around the specified time and Howard and I wound up settling on a grain car which was part of a train which was sitting on the only track which went across the river and to points west, according to the young railyard worked, whom I had talked to Monday at noon...
We slept the night on that car, which never moved.
In the morning, Howard was sitting up and reading "Tess," by Thomas Hardy.
I sat up and started reading "The Return Of The Native," by Thomas Hardy (my job is not to master the coincidences in life, only to shed light upon them) as, we seemed to have come upon the same discount rack in the library with the same literary tastes.
Soon, a debate started to rage between us: What are the odds that the train would take off while I was running to the store and back for cigarettes and whatever Howard might want i.e. a Pepsi and a bag of Cheetos (half of his diet)?
The train then settled matters by lurching a couple times and starting to back slowly in the direction of New Orleans.
"He's backing up beyond the switch, so that when he pulls forward in the direction of Texas, they can switch him to the main track," I wishfully thought out loud to Howard.
I got off after it came to rest, and started to walk in each direction, looking for a better car; one which might hide us completely from the eyes of rail cops along the way, like an open boxcar.
Surprise, Travelling Kids!
I came upon a group of travelling kids, made aware of their presence when their bulldog started barking. I surprised the dog as much as I surprised the travelling kids and as much as the dog surprised me. Think it'll move today?" I asked.
"I hope so, that's why I'm on it," answered the travelling kid, making me think, for a second that I had asked a "Howard" type of question...No, I'm sitting on it because I'm hoping that it never moves; I want to get a job and settle here in Baton Rouge, making this my apartment; moron!" would have been a response that I deserved. Maybe Howard's rubbing off on me.
The Gap For (Travelling) Kids
He was wearing what they all seem to wear. Brown cover-alls, the color of brake dust and thus "easy to keep clean" -everyone knows that white is hard to keep clean- ripped in all the same spots, which don't even make sense, taking human anatomy into consideration -never seem to be the ones (knees, seat, pockets) that working mens jeans typically wear out.
These appear to have been intentionally and strategically ripped to make them appear tattered and to expose the same brown denim undergarments, which are part of the uniform...Where do they get these clothes, I meant to ask them; at The Bum Rack, or The Gap For Travelling Kids?
I think that the clothes, as well as the dogs and the signs that say "Traveling: anything helps," and the grease smudged on their faces; grease from the road which looks more like mascara than any grime that I've ever encountered on the road -which they haven't been able to wash off because all their water has gone to quench theirs and the dogs thirst in this journey through this arid (except for beer) world;
I think it is all a rouse, to evoke sympathy from people and keep the kids drunk and stoned cross country...just my opinion.
Then, a guy came and told us that we were trespassing. He asked me if I was indeed the guy with the guitar whom he had warned last week not to come back on the yard.

No, He looked more like this guy...

He turned to a rail worker, an older black guy whom I had spoken to the day before and who had seemed helpful and friendly at that time and asked "Is this the guy with the guitar?"
"Yeah, that's him," said the railworker who had been friendly and helpful the day before.
"Last week?!? I've only been here a couple of days!," I said and looked the guy in the eye, wherupon he conceeded that it had been the day before and not last week -different guy; one whose guitar is now smashed, probably...
We almost went to jail for lying to the guy after he was ready to just let us walk off the yard. He let us just walk off the yard.
We found ourselves in front of Memorial Stadium, where we sat for a while, while Howard re-packed his stuff.
A guy pulled up and explained that he was the railroad "inspector," and offered to buy us lunch, after asking if we were hungry.
I have learned to "alway be hungry" when asked this question, whether I am hungry or not.
He said that his job as an inspector has entailed attending scenes of carnage after some travelling kid for example, gets his brown cover-alls pinched between two couplings when a train unexpectedly lurched into motion, and is dragged hundreds of yards down the line by an ankle over the ties and gravel, scraping his skin down to the bone as his bulldog trots alongside, barking at the train, as if it is suddenly the big enemy, but then winds up licking at the blood of the raw exposed flesh after the train finally comes to a stop, and, finding it pretty tasty, gets carried away and is just cracking a femur bone which is protruding from the strategic tear in the travelling kids coveralls to get at the marrow, (even mans best friend is "only human" and has a basic weakness for flesh, when you come right down to it) when our friend, the rail inspector arrives on the scene and has to take pictures of it all.
He said that his only concern was not to see Howard and I in the same predicament. He was retiring in a few years, and had seen enough hobo fatalities to last a carreer. He seemed sincere.
He told us to wait where we were and that he would return with burgers, fries and drinks...
We waited where we were.
Ten minutes later, four East Baton Rouge cop cars arrived, with officers stepping out of each and asking us how we were doing and if we had ID on us.
I thought of the apparent heartfelt sincerity of the inspector when he voiced his concern for our safety and our comfort and how, even his tone of voice was compassionate. I thought that if it was all faked, and he was just trying to get us to remain at that spot until the officers had time to arrive, then I had seen just about everything and would probably be suspicious of people for the remainder of my days. I was reminded of a guy who once showed me a crucifix on a necklace that he was wearing and avowed "I'm a Christian, man, I don't steal!" before he ran off with my money, never to be seen again....
We placed our hands on hoods of cars, and were searched. We told them that we were really just trying to get out of there -nothing against Baton Rouge nor the LSU Tigers you understand, but- and go to Texas; words which have worked magic in the recent past.
They were seriously appearing to debate upon our fate when the inspector arrived and stepped out of his official vehicle, holding bags of fast food and drinks, introduced himself to the officers as the chief or superior or county inspector and explained that he had brought food for us, and would he be able to just place it down by our stuff, so that we could eat it when they were done with us.
They were soon very done with us. One of the officers informed us that Seargent Burn decided to "have a heart" and that we wouldn't be going to jail (we would be sitting by Memorial Field, chowing on bacon burgers and fries) -unless of course they found us again in the rail yard. So, we are going to have to be very sneaky tonight, indeed! [that was a joke]
We now have the very considerable problem of getting out of here without using trains, unless they have Amtrack written upon them.
This isn't the worst hell in the world. We have found a library, place to sleep, place to busk and convenient shopping right across the street from where we sleep. We are often the only white people in immediate sight, here in Scotlandville (as I look around this library the same holds true and probably will until Howard gets here) but it doesn't feel dangerous.
They might assume that we are some kind of federal agents or that something is wrong with us in general because "What the hell they doin in this part o' town?! Dey up to som 'in!!"
The Plan
The plan is to stay here longer, because it is familiar. 
I will busk as much as possible over the next four days, after explaining to the owners of the convenience store what is up (they gave me a couple of meat pies last night and another free beer, so I consider them sympathisers, if not allies) and try to come up with Greyhound money to go at least as far as Larramie or Lafayette, where we might be able to improve our train hopping percentage to .250 should we actually catch one to Texas...
I now go to the Greyhound site to see how much I actually have to busk up in order to go anywhere.