Their Final Coupe

The End Of Days 
I woke up thinking that this would be my last day in Mobile, unless I decided to come back some day. This would only be the case should I decide that the new place was actually worse than Mobile. *sound of people giggling

I'll Tell You Where You Can Put That Egg!

Plot Hatched Against Me
Then, the city's demons threw everything at me which they could, in a last-ditch attempt to destroy me, while it still had time.
I couldn't go to the Presbyterian to get a hard boiled egg, because I have been barred from there. The barring offence occured a couple mornings ago.

They were handing out slices of bread, scooping out peaches and grits, and of course, dealing hard boiled eggs, that fateful morning.
Standing by the coffee pot was a street person who has somehow found a job, helping out around the church, in exchange for, I don't know what.

He is a tall black guy with a shaved head, and has been there for at least as long as I have been going to The Coffee Club.


He is the guy responsible for telling everyone to leave at a specified time, and the one who wipes down the tables, after they do so. He always seems to be in a rush to get everyone to leave in a timely manner, as if he is pressed for time and must wipe down the tables, put up the chairs, mop the floor and then hurry off to some important engaugement.

Often, I am one of the last stragglers, because I wait for the line of people to finish pushing and shoving and complaining about the bread or the egg that they got for free, before moving to their tables, which they have marked as "their territory" by leaving a hat or some other object sitting upon it. I then walk up casually, get my egg and then sit off in the corner, on a set of steps instead of at a table.
This deprives them the satisfaction of saying "Someone's sitting there," at every spot that I might attempt to sit at. It gives the impression that I am aloof and anti-social; a correct impression, for once, out of their arsenal of them.

So, on this particular morning, the tall black guy with the shaved head was entrusted with the responsibility of handing out a bag of chips to everyone, to complement the egg breakfast, which he did; to everyone except myself. When I got to his station, he pulled the bag of chips back, holding them away from me and stood there looking at me.


I didn't really even want the chips. I mumbled something to the effect of "Oh, you only give them to who you want to, I guess."
I sat down and ate the rest of the breakfast, and as I did, I started thinking about the unfairness of his actions. Before I left, I went to the guy who looked like he could be in charge; the guy spooning out the grits; and complained.

He assumed a demeanor very similar to the guy who wouldn't give me a bag of chips, and basically asked me what I expected him to do about it, claiming to have no authority in the matter, and then diverted his attention, trying to ignore me.
I was hung over, and knew that I was leaving Mobile soon, and so I tried a little experiment.
"I could shoot the guy," I said.
The guy who spoons out the grits suddenly snapped to life and said "What did you say? Get out, and don't come back!"

The bums must have all been inside, getting their eggs
when this picture was taken....

He didn't have the authority to tell the part time worker to please give me a bag of chips, like he did everyone else, but he now had the authority to bar me from The Coffee Club.
I had always had a sneaky suspicion that the motives of The Government Street Presbyterian Church, were not spawned by a love of the homeless, and a willingness to serve them in the name of God, but rather, they probably recieve some kind of tax deduction, or a grant from some agency.
I couldn't resist shaking the bush to see what flew out.


Typical of a lot of "Christians." They wouldn't recognize Jesus Christ if he walked up to them on the street.

So, I didn't go in there for breakfast, obviously.
Their food isn't healthy for me to consume, given the amount of margerine that they use, and the fact that eggs arent' the best things for me, if I'm trying to be the best that I can be. This is another (subconscious) reason that I think I did what I did; to protect myself from myself and keep from going in there.


I went to Save-A-Lot, instead and had some bananas and yogurt and an energy drink.

A bum, whom I haven't seen in a while (since the last time he begged me), asked me for a couple dollars out front.


I told him "I do what I can to help the homeless, but I'm way over budget this month," and walked off.
Why he didn't instead ask any of the people who were getting out of cars and wearing nice clothes for a couple dollars, is beyond me, unless it has to do with the fact that one of them might be an undercover cop and arrest him for panhandling.

Then, it was to the library, to try, once again, to meet Wilma, who had said she might have some clothes and toiletries and even cigarettes to give me. She wasn't there. I guess that was karma coming back to me for refusing the bum his beer money. The bum would say that was exactly what it was.

So, I am faced with the choice of staying over one more day, hoping to get the stuff, or hopping the train to New Orleans.


I then went to Wings Of Life to eat.


They ran out of rice on the guy in front of me in line, and tried to compensate by giving me more beans, which I didn't want to eat. The sermon before the meal was about loving "your neighbor as yourself."

I can't do it right now. I'm sorry, but I hate the guts of half of those people in there. They yell "amen" and "hallelujiah" and then are pieces of crap to everyone around them, the rest of the day. The God I love would overturn the tables and smear them all with rice and beans.

What Did I Do To Warrant This?

I then went to the Federal Building to ask them to remove the warrant, which is still in the computer for the charges which were dismissed against me, a month ago.



I couldn't find a picture, but the building kind of looked like this



It showed up the last time I was harrassed by the local cops.
They put me in the back of their cruiser that time, and stood around making wisecracks and flirting with the women who walked by for 45 minutes, before letting me out, uncuffing me; and with totally changed attitudes, telling me that the warrant was "inactive." They told me that I should do something about removing it from the computer, or I would face the same ordeal anytime or anywhere the cops ran my ID.

At the Federal building, the security woman who "mans" the metal detectors, and who makes a little over minimum wage, and who has job security working for the government was her usual arrogant self.


I told her that I wanted to speak with someone at the Marshall's Office.


She wanted to know "who?."


I told her that I didn't know "who," but was hoping that the Marshall's Office could direct me to the right person to help me with my situation.


She told me that I had to be more specific. Some things are not your business, peon!


Knowing that the warrant was inactive and wanting to see her reaction, I said "I want to ask them to please remove the federal fugitive warrant which is upon me nationwide, so I don't keep getting arrested."


I could visibly see the blood drain from her face.

"I'm going to have to see your ID."
Of course you are going to have to.
Here we go...

She took my ID (the temporary paper one, good for another 6 days) and said "I'll be right back."


She was soon "right back" with another security guy, a white haired guy, (close to that government pension) who was eyeing me with interest.


They got on their radio's and talked to the Marshall's Office. The female officer put her walkie-talkie down on the desk in front of her and then, thinking better of it, moved it to the other end of the desk, out of my reach, as if I might turn it into a weapon against her if I had to make an escape.


I knew that they were thinking: "We don't care if the warrant is in the computer by mistake or not; if it exists, then the Marshalls have to make an arrest and let a judge sort it out." I could see it in their faces. They were practically drooling in anticipation of seeing this smart-assed guitar player led away in cuffs -probably had a smart remark prepared for the moment the cuffs snapped shut, like "Thanks for stopping by, come again! Hee Hee Hee!"


Then, a request came from upstairs for my name, date of birth and social security number. I knew that this was persuant to their check upon me, which would probably yield the same warrant.


In the meantime, the two security people were doing their best to talk about an earthquake and other things, and not try to tip me off that I might be in danger of being arrested right where I stood. I didn't know if the marshalls were whispering "Keep him there, stall him!" or what. I wanted to test them by saying that I was going to step outside and smoke a cigarette, to see if they said "You'd better stay here and wait (in case they come out of the elevator presently. They're pressed for time, very busy, they are...)"

The elevator opened, and out stepped two Marshalls, wearing sidearms and tasers. I recognised one of them from my arrest two months ago.


They played it off just like it was going to be an arrest. "Mr. McKenna," said the one whom I recognised. "Step over this way. Come around the metal detector. Step through this door!"


I walked around the metal detector towards them.


To the security officers: "Does he have all his personal belongings on him?" This to infer that we might be going "somewhere."


The female officer told him that I had all my personal stuff, and the white haired one took advantage of his golden opportunity to make some kind of smart remark, thinking that I was going to jail; something like "But I was only here to get a check!" (which was what I was there to do the previous time, and which he thought was the reimbursement for time spent falsely imprisoned, which people who have high paying jobs get if they are held on a charge which is later dismissed. My days arent worth the same as those kind of people, economically. I was just picking up the balance of my jail account, about 57 bucks, but the white haired guard didn't know, and I kept him in the dark. I think it angered him to think that I had gotten over on the government).


After being led into the foyer, the marshall told me that I had warrants in North Corolina and in Florida. I already knew about them, and knew that those counties wouldn't extridite. That would bring me back into their lives. I knew that he knew too, but he was doing a good job of acting like he was still about to bust me. He was posturing himself as if ready to reach for his handcuffs and tell me to put my hands behind my back.


"There's no federal warrant for you, though." (In a rare show of efficiency, it must have been deleted after it was found to be inactive).


So, on the eve of my third attempted departure from Mobile, it looked like I was going to be shanghied a third time.
I resisted the urge to thumb my nose at the security people as I walked out.

Then, I went to the Licence Commision to check upon my ID which was mailed to my friends and subsequently returned to the Licence Commision. They weren't there. They don't work on Tuesdays. Of course, they don't work on Tuesdays. I wasn't surprised.

Then I made my way past the scowling faces, the lame, disabled hobblers with their canes, the bums staring with somebody please help me looks on their faces, more scowling faces (I even tried forcing a smile, thinking that I might just be getting back what I was putting out, only to see expressions that evinced resentment at seeing me appear to be happy)

And now, I once again decide wheather to stay or go. I still have a backpack and a guitar, but the demons of Mobile are plotting their last coupe...the guitar and backpack would be the icing on the cake...

Saturday Night Nothing Special

Where We Were, 6 Years Before We Were There

Dauphin Island
Yesterday morning, Sunday, I woke up under the trolley which I had slept under, the night before.
I had started to play, Friday night, and, seeing that it was slow, had taken a couple of breaks and sat eating peanuts and drinking beer and listening to the Alabama game on my cheap AM radio.
Eventually, I became groggy and wound up crawling under the trolley which I was leaning back against, and going to sleep.
I had thereby found a new spot to sleep at, which is waterproof, invisible and undiscovered. Still, the ridiculousness of sleeping outdoors is never more apparent than when sleeping in places like that.
The disappointment of having been too tired and having drank myself to sleep, caused me to feel ashamed and guilty when I woke up in the morning. I had gotten a full 8 hours of sleep, at least.
I went to the store and got an energy drink. It was only about 7 am.
I Repent Of My Trolley-Sleeping Ways
I decided that I was going to go to church somewhere, because I had hit "rock bottom" under that trolley, which was parked on a grassy lot, that was not totally ant-free, and I walked down by the Fellowship at 316 Dauphin St.
The Battle Intensifies

They hadn't opened the door yet. There was another guy waiting out fromt for a van to come and take him to "The Cave," which he described as a church which is set up like a bar and "in fact, it used to BE a bar," where there is a rock band, featuring a very good guitarist, and the congregation, made up of "a bunch of old bikers who have found Jesus," sit at bar stools and drink coffee instead of beer. The guy told me that I should definitely check it out sometime.

Upon my soul, I've never seen such bickering!!

Meanwhile, the pastor of The Fellowship had come out, and noting that the van for The Cave hadn't arrived yet, gently prodded us by saying that they were "just about to begin."

While waiting for the Fellowship to open, I had called Jeff, who informed me that he had matters with his family and wouldn't be able to come get me. So, The Fellowship it was for me.

The Fellowship has a big pot of coffee, which I mentioned in a past post. It also has a significant number of homeless people on any given Sunday, who seem to be there for the coffee, and to bum cigarettes off of the people who drink coffee, then step out back for a cigarette.

They are like starving fleas in a house where the family has been on vacation for a while, taking the pets with them, and just returned. (They make "flea bombs," maybe I could market a "homeless bum" bomb and set one off behind The Fellowship every Sunday.)

Clothed In Iniquity

One of the "worshippers" made a comment to the guy sitting next to him, as I walked past, of which I heard only "boots the same way, too." He was looking at my boots. I assumed he was remarking that I had on the same clothes as the previous two days. He had no way of knowing that I had washed them at the church spot and dried them on the vent, one of those nights. I thought that it was uncalled for in a House of Worship to make such a comment, or even to see the relevance of what he meant by it, and especially to say it loud enough to be audible to the person whom he is defaming, as if to direct it at him.

Blacks are prone to do this. I aksed (sic) one intelligent one once, why they are prone to do this. He replied that they are trying to "open the lines of communication."

I suppose the guy in church was giving me a chance to make a rebuttal, whereby I could have assuaged his fear that he was in church with an unsanitary homeless guy, by telling him that yes, I have on the same clothes, but I had washed them, (and then added "What's it to you, n*#&@!!")

Despite this negativity, I manged to come out feeling better, and only had a couple of beers afterwards.
Getting Away From Mobile
Then Jeff met me at the library. His daughter, Erin and son, Jarod joined us in a trip to Dauphin Island. Apparently, Jeff used to live there, and he and his kids hadn't been there in a while.


"Peeping Toms" carry stilts on Dauphin Island



It began to cloud up and lightning was visible as soon as we got to the beach (above) and so we only had a few minutes there. The lightning may have been aimed at me because I had the same clothes on as the day before.

We rode around looking at the sights on Dauphin Island. Every house was on stilts.
The rain stopped, but then started back up in the early morning. I was on the porch spot, as were two other guys, whom John the preacher and I had talked to a bit and determined were pretty nice guys, who wouldn't steal our stuff in the middle of the night.
I was the woke up at about my usual time. Both John and a new guy were still asleep.
I woke them up, and informed them that it was probably time for The Coffee Club.
John was disoriented at first, and looked around for a few seconds at the marble porch in confusion, but soon recalled his immediate purpose (hard-boiled egg and blueberries.) and stood up and quickly packed up his bedding's.
I guess the overcast sky caused them to oversleep in the same way that some natural phenomena cause whales to beach themselves. I might hear higher frequencies than them.
We went en mass to the Presbyterian for our hard boiled eggs and blueberries.
Now, it is Monday. It is still raining, and there is supposedly some kind of tropical system in the area.

$2.79 A Gallon

I woke up around 5 am., and almost went to the labor pool. I went back to sleep, and woke again, in time for The Coffee Club. I only wanted coffee, because I had started Doctor Christopher's 3 day fast and cleanse and mucous-free diet, the night before (Mon.) with the purchase of some prunes and a half gallon of apple juice.

Fiona Apple (right?)

9 am. I could feel the lymph glands in various parts of my body tingling, as they took advantage of a reprieve from the morning eggs and grits and bread, which they had come to brace themselves for on a regular basis.

Doctor's Orders

10 am. I decide to get two energy drinks, though they are not technically part of the fast, in fact, Dr. Christopher (so listen well,) wrote words to the effect of "avoid stimulants" like coffee, while on the juice diet. I think his reasoning is that they will be an irritant.

10:30 I have hidden the apple juice in the graveyard. Also, I have written the previous sentence for the first time ever; since I began to write, at the age of six...I have hidden the apple juice in the graveyard... (what if I just stumbled on a code which will cause flags to pop up on FBI computers!)

Mass Appeal

There is a quart left. I will walk the quarter mile to the Save-A-Lot, and get another half gallon, with my food card. This is my plan. Why must life be so complicated?

Then, I will probably sit somewhere and mess around with the guitar. It will be music for those who only consume apple juice, and it might not have "mass appeal" (excuse pun)

A Dog To Prove It

I am on my fast and cleanse, now, having arrived at it by circumstance.
I just wasn't hungry this morning, and only took coffee at The Coffee Club.
This should help me to overcome the temptations, as I contemplate going to New Orleans.
I soon will walk the two miles to the Winn Dixie, to buy prune juice (the official start of the procedure, according to Dr. Christopher,) and a gallon of apple juice. A gallon per day, it will be, for the next three days.
The past three days have been forgettable, and so, I have gone ahead and forgotten much of them.
I remember that, Friday night, I didn't play at all. I had walked around all day, and had little to drink, and I think that I was dehydrated. I lied down early, and was up several times throughout the night, to refill my water bottle and guzzle it down.
Saturday night, I played, and did relatively well -relative to Mobile- but, as the night wore on, and the partying got more frenzied, and the music poured out of the clubs, and I was on my third Earthquake Lager, I didn't feel like playing any more. There is something missing and/or wrong here, after midnight in Mobile. I can't quantify it, but I hate playing late, when only the young gangsters are milling about. It just isn't fun for me.
I felt that I would have had a hard time finding a spot where it would be quiet enough for me to be heard by anyone who wasn't squatting down in front of me, and I wasn't in the mood to seek tips visually, as in, people throwing me a couple bucks because they SEE me playing and appreciate the fact that I am doing something, or whatever is the logic exercised by people who throw tips, even though they can't hear you.
I guess I have been spoiled by playing in the coffee house, where there is a microphone, and people have their ears tuned to the lyrics and music.
I stood there, on Dauphin Street, looking at the long line of people who seemed willing to wait an hour to get into Club 5' 4." The music spilling out of the front door of the place sounded like the music spilling out of the windows of the cars riding by. I couldn't imagine wanting to "socialize," so badly, in the setting of Club 5' 4," as to be willing to wait in that line so long. I couldn't motivate myself to want to try to play for the people who would ultimately come spilling out of the place. I wasn't feeling it.
So, today; out of money; I embark upon Dr. Christopher"s fast and cleanse and mucous free diet.
A Girl Named Korrie
Last night, I was going into the Exxon, to get an Earthquake Lager, when, a girl approached me and told me that she had heard that I was very good on the guitar, and that she wanted to hear me play "when you feel like it." She was pretty. She seemed pretty drunk. She said that her name was Corey. I am not sure how she spells it, but, by the end of the night, after I had played for her and her friends, lured by Earthquake and cigarettes, I wouldn't have been surprised if she told me that she spelled it "Korrie," as, the similarities between her and a like-named girl became eerie, especially once the Earthquake began flowing, and uncanny, after more cans were consumed.
She invited me to camp with her and her friends, saying that they are like a family out there, and even have a dog to prove it. One of the guys is kind of like her boyfriend, I gathered. They said they have an extra tent set up which no one uses. I declined, and walked back to my spot.
I woke up pretty depressed, even though I had become a hero to Korrie and company, for playing certain songs, like "My Girl," by the Temptations, (or someone...)

On The Rise

84 Cents
(38 hours without an alcoholic beverage)
I woke up this morning with 84 cents, and a sense of moral victory, of sorts.
Last night, after a day without beer, and hardly a cigarette, I sat down and played at my acoustically superior spot. I had walked by the Heroes pub, and there had been a group of people eating outside. There was no audible music. This seemed like an invitation to sit across the way and play, yet, I wanted to warm up and decide upon material first.
After I warmed up, and hadn't seen much foot traffic, and after a vehicle rode by and someone shouted "Guitar man, move up the street," probably an acquaintance, I moved up the street.
Heroes Cafe, or whatever it is called, is the place where the manager came out while myself and a young black man were standing on the sidewalk one night and watching the Celtics game on their large-screen TV. He pointed at us and said: "You need to take "this" either over there, or over there," indicating first across one street and then the adjacent one.
I sensed that the patrons present shared in his mindset, as I played "over there." At one point, I broke a string and heard a females voice say "What happened to the band?" as I had paused to replace it. "You mean the one guy with a guitar?' rejoined another.
It was a guy getting out of his truck who came across the street and put the 84 cents in my case. This was 3 cents short of a beer, which I thought fitting.
I don't think the good Lord wanted me to be tempted by having beer money, and I wasn't surprised after I had only made 84 cents.
To Lie Down With Bums
I went to sleep in Cooper's Park. I wanted to change up my spot, to stay ahead of those, who's business it is to watch everything and every one, and look for patterns. Too many consecutive nights spent in the same spot could draw their ilk to it. At best, they might wake you up to ask for a cigarette, once finding you.
There was a park full of sleepers, almost every bench occupied. I washed up with "the hose," and then slept by the waterfront, away from them all.
99% of the time, if they speak to you, it is because they want whatever they can get from you. This has proven to be a natural fact.
The reason they congregate together, is so that they can share whatever falls into the hands of any one of them. They all wake up sharing in the same predicament of indigence. Then they go out and do it all over again.
When they see me coming, they see a possible cigarette coming. I've accepted this. They are trained to notice a persons equipage, -whatever is written on a tee shirt, is common -and use it as a springboard to launch a conversation, which will eventually circle around to the person (we'll call him the "mark,") being asked for something. In my case, the device is usually my guitar. "Do you play that thing?" ;No, I just carry it around; and "What kind of stuff do you play?" are the two most common things that I hear. This is the inroad to an eventual request for a free cigarette, or spare change. They are careful to avoid "What kind of guitar do you have in there,' as that could be interpreted to be an attempt to assess the value of it, and could make me leery of their motives. The pros avoid this.
I arose around 4:30 am., still away from them, and feeling a few light drops of rain, and moved to my other spot. The Coffee Club was a short walk from there, after my alarm ran at 7:30.
Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic (S.S.O.M.)
I then went out to The Ant Spot and made 3 dollars (and was bitten thrice.) After buying a cigarette for a quarter, and another coffee at McDonalds, I now sit here with $2.59.
I am here to print out some songs, to play tonight at Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic. I am on a mission to redeem myself, next Monday at The Garage, by doing stellar versions of my new originals.
On my way here, I paused at the crossroads, which lead here one way, and to the beer store the other way. I talked myself out of the beer, went around the other corner, and met a young man, who offered me a sandwich, and a cigarette. It was an American Spirit cigarette -all natural tobacco and very expensive...
Now, to get my two songs printed out, and to go practice them. I might try to do that at a playing spot, where money might land in my case as I am honing my craft. Last Wednesday, Serda's took my last dollar in change for my coffee. Tonight, I would like to be able to pay full price for a cup, and show the world that I am indeed on the rise.
I'm trying to get ready, my song about bums.

Some of them, I swear to you, have got no brains at all; they'll
steal your underwear from you; (oh yeah,)...shit stains, and all...
-from "The Bum Song," by Daniel McKenna