A Miraculous Return

"Crazy About A Crazy Girl" -D. McKenna III and Jacob Scardino

There I was, having completed the intake survey at the plasma place in record time; by imagining a drumbeat in my head and determining upon which quarter-note beat the buttons labeled "yes" and "no" would become active on the screen and then smashing them before they had been there more than 90 milliseconds.

Daniel McKenna III · Crazy Bout A Crazy Girl (with actual lyrics)

The bus had run into a stop and go traffic situation and had gotten me to the place just 10 minutes before they closed. 

Despite knocking out the survey in record time and being ready to start the process at a time that would only have me keeping the staff an extra half hour past closing time, I was informed, as I stood there, wearing my brown hat to go with the brown sneakers that are a size and a half too big; making me feel like I have duck feet, like Goofy; and brown, a color I'm not sure about in sneakers- but ones that had been given to me, that it wasn't my "day" to donate; I had shown up the previous Saturday and would thus have to wait a couple days before I could donate again.

This put me in the situation of not having bus fare to get home, potentially forcing me to sleep a couple nights in the building which had been half turned into a restaurant about a month ago, when a similar plasma day miscalculation had occurred.

Then, I thought about the transfer in my pocket that I had used it to transfer to the #62 from off the Canal Street streetcar. If I put it in the machine again it would probably indicate that it had already been used. But, what if it was also expired. Would the machine indicate only that it was, which might obscure the fact that it also had been utilized? I decided to try to pull the wool over the eye of the driver of the #62 "Morrison St." bus.

I would just show the guy the transfer, without putting it in a machine which might indicate that it had already been used; and point out that its expiration had been expedited by the fact that the outbound #62 had encountered a traffic jam, and it had taken almost the life span of a transfer just to get out there. What good is a transfer to another bus when the next time you will see a bus is going to past its expiration time? By placing the blame there, I could portray myself as being a victim of a circumstance beyond my control.

The only thing was, if the driver checked his watch and noticed that the thing wasn't technically expired yet, he might correct me on that particular head, then tell me to put it in the machine, whereupon my deceit would be laid bare.

That was, though, my best immediate chance of getting back home, which was 13.1 miles away, according to Google Maps.

The Repellent Sampling

Suddenly, the thought of being at home, and knocking out the chore of registering the 23andMe "ancestry" kit that my childhood friend, Dave, had sent me, didn't seem such a disagreeable way to spend a chunk of the evening at. Not when contrasted with spending it wandering around the WalMart until they closed at 10 pm., making sure to visit the mosquito repellent section to liberally sample several of the products, then leaving there to walk the half mile to where, a month ago there was a half constructed restaurant with its back door unlocked because it was enclosed within a wooden fence, as if that wooden fence alone was enough to keep trespassers out; but which might now be locked. and hence the repellent sampling..

Before embarking upon that challenge of putting time to as good a use as possible given almost no money and just one book, entitled "The Unbearable Lightness Of Being," by Milan Kundera; but the extension cord to my phone, which could be plugged into one of the outlets in the half constructed restaurant, turning it into a time passing device.

First, I would plug in at WalMart and message Jacob about my plight to see if he would be lent a car in order to rescue me from 2 days of being stranded in East New Orleans, the Museum of Vacant Buildings.

The #62 came and it was being driven by the same driver; having made it as far as the library at the end of its run, then, instead of sitting there for 15 minutes as it usually does; probably took off right away in order to recover some of the lost time spent in traffic.

I reminded the driver, a heavyset black guy who looks to be in his late 50's, but has an intelligent looking aspect to him aided by the horn rimmed glasses he wore; of the traffic jam and how it had lead to my transfer having expired.

He started to argue that a bus being delayed wasn't a valid reason for him to waive the expiration time on a transfer; but ultimately just waived me onto the vehicle as I was starting to explain about my plasma day being off by 2 days and me potentially being stranded on that side of town for the duration, etc.

Then, a middle aged couple sitting near me passed me a transfer that was still good, so I could use it to take the street car up Canal Street after I got off the #62 which I did. And so, I'm home instead of being stretched out on a piece of cardboard in a half constructed restaurant, baby sitting thousands of dollars worth of tools and supplies, with the voice of Ben Shapiro reverberating throughout from the speaker of my phone. For 2 consecutive nights. Hopefully, in that scenario it would turn out that Jacob would be available for busking the next night and would have commensurate transportation lined up and would be able to pick me up from the East New Orleans Museum of Abandoned Buildings (ENOMAB).