Freaking Out

I am Freaking out a bit,

How It Looked When I Started This Post

over a lot of bytes, after losing my 4 gigabyte data traveler, even though I am 90% sure that it fell out of my back pocket when I was changing out of my shorts and into jeans behind a certain fence at the edge of Serrano's parking lot.

I will anxiously go there and sift through the leaves at that exact spot. As soon as the raging thunderstorm with its wind gusts, heavy rain and thunder and lightning, which I am watching out the window right now, lets up.

I had just been thinking of e-mailing myself all the files on that stick, especially the lyrics to all of my songs.

Eons From Now

I wish my life wasn't like this: Like recording a song, after spending 40 hours doing so, only to inadvertently erase it. That unique version is gone forever, but I console myself by saying "Well, it won't take as long to re-do it, because I already worked out the arrangement, and played each part over and over until getting it right...I should be able to set up and knock it out quickly, and it will sound more spontaneous, and better."

Then, months later, the cassette gets stolen out of my car or something, and I have to tell myself "Well, I've listened to that recording a hundred times, I should be able to go into the studio and knock it out from memory..." and it never ends.

I hope I find the data stick in the (now) mud behind the fence, or I will be forced to hopefully re-write improved versions of my songs. I just know some classic lyrical lines will be lost in the translation, alas...they say that heaven and earth will pass away eventually; I guess that includes my lyrics, but, I was hoping that wouldn't be until eons from now...

Laundry Done

Yesterday, Howard and I walked the mile and a quarter to the laundromat, which was right where Google said it would be.

Howard gave me one dollar "to get quarters with." He asked me if the dryers were "50 cents." This gives more fuel to a theory that I have been formulating that Howard spent perhaps 35 years behind bars, and was just recently let out. That would explain a lot of things, like his unwavering routines; his total lack of computer knowledge, and the fact that practically every movie that makes reference to was done in black and white.

"Dryers haven't been 50 cents since the mid 1970's, Howard..."

A young black lady asked me if I had enough money to do my laundry. When I hesitated, she said "Be honest."

I told her that I had enough to wash, but might wind up drying clothes on my back.

She gave me three dollars.

I decided to load two machines at 2 dollars each, after buying soap for $1.50.

Howard sat out front and ate Cheetoz and drank a Miller High Life.

Another black lady with a boy of about 6 years of age approached, as I was playing my guitar out front. She said that the boy "absolutely loves" the guitar, though he can't really play yet.

I tuned to an open G chord and let him play, and he was able to sound pretty good. I improvised some lyrics and that spawned him to start singing about his yellow house and the tree in the back yard and the grill where they cooked hot dogs, while his mom shot a video of him.

She didn't give me any money for that impromptu guitar lesson, but, I figured that the 3 dollars from the random lady was the universe tightening me up.

"What a cute little boy," said Howard, after they left. He smiled slightly and started singing "I've got sunshine, on a cloudy day..." from the song that I had first played for the boy and his mom when they walked up. Hmmm... I'd never heard Howard sing before.

"I just spent $6.50 to wash my clothes!" I lamented out loud, wondering if Howard would take it as a hint to give me a couple more dollars.

"Wow, that's a lot of money," was all he said, as if merely commenting on the cost of living.

Busking

I sat on the side of The Chimes, around the corner from where the cop had told me not to play Saturday night, made the laundry money back, and then knocked off.

There were two panhandlers in front of the Circle K.

The cashier there actually carded my 49 year old self, and then refused to accept my paper ID from Alabama.

"Can you believe they carded me?" I casually said to bum #1.

"What do you want, I'll get it for you," he said.

I gave him the $1.30 for what I wanted.

He soon walked out, empty handed, as I assumed he would, given that the cashier didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what was going on; the exact same beer; two minutes after turning me away...duh!

"I'll get you a beer," said bum #2, a cocky young black man.

He confidently strode into the store returning with, not the $1.30 beer, but a 2 dollar one.

I told bum #1 to give #2 the $1.30, and I would give bum #2 the difference.

The first bum started to make some kind of rationalization as to why he wasn't going to give the second on the money. Well then, give me my money back, bum...

The second bum started to rant about how he had just come out of his own pocket to get the beer, and was demanding two dollars from me, especially because "You got all that (7 bucks) money in your pocket!" I had no idea when I pulled it out that a few singles were going to make him so giddy.

The first bum was refusing to give me my money back.

I handed the second bum a dollar and said "There, now I've paid two thirty for a two dollar beer. You guys can work it out between you!"

Behind the truck to the far left is where my data should be...

The Final Solution

I went back in the store with the 2 dollar beer, ostensibly to return it for a refund. Rather than do that, I armed myself with the pepper spray in my left pocket and the Crown Royal bag, which was loaded with heavy metal.

I came back out, whereupon the second bum began to yell "I want my money. No one plays games with me!" and began to approach.

I started walking towards the side of the store, to an area by the dumpster, which is pretty much hidden from view. "Come with me, I need to talk to you!," I said to the second bum, who initially began to follow me, saying "Alright, alright, we can settle this!"

But he stopped short of coming behind the fence, where I stood facing him, and went off muttering something.
I probably should have just handed him 2 bucks and told him to have a good life, but then he might have taken that as a green light to press for all 6 dollars, which he knew that I had, and had become fascinated by. That would have pissed me off enough to whack him right there in front of the store with a dozen eyes upon us. What I did was just damage control, I figured.

How it looks now, at 3:15 p.m.

Dave

I went off behind Serrano's and drank the beer, fuming as I thought about things.

I then changed into my jeans, changed my shirt and removing my hat. I hid my guitar and bag well. This is when my data traveler probably (I am hoping) fell out of my pocket, and where I am on my way to find it.
I was on my way back to the Circle K in this guise. I knew that this total change in appearance was going to give me a psychological edge; maybe the bums would think that I actually had an apartment nearby. It would get inside their heads; I was sure. I'm not sure what my goal was, but it was probably to mess with them, to make them pay in stress, for having gotten over on me.

Then, I ran into a guy named Dave, who offered me a beer on his front porch, which was just a block removed from the Circle K.

We watched his favorite comedian on a DVD player, chatted a while, then he offered to let me sleep on his couch, which was the only furniture on the porch, after I had promised not to steal his golf clubs, which were laying in their bag next to the couch.

I woke up in the morning and chugged down an energy drink and wrote a note thanking Dave for everything, adding "especially the putter -it should take a few strokes off my game!" and then located Howard, in the same spot where he had been at the same time the day before, doing the same thing...

And/Or A Ride

We are at least going to walk the mile to the intersection of Rt. 10 and State Road 10 East, where we hope to camp, weather permitting, and where in the morning, I will "fly a sign" and jam on the guitar, after improvising a strap from the nylon cord which Martin W. from West Virginia sent me a few months ago.

I hope to get some money and/or a ride.