Give Pack Back, Get Pack Back

I woke up with $0.00 this morning.
It has been 16 hours since my last beer.

Yesterday, the experiment in sobriety ended at the 40th hour. I left the library, after blogging and facebooking for about 3 hours. I still had the $2.59. It was raining, and I had just realised that, in focusing upon blogging, I had gone past the time when one must pick up one's baggage from out of 15 Place. "Any bag left past 4pm. will be donated to Goodwill," is what the sign on the door states. I was wondering how serious they were about enforcing that rule.

I started to think about all that I have in my backpack: birth certificate, ID, all of my hygiene stuff, etc. There were even extra shirts in there, I thought, as I noticed that the rain was ushering in cooler air. It has been cold some mornings, getting down to 70 degrees, and I have woken up and thrown on an extra shirt, on a few occasions. I was worried, too about the things in the bag that weren't coming to mind, which might be important at some future juncture. (It was the mosquito repellent, which fit this "I know I'm forgetting something" category. (More on that later, under the heading "I Am Eaten Alive")

I kind of went to the store and bought a beer, and then tried to buy a cigarette off someone for a quarter. I am wondering if I am keeping myself broke to protect myself from myself. There was a panhandler out front, who wanted a quarter.

I drank a couple more, which left me exactly no money. I actually had to borrow 5 cents off of the guy who wanted the quarter, in exchange for giving him a sip off of the third beer. I told myself that I was loosening up for my performance at Serda's Coffee, and that I felt better to be rid of the money, because it was "burning a hole in my pocket," and tempting me to get beer. The temptation was gone. I went to Serda's Coffee.

Upon arriving at Serda's, I noticed a pack of American Spirit cigarettes, unattended and laying on a ledge under one of the front windows. It looked abandoned to me. These are the same kind which the kind man gave me, along with the sandwich, after I had earlier chosen to come this way, instead of the beer store way. The pack was almost full. I took it, while trying to see out of the corners of my eyes, if there was any movement which might indicate someone noticing me picking them up, perhaps the owner. I didn't hear anyone say "Hey, those are mine." It could have been an empty box. I went around the corner to smoke one and hid the pack under a trash can, while asking myself "Why am I hiding them if I don't feel guilty about taking them?"

Once inside, the MC greeted me warmly and told me the spot that I would be occupying on "the list." I was to have others play after me. "Good," I said. "That way, there will still be an audience here!"

As I was stepping out for an American Spirit, between performers, the MC made the announcement "If anyone found a pack of American Spirit cigarettes, they're mine!"

I went and got the things and brought them to him, saying "They looked abandoned; I watched them for a minute and nobody seemed to belong to them..." He seemed very happy to have his American Spirit cigarettes back. They're expensive.

I played a self-satisfying set of songs, mixed in some comedy, and, apart from a few young girls, who were only there to videotape their boyfriends playing, so they can twitter and myspace and utube with their expensive toys, and who payed little attention to me, the audience liked it. I even had a request for The Carcass Song from the MC, who had just finished an American Spirit cigarette.

I think that the one American Spirit from the guy with the sandwich was of God, because I had made a good decision. I think the 15 American Spirits in the box were of the devil (he would offer more,) and a test to see if I was so pathetically addicted to tobacco that I would steal from the very MC who was giving me a chance to put my songs out in front of people. I felt better on some deeper level, than if I had had the "comfort" of knowing that I would lay down with American Spirits on me. Doing the right thing is more satisfying than a cigarette...barely....

Even Cigarette Man (shown here in Jacksonville) would agree.

"...You got a cigarette? You need a cigarette? Here you go, here's a
cigarette. You don't have to pay me back..." -Cigarette Man Emanuel (The Cigarette Savior, The Tobacco Messiah)

I went to my "abandoned factory" spot and layed down. It was past midnight.
I hadn't been there 15 minutes when, The Black Man With The Fishing Pole, and his friend, Martin, were on the scene.
I told them that there weren't many dry spots, and directed them to one which I had found, further down, but had moved away from, because of being eaten alive by some kind of insects. They didn't seem concerned about insects. Black people may have thicker skin than us Caucasians.
They gave me a cigarette.
Later, they entrusting me to guard their bags and the fishing pole, while they went to the store. Upon returning, they gave me 3 beers. I soon had my guitar out and was practising. They found this amusing, and commented "Now that you had some beer, you feelin' it, huh?"
I woke up right on time to make it to The Coffee Club. The breakfast has been served all week by a youth group from a church somewhere in South Carolina. Yesterday morning, one of the girls (the one giving out the bread) told me that she would be praying for me, after I had told her that I had gone 36 hours without a beer. This morning, she said "Good morning, Daniel."
She had remembered my name.
After I was done eating, her and a couple more came over to my table, once I was by myself, and asked me if I was "still sober." I had to break the bad news, blaming it on worrying about my bag at 15 Place, which may have been thrown out with my "whole world" in it. One guy took out his cell phone and called 15 Place, on behalf of "Guitar Man," and asked them to hold the bag for me. I walked briskly over there and got it.

Having the backpack back was a relief, yet, it came with a price.
Mr. McDonald, who had become aware of the situation, asked me why I was there. I think he already knew why I was there. He was also aware that my temporary membership had elapsed, and told me that I could now only go there to eat at noon; no more keeping my bag there.
Now, when I come to the library, I have to hide the thing outside before going in.
A Trolley Driver Gives Me 5 Dollars
Just outside the library, as I was crossing the street to get here today, one of the trolley buses stopped in front of me. The door opened to reveal the driver, holding out a five dollar bill towards me. "Here, get yourself a beer," he said, handing it to me. Now I have 5 dollars. A beer would taste good.

Porsha Gives Me A New Guitar Case
A few days ago, the zipper on my guitar bag broke. I had been carrying it with shirts tied around it to keep it closed. Just a minute ago, Porsha, the ambulance worker, came and tapped my shoulder, as I was sitting here, and handed me a new guitar bag. It's tan with green trim.
I now go to call The Mobile Bay Adventure Inn to see if they want me to play this weekend. They are having a big convention for Jehovah's Witnesses. They are not sure if Jehovah's Witnesses like acoustic guitar music. Then I may go for a coffee. I do have 5 dollars.

A Black Hole

Busted Flat In Mobile
I have finally run out of money. It seems to have been the goal of the hundreds of street people to assist me in obtaining this milestone, but I see it as being my own fault.
"Aint it funny how the things you want the most are the things you need the least" -Bob Dylan
This morning, of course, was my first encounter with a cop who told me to get out of the street.
My focus tonight will be to make some money somewhere, probably the exact same spot.
Tommorow, I go to the place called "15 Place" to become a "member" and be issued an ID with my picture on it, identifying me as a homeless person. You have to prove that you are homeless, in order to get some things. You have to prove that you have a residence to get other things.
I am going to re-new my food stamp card. It is easy to do, here in Alabama. You just need proof that you are homeless.
I need to be at 15 Place at 7:45 am. so that I can get on The List. The List fills up fast, or it did this morning, when I got there at 8:10 am.
Then, I can renew my food stamp card, using 15 Joachim St. as an address; and I can also receive mail there, hurray. I haven't used the card in months, such was our prosperity in Jacksonville.
Then, I can try to reinstate my State ID. They need proof that you have a residence.
The Salvation Army has funds to help the homeless with their ID cards. The funds come in on the 10th of the month. I should be in position for this month, with my brand new homeless ID, identifying me as being homeless. Just being found sleeping behind a building is not verification enough.
Tonight, I want to make money at the spot where I was run off. I then want to take the city bus all the way out to where I hid my big backpack and the tent. I hope it/they will still be there. I will re-hide them, after taking some things from the big bag, and switching out some things from the small bag, as per the knowledge which I have gained as to the necessity of things in this situation.
"Spare Change And Cigarettes Go In, But Never Come Out"
I should have my ID tommorow, though, they warned me that it will be a "most of the day," process, taking valuable time away from whiling away time, which doesn't surprise me.
Once I get my food card and my official State ID, I just might take that train to West Palm Beach, Florida. The abundance of resources for the homeless here has created an environment which is like a black hole, where spare change and cigarettes go in, but never come out.
When I played on Saturday night, I made only about 10 bucks. I had almost as many requests for "Can I get one of those dollars??" by street people whom I had never seen before.
Part Of The Problem
Part of the problem is that I am downtown in the ghetto. In Jacksonville, I never would have considered trying to survive downtown, because I saw it as I see this place. Wherever I go, I feel like I am a target. Every time I hear someone shout "Hey, guitar man!" and motion me over towards them, or have them come up upon me, it is ALWAYS about a cigarette or some change. Well, maybe I'm not being fair. It is about a cigarette or some spare change 99.9125% of the time....
Build It And She Will Come
I will search for the part of Mobile which is like the Mandarin of Jacksonville; far enough out (and on the bus line) that the people aren't hounded daily by bums, and where there will be beautiful landscapes where the tent can be pitched. I think that is about the time that Karrie will intuit that the time of her showing up unexpectedly will have come....build it and she will come.
I miss her, especially since "misery enjoys company."

I Am In Mobile, Alabama, Feeling Low

Guitar Breaks





I am in the heart of Dixie. I got hear at 4 am., after a 7 hour bus ride, through which I slept and woke feeling scared and lonely.
Once, I woke because I thought that I felt Karrie kiss my lips.
It was probably the weird guy in the seat next to me who kept coughing.


I slept until sunup at the Greyhound. I was then told to leave, since Mobile was my final destination. It was foggy and I could hear thunder in the distance, as I began to walk in the direction of "downtown." It proved to be a big city, much like Ocala.



I walked in the direction of downtown, stopping behind a church of sorts to hide the heavy tent in the bushes, and then continued on.
I stopped at a store for a Mountain Dew.
The lady was nice, the guy told me to leave my bags up front, and was very curt with his answers to questions about Mobile, in general, and resources for the homeless, in particular.

Goths Find Me



I found a bus stop and was sitting there when a couple of gothic teens, a guy and girl, walked over.
The guy had piercings, like the goths in Mandarin, and, like them, expressed interest in music and a curiosity about my doings.
I played a song on my broken guitar. It was a song that I wrote in St. Augustine when I had broken the "g" string, called "My Favorite Horse."
They then gave me a ride to the library, where I learned that I couldn't come in with my big pack.
I went on a city bus to hide the bag, way out of town near the Guitar Center, where I had to pay 40 bucks for a whole new set of tuning machines, in order to make my guitar playable again of songs other than My Favorite Horse.

On my next to last day in Mandarin, my pick broke while I was playing. Then, when I went to tighten up the g string, the tuning machine broke off in my hand. Then, later on the g string itself broke. All on the same day; my last in Jacksonville.

Karrie Cries


I left Karrie at the bus stop on Monday. I was thinking that Monday was the first of June, forgetting that 31 days "hath" May.

I got to the Greyhound early enough to correct the mistake and get back to Mandarin, on the last bus out of town. It was raining and I was toting all my stuff. I got back in time to find Karrie asleep on the back porch of the office building. I had taken the tent from the woods. I felt like I was taking her home away as I uprooted it.



Karrie was her most clinging self ever that night. I could hardly sleep because she was arranging my limbs as if I were a Ken doll, and she a Barbie; if Barbie were an octopus.
The next morning, I ran into Dave and Debbie, local homeless, who informed me that Karrie had sat at the bus stop and cried for a long time after my bus left.
She really thought that she had done everything in her power to please me, and that driving a guy to anger is part of a relationship, and so is him yelling at her; it's a healthy way of showing love, in her opinion.

I rode most of the way to Mobile thinking What kind of man doesn't do every thing in his power, beg, borrow or steal, to make sure his girl is by his side, if he really loves her. I felt guilty.

Dauphin Street

I have found Mobile to be pretty much as advertised.
I now know of 4 places to shower and eat and sleep.
I was told by someone that I will make money on Dauphin Street, and that the cops won't bother me because I am "trying to work for a living."
Right now, I am having a hard time motivating myself.
I was unable to get a bed at the Salvation Army, on such short notice, though I did eat. It was liver and onions, one of Karrie's favorites.
I face the prospect of finding a spot to sleep after I play. I won't have the blanket, because it is in the heavy pack, hidden in the bushes, far from town.

I'm feeling low right now. Oil is washing up upon the island here.

Somehow I love Her

Then, we went back to Jacksonville.
Karrie wet the bed that first night, her having overdone it with the liquor that she was magically able to procure. She had come up with a bottle of Triple Sec, out of nowhere.
What the hell would a girl who had been locked up for 88 days want with a bottle of liquor?
It was the same old thing.

She pissed the bed that night, having not drank for 4 months.
She woke up and ate all the food the next day.
Karrie was home.

I May Just Move Away From Her

I am in Riverside, the the "willow" branch of the library. It is a small branch, commensurate with the branches of the tree for which the branch was named.
I am over my 3 day drunken binge, which I undertook after thinking that I would not be able to obtain my new ID, nor work ever again, nor have enough money to get out of Jacksonville before becoming a wanted person.
My guitar strings are rusted. Every time I go out and play, I am risking being seen by one of the half dozen cops who have told me that they would take me to jail the next time they saw me playing.
I thought that Nina would give the the promised 500 bucks for signing the divorce papers all at once. I foresaw a new backpack, new eyeglasses, and a bus ticket to freedom. Instead, I have been wallowing in Jacksonville, making mere peanuts before being run off by cops, who are now all privy to my exploits.
I wake up in the morning and drink caffeine shots, which I get for free out of the Kangaroo coffee rack. I listen to the radio, and then bag up trash and hang up dirty clothes, after pouring liquid laundry soap on them so, in the event of a rainstorm, they will become washed.. I then throw the trash away and ride my bike to the Gate station, where I pick the ashtray of half-smoked butts.
Then, I try to snif the air and decide where I might play for a while and not get arrested. I play for a while and then go look for food in the dumpster. I return to camp and start a fire. After the office building closes, I go and fetch water. I eat and then go off to sleep. I wake up depressed many times.
There is no room for Karrie in this situation. She would burden me and slow my progress out of the camp each morning, by opening a debate over what should be done, and where "we" are going to go and what "we" are going to do, and usually, do "we" have enough for a 4 pack of beer...
I woke up early this morning and felt as though I didn't want her there with me. Somehow I have withdrawn from the addiction to her, in a sense. It seemed to me that there would be nothing to gain from having her with me.
The cuddling, I recalled as clinging.
The feeling of sheltering and supporting the weaker sex, impressed upon me the feeling of being sucked dry by a leach.
The fact that I need to go in a whole new direction, and that living in the woods has become old, given the fact that I am not working and saving and hoping for a better life, and that in the new life there will be no room for her, and her ability to make a "home" in the woods; gathering wood, doing laundry and dishes, etc.
She needs to get into a shelter, or a program, because the panhandling well is going to run dry, sooner or later.
I need to get into a shelter or program, and/or find a way to play music legally. The rampside spots are going to run dry, also.
I don't know what to tell Karrie now.

Wish It Was "April Fools"

The computers here at the Gateway branch of the Jacksonville public Library are SO slow, I don't know what the problem is. I suppose they are that same speed that all computers were 15 years ago, when they were 486's -no pentium or nothing....
I am playing every day. I am selecting new and creatve spots. Today I was run off by a cop, after discovering a spot which seemed great. I made a quick amount of money, and then the cop came. He was trying to be hard core and scare me, I could tell. Of course, the Jax police have just taken a public relations beating for shooting a 2 year-old girl, who was in a car which was car-jacked by a bank robbery suspect. The car was shot 42 times, by 5 officers, one of the shots was a shotgun blast. This is the public service which we all enjoy here in Jacksonville.
I lost my train of thought, but, yeah, I didn't argue with the cop, just picked up my stuff and moved on....
Just minutes before he became a bank robbery and carjacking suspect shot dead in a hail of police gunfire, Jeremiah Mathis sent a text message to his oldest sister.
Cachandra Mathis said it was about 2:50 p.m. when she received the last in a series of what she thought were catching-up messages from her 31-year-old brother, who had moved to Jacksonville from upstate New York in December.
“He said, ‘I’m just trying to keep my head above water,’ ” she said.
Just after 3 p.m., police say, Jeremiah Mathis robbed the Wachovia Bank on Baymeadows Road, then commandeered a car at a nearby Wendy’s drive-thru.
Shortly thereafter, five officers shot 42 rounds at Mathis and the car. Inside were an innocent woman and her two children; the youngest, 2-year-old Daniel Crichton, was critically wounded. His mother, Jo-Ann Cooper, was shot in the foot. Daniel remains hospitalized in critical but stable condition; Cooper's condition is reported as fair.

There Once Was A Man From Ocala

...Who'd went there, expecting a gala
But then the police
Did disturb his peace
And spooked him just like an Impala.
(Impalas are skittish)

I was up with the sun this morning. I had $24.55. I have sent Karrie a total of $28.01, since arriving here (plus $7 in stamped envelopes and Money Orders) because I love her. I could be walking around with 60 bucks if I hated her. It burns me up, to think about it! (just kidding, Karrie! LOL)

Yesterday, I went out to the ramp and made 20 bucks or so, before a very nice cop pulled up and saying "You're not from around here, are you?" went on to tell me about the ordinance within the city against reaching out and taking money from some one's hand, I think he said. This skirts the issue of panhandling being defined as asking for money, which I don't ever do; I just play. So, it's against the ordinance to take money from some one's hand in Ocala. I have to hand it to them, that's pretty clever.

"Hey Lou, can I borrow ten bucks until next Thursday? Just lay it on the sidewalk and I'll pick it up..." I guess.

He told me that I could move down to the next ramp and I would be in the county, where the ordinance has no effect. One more mile to walk. I am heading that way after I finish here.

First, I must stop at the police station and try to retrieve my ID card, which was never handed back to me by the undercover cop in the park. One would think that they would be in the habit of handing them back, since they do it SO much.

I sent Karrie 6 of the 20 bucks, and then went and cooked fish and had fish and bread and would have had collard greens, but have forgotten where I misplaced the can opener.

I Am Going Back To Jacksonville

Tomorrow, if all goes as planned, I will wake up with the birds, pack and meet John near the library at 10 am. I will then ride in the back of his truck, back to Jacksonville, which is "the devil that I know." In the cab of the truck will be John, his fiance, Ester and Ester's wedding dress, which will occupy the back seat because she "doesn't want anything to happen to it."

The Working Week

It is Monday morning. I woke up with $14.90.

Last night, I cooked fish on the fire, seasoned it with a combination of condiments from Burger King, Taco Bell, and Kangaroo, and ate it, while the night grew dark. I must have been asleep by 9 pm.

I woke up before dawn and was ready to start the day. I figured the first busses out of town might begin to run at around 6:30 am. I was thinking this as I drifted back to sleep and then woke again with the sun up. After cleaning out the tent, packing my pack, brushing my hair etc., it was 10:18 by the time I got to the Kangaroo for a morning energy drink.

"Wait, I'll Go With You!"

Now, I will take the Orange Bus out to the interstate and press my luck further, in hopes of bringing some booty back to Jacksonville. As soon as I have Greyhound money for Savannah, I will go there to prepare a place for myself, and possible Karrie. Waking up alone in a tent can be a bummer, but it sure is easier to "get up and go," when you don't have to have a conference over things, or have to wait after someone say's "Wait, I'll go with you!" I miss Karrie at odd times, like when I smell a clean sheet!

The "Savannah" (right)

I am still considering riding the Peugeot bike to Savannah, playing the highway along the way.

Savannah (left)

I am back to using a sign which reads: "Thank you 4 Stimulating the Economy" It's kind of a poke at Obama in my mind, but can be taken otherwise..

Any time now could be my last time playing that particular ramp. Then, my options here will be few. I might be able to make a few bucks, hanging coupons for John. We return to Jacksonville next Sunday. Off I go, trying to make a dollar.

O (NO!) Cala

My Third Encounter With The Law

I started walking towards "the county," Saturday afternoon. A black woman pulled over beside me and actually asked me if I needed a ride. This is so out of the ordinary in Florida, where it seems to be "every man for himself." She drove me to the Wal-Mart. The ride was long enough to have me thinking about the walk back, and ruing it.

I got out on one of the exits and began to play. My sign read: "Street Musician Stimulus Package." I made three dollars quickly, then, a cop pulled up.

He was in an "unmarked" car. He identified himself as O.P.D., which I figured stood for Ocala Police Department. He said that I couldn't play my guitar there. "They don't want you here," was what he said. I told him that the other cops had told me that I could play in the county. He repeated what he said, and added enough information to make me think that he really was a cop and not some smart-ass in a Dodge Neon, trying to run me off because he had had a bad day and was looking to take it out on anyone.

The cops had said that the county started "past Wal-Mart" and I had been kind of playing ignorant.
The MarathonI went to the Circle K, where I was told that it was against company policy to let me play. I went across the street to a "Marathon" gas station and the kindly foreigner behind the counter told me that I could play, but, only "over by the air machine" thing. I sat over by the air pump, 50 feet from where people got out of their cars and went in the store. Nobody walked the 50 feet to throw me anything. I walked the 3 miles back to the spot where mine and Karrie's stuff is, and slept, after stopping at the dollar store and getting some sloppy joe sauce and a can of tuna.

Sunday, I was up with the birds, who have calmed down some. There is no bus service on Sunday, so, I walked the 3 miles back to the Marathon station. I figured that on a nice sunny Sunday, there might be a change of fortunes there. I had only made 5 bucks since arriving, 4 days prior.

I played on the spot, after being warned by some homeless types that I was subject to arrest for doing so. I knew that I had permission from the foreigner inside, and wasn't worried. It made me think that the homeless were baiting me, so that I would go away and leave the panhandling to them. I made only two dollars. A guy sat next to me drinking his beer and complimenting my playing. He said that he hoped that he wasn't interfering with my business by being there. I could never figure out if the presence of another person helps or hinders. On one hand, it looks like you have attracted an audience; on the other, it looks like one more mouth to feed and some people don't want to double up their tip, and they don't want to insult the two persons with 50 cents each, for example...
I Take My Chances At The Ramp
Monday morning, I decided to just go out to the off ramp of the interstate and dispense with all the other nonsense, roll the dice and get rich or go to jail. These are where I make 30 bucks an hour in Jacksonville.
I took the bus, and was at the ramp by 10a.m. I was nervous all the way there, wondering if the ramp would be accessible, if cars would stop in a line, or just whiz past, or if the interstate was in the "county," or the "city." I also knew that I was down to 33 bucks, and spending 3 of it just on bus trips.

I stopped at a store on the way and was accosted by a foreigner. "The restroom is out of order," he said, as I walked in. "Excuse me," I said. "The restroom is out of order, he repeated. I said "I'll remember that if I need to use a restroom." I went and got a can of 211 High Gravity Lager. I was going to go out and play absolutely sober, and almost did, but figured that one beer might only help.

I went out on the off ramp with my sign, which read: Street Musician Stimulus Package, and made only 6 bucks in almost an hour. I began to assess the risk vs. reward, of being out there and subjecting myself to the cops for 6 bucks per hour. I left.

I went and had another lager. I then returned to the opposite ramp, making only a few more bucks. I moved into the median strip and made a fast 7 bucks, and then, getting that creepy O.P.D. feeling in my spine, I packed up and left for the day. I had made 14 bucks the entire day, not enough to risk going to jail over. They will usually just run one off the first time seeing them. It is when a specific cop sees you a second time, after having warned you, that the trouble starts. With the Lidgeleys coming on Thursday, my thoughts were of them driving up from Orlando to visit, and finding me not there as planned. They might think that I had snubbed them, or was irresponsible. Since they read this blog, they might draw the right conclusion, still, it would have been a wasted trip for them.
Mind Racing, Considering Options
It is now Tuesday, and I woke up with about 42 bucks, up nine from yesterday.
I lay there this morning with my mind racing. I thought about the impending doom up in Jacksonville. I will suffer the same fate as Karrie, as soon as my citations turn into warrants. I thought about going to Jacksonville and getting my bike, and then travelling up the coast on it, playing One Day Stands along the Rt. 95 ramps. With the warmer weather, a tent and one sleeping bag would suffice, along with a couple changes of clothing. If I like it in any one spot, or, if there is employment of any kind (imagine that) I might settle for a while and maybe even take advantage of one of those programs "to reduce homelessness," which are out there. Some provide shelter, clothing, hygiene and assistance in obtaining work. The first step in a 12-step program is to admit helplessness. Checking into a program like that would make me feel that I had.
The British Are Coming, The British Are Coming!!
The Lidgeleys offered to give me a ride back to Jacksonville. I have two days to decide if this is the way to go. I will talk to the people who help the homeless here, and talk to the lady that runs The Wine Bar. Someone told me that he walked in there and was able to play his guitar for tips. He didn't say how much he made, but he also didn't say how well he played. Maybe, the Ridgeleys and I could do our dinner at The Wine Bar. That might get my foot in the door. They wanted me to select the place, and so far it's the only place that I have heard of. In the interim day before they arrive, I might try to play at the Marathon station again, to see if it continues to be futile. As I befriend the foreigner, he may allow me to creep closer to the entrance, (maybe six inches per night.)
Today, I had hoped to send Karrie a little bit more money. I had also hoped to make about 50 bucks yesterday, not 14...
A Nation Addicted To Sugar
I will probably wash my clothes behind some building, saving $2.50, and then write Karrie a letter while they are drying on one buck. I could send her just the couple dollars, which I would save. She could buy a honey bun for $1.20 and trade it for an entire breakfast tray. Such is the markup on a honey bun, once it goes within the confines of a jail. It's because they serve no sugar on the food trays, and this nation is addicted to sugar, amongst the other 11 or so things, which it is addicted to.
Mom
If you are reading this, I gave Karrie your address to return my mail, because I don't know where I will be. E-mail me, if you get a letter from her. I still don't know how much time they gave her. I might try to call. I am off to the shelter now, to see if they hold any hope for a better life here. I have yet to settle in here, and make a decent camp, as it has not been promising so far...
At least, I don't have to worry about the weather tonight.

A Crime That A Ghost Might Commit.

Drying Time
I left the library yesterday afternoon. The rain had stopped, just as the radar image from wunderground.com had seemed to portend. Behind the clear "window," which was over Ocala at the time, was a new and menacing green and orange mass, approaching from the southwest. It seemed to be grinning at me.
I knew that this was the time to seek shelter.
Karrie's backpack, along with the soaked sleeping bag were hidden in the woods behind a building. They were not hidden well, as, in the darkness of the previous evening, I had crawled in only far enough so that the street's light was diminished to the intensity of a common night-light. There, I had found the flat spot where I unwittingly rolled out the tarp and bag and slept under the stars. Stars turned into thunderheads, and thunderheads into tornadoes; the rest is history.
My Options Were?
Option 1. Was to get the sleeping bag and dry it at the laundromat, and then find a culvert, overhang, or deeper woods, where the tent could be pitched. This involved spending money, and, if I failed to find a spot and get the tent up before the grinning green and orange mass arrived, then I would have wasted money into the dryer...
Option 2. Walk to the Salvation Army and ask if I could stay there for one night.
I moved towards the Salvation Army. The city is so large that I was prepared for a five mile walk. I always had the option of sitting at a bus stop and taking the city bus the rest of the way, at any point.
I bought an Earthquake High Gravity Lager, and some cashew nuts at a store along the way. I found a place behind a vacant building, which was "for lease," like half of Florida. I pulled out a bag, which had been given to me that morning, as I was sipping my coffee in front of the Kangaroo, before going to the library.

A man, who looked just like a man in St. Augustine, who has done the same thing, handed it to me, saying: "Here, God put it upon my heart to give this to you," -just like the guy in St. Augustine said. Could he BE Saint Augustine? What's he doing in Ocala? ...baffling...at least they couldn't get him for failure to appear!
There was a can of "stuffed" ravioli, a can of fruit cocktail, spoon-fork-napkin pack, and some literature about a church, which helped the poor. I read the scriptures about "If someone comes to you hungry and naked, and you tell them to go in peace and yet you give them not food, nor clothing, then, how have you helped them?" I paraphrase, of course.
I ate the raviolis, drank the lager, and listened to Sports Radio.
As I continued walking, I noticed that the jackets and shirts which I wore were drying out, making me think that there was yet another option, which didn't necessitate the drying of the sleeping bag. I want to conserve money until the sun comes out this weekend, and I am able to see if street playing yields anything. One good day, and another spent exploring further might put me in a better spot
My needs are simply to hide Karrie's stuff and the tent better, acquaint myself with the shelters and their ability to provide hot showers and food and laundry, and then to see how lucrative the off ramp of Rt. 75 and Rt. 40 is. If successful, I could choose my own food and do laundry on my own schedule. The library here has free Internet, and I have been spending hours on it, catching up on "housecleaning" type things, like answering messages which are two weeks old.
The Captivity Of Karrie
Karrie has not been transferred to St. Augustine, as of yesterday. They have until March 22Nd to pick her up, or failing that, releasing her.
If they let her out in Jacksonville, she will know where to find the "survival pack," which I hid nearby our campsite there. If they bring her to St. Augustine, then I won't have to worry about her being released any time soon. She has 5 charges of "failure to appear." (It sounds like a crime that a ghost might commit at a seance...)
It will cost me $1.50 and a miles walk to get to the ramp on Saturday. I woke up with $72 this morning; half of what I left the camp in Jacksonville with. Now I go to see if they have transported Karrie. I want to send her some money before such a point when it might be the sum total of all I have. I think a quarter of money will sufficiently show my love for her.

The British Are Coming

In the meantime, the Lidgleys are set to arrive in Orlando Sunday night. They will be here in Ocala on Thursday, when we will meet somewhere for dinner.

The Thing Is Done

I am holding in my pocket a bus ticket for a trip from Jacksonville, to Ocala, to leave at 1:45am. on the 10th of March. The name on the ticket is "Karrie Porras."
We now have 14 days to accrue wealth and plan and stretch our muscles for a long bike ride...

Rubber Keyboard

The Trip To Ocala
As of now, the plan is to get a 7 day-in-advance ticket for Ocala, to be utilized by Karrie, who will Carry all of our luggage with her. I will ride the Pugeaut bike the 100 miles or so, leaving a day or so in advance, and hoping (or maybe not) that she has the wherewithall to get on the right bus and meet up with me in Ocala. I have a possible job, working with my old friend, John, the pizza store manager. Wait until he gets a load of Karrie.....(good God)

The Internet Cafe
Last night, I did indeed go to what was billed as an "Internet Cafe."
This was after playing the highway and making about $33.00
I had $202 in my pocket then, and considered the trip to Jacksonville a moderate success.


I walked in and recieved a cold reception. The place was nearly deserted, as is was when I rode by earlier in the day. I expected them to be more welcoming. Maybe the backpack and guitar transcends even the need for more business, in the decision process of weather or not to be cordial.


I paid 8 bucks for about a half hour on the computer, and bought a beer for 2 bucks. It was "two for one" night and I had another one coming. I logged on and got absolutely nothing done, as the keybourd was made out of rubber of some sort. It was flexible and very unreliable. I typed away, not looking at the screen, as is sometimes my habit. When I did look up, I couldn't even read what I had supposedly just written (at 8 bucks per half hour.)


I was very angry and did not even get my free beer. She not only gave me a cold reception, but was unsympathetic to my anguish over not getting anything done, in a half hour.
This is the view of Camelback Mountain, which I had from my own cave on South Mountain, when I lived in Phoenix, AZ.



"They work, they just take getting used to," she said.

I went to the Gate store and ran into Karrie (coincidentally, though, the coincidences are so frequent now that it seems like it would be a coincidence if I DIDN'T run into her)


I had calmed down a little and decided to return to the cafe and rationally explain that I thought that I had beed ripped off by the rubber keyboard.


I did so, and got the aboveforementioned response, stating basically that I was at fault for not knowing how to work a rubber keyboard. Most of the other (3) people in there were into some sort of online gaming; trying to win money through 'points' aquired in "Texas Hold-Em" types of things, designed for losers.


Luckily, the jukebox came on, with 6 plays still available, and I played Grateful Dead songs, which soothed my soul.




I played "Althea," by the Dead, and "Adam's Apple," by Aerosmith and averted a drunken calamity, such as jumping over the counter and grabbing her by her throat, which I surely would have regretted upon awakening the next morning; probably.


This is San Diego, where I am probably bound for someday, given the weather, and ....the weather.
Where Is Karrie?
I don't know where Karrie is. I gave her some money to go to the store and that was 2 hours ago, and in the murder capital of Florida, no less.
I am about to get the last bus out of here without her. This is not like her. I know her pretty (too) well by now....

We Are "Safe" In Jacksonville

Ok, We are in Jacksonville, where we intend to purchase Greyhound ticket(s) in advance, in order to save money, and to allow us to take a stab at making some money here, before the law becomes wise to us.

We didn't think we could have bought them in St. Augustine, but could have, by handing the driver cash -seems like that would make his job more dangerous.

John no longer is the owner of the Dominos in Ocala, just the manager.

He told me that I would have to put in an application and have my background checked, and then it will be up to 'Andrew,' weather or not there is room for a public urinator on the payroll. John did say that the store is doing well $15,000 per week, and that he would be able to find me odd jobs to help me out, despite Andrew's ruling.

Our dilemna is one of when to book the trip. I am leaning towards playing here for one more week, and, if successful, booking a 7 day advance, which would get us there before March. If very successfull, the bike could be loaded on the bus, for an additional fare. I have struck gold so far, by playing right on the off-ramps to Rt. 95, right where others hold signs like: "Homeless, please help"

Worse case scenario, I book 21 days in advance for just one ticket (Karrie and our "Karrie"-on luggage) and then I ride the bike to Ocala, taking my time and a whole day to do it.I've heard that the Ocala National Forest is a good place to get lost in, and probably has running water at the Welcome Center.

We Look Forward To Being Welcomed To Ocala

We Are Going To Ocala

I woke up with $104.40.

We Are going to Ocala.
I checked the Greyhound site, and there are no tickets sold here in the oldest city in the nation. We will have to go to Jacksonville to get them. This poses logistical problems, ie. how to get the bike there (I will ride it) and, how to spend some time there and profit, while we wait for the 7 day, book in advance discount.
Yesterday, I went right out onto the highway ramp and Rt. 16 and Rt. 95 and played. A cop came by when I was in the median and told me that I couldn't play there. He said that I could play "there," though, over on the other side, and so I did. I made about 35 bucks and then went and sat in hiding to drink a beer. The superbowl was just kicking off, with the singing of "America the Beautiful." It was an alright night, and reaffirmed my belief that playing in St. Augustine is a bunch of B.S. and that one can make more on the road at highway onramps....

The weather seems to be co-operating right now, for such a pilgrimage.

Conversations Kill

I woke up with $1.95

The Perils Of Society
I got out yesterday, and after updating this blog, got to the Visitor's Center spot, to see a fair amount of people. It was about 4pm. There were a couple of vendors, one weaving things out of palm fronds, the other selling jewelery. I had to go to the King Street Pawn Shop to replace a string which I had blown out the night before, playing Santana.
Talk Of Destruction
I was on my guard against being drawn into a long conversation with the pawn shop guy, as, on other occasions, we had talked for an hour's length. He's on the clock, I'm procrastinating. We had talked about vynyl records vs. CDs and the comparitive sound qualities. He specialises in vynal records, and has the place packed with them. I always joke to him "Any Donny Osmond come in on vynyl?" Not a huge collectable, the Osmond discography. He does have a copy of "Going Coconuts" in "the warehouse," if anyone is interested. "Played only once, and not even all the way through, eh?" I joked. I can arrange to have it shipped anywhere worldwide, just e-mail me...
Well, there was a documentary on a TV that someone had pawned and abandoned, and for the next hour (d'oh!) we talked about suitcase nuclear bombs and the Germans who were captured right here on Ponte Vedra Beach, foiling their attempts to sabotage the shipyards of Jacksonville, back in 1944, or so.
Reeled In
Then, I needed a beer, since any second there could occur a blast which would vaporize me, along with the Oldest Wooden Schoolhouse, and it was potentially my last beer. I decided to drink it down by the waterfront. There were a couple of guys fishing. One of them asked for a cigarette. I told him that I would trade one for a fish. Along with wishing that they had a cigarette, they were at that point, wishing that they had a fish. The conversation turned to music. I mentioned The Grateful Dead, and one of them begged me to play some. For the next hour (d' oh!) I played and he did also. He had an interesting style, but he hasn't had a guitar for the past year, and it showed.
"Band, Not Van."
Another guy came along on a bike, to caution the fishermen about the illegality of using "stone crabs" ("that's what we call 'em") as bait.
He told me that I should go to Savannah, Georgia to play on the riverwalk. He said that the original song that I played was just the kind of thing that was needed up there. "People who can write." "Your pretty good, too."
He then said what I thought was "Somebody will probably come along and put you in a van."
That kind of puzzled me, so I asked him if the police rounded up musicians that way.
"I said 'band,' not 'van.'
The Anti Carlos
Then, it was getting late, dark and cold. The Visitor's Center was barren. I went to the flute players spot, where Karrie was milling around, anticipating me and panhandling up a bottle of rum. Then Carlos, a spanish guy who I know from Jacksonville, showed up. He greeted me as an old friend, and then amused (mostly Karrie) and I for about (d' oh!) an hour. He had a radio tuned to Country music. We sipped rum and listened, as tourists walked by with their wallets safely tucked away. Then, determined to make something, I went to Eustus's spot, only to find Eustus on his spot. The place looked dead, and I inwardly wished that he wouldn't make anything, because I had frittered away my opportunities, choosing society over productivity, and had had my first "zero day" in a while...

Jacksonville For Christmas

Today is Thursday, and not Friday, which is good, given the fact that I am getting another horrendously late start on the day, and would hate to be frittering away Friday tips. Rain is threatening. We are officially broke.

I found a dime in the sleeping bag, sparing me from abject poverty.

Last night, I made 2 bucks, again. I am appreciative for anything that I get and wish that there were more people like those 2, who tipped.

I returned to camp with $3.16.

Karrie hadn't made anything. Her willingness to ride all the way to CVS for a 4 pack of beer touched me, and I gave her all of my money. A 4 pack is $3.17, so, I told her that she would have to panhandle the missing penny.

I am at the point where I sit here at the library, instead of going to my spot, out of dread of not making anything. This is the same reason that I don't check my foodcard balance, because of the hopeful ignorant bliss which comes from not knowing for sure just how low it is.

This is a low point. Jacksonville for Christmas seems to be the wise choice. At least that city is not swamped with musicians, making us a kind of novelty; something that people don't see every day, nor, every 5 minutes of every day.

Karrie was up at the crack of dawn, as usual. She went to get hot water and firewood, as usual. She washed clothes and dishes and drank the last of the beer, ditto. Then, we finally left camp and went to the market, where she panhandled enough for another 4 pack.
The Morning Babble
I sat with her in a patch of woods and listened to her recount stories from her past. This time it was the one about her wanting to sue her mother, because her mother is living in a trailor at the top of a mountain in Tennesse, which Karrie rightfully owns, (the trailor, not the mountain) but is afraid to go back to because "They beat me, and make me sleep outside, under the trailor." They are taking and cashing the checks earmarked for her, due to her disability (being burned as an infant, having bones broken during a series of attacks, and sustaining a head injury in one of the car accidents which she was involved in; not the one where her chest was crushed, when she escaped death only because a doctor was on the scene; but another one. I've lost track of the tragedies...)
She apparently gets a check every month, which is commondered by her family, whom has gotten some kind of Power of Attorney and are supposed to be applying the money towards her welfare. But, that's not the way thing's work in Tennessee, I guess.

The Morning Stare
Then she started staring at me.
Like a charmed snake, she will stare at me, as if mesmerized. This only happens after about 6 beers. Her gaze will drift, but will always snap back to me. People really do have a sense of being stared at, and it is not always comfortable. One wants to shout "What!?! Why are you staring at me?" This is just her way of expressing adoration for the second most important thing in her life, behind alcohol, and I just try to cope.

Now, I have procrastinated long enough. If I am going to go and have a miserable day and only make 2 bucks, I might as well get to it.