9/30/10

I’d clocked just under two hundred miles on the trip from Buffalo to Cleveland. Hardly a long journey, the expedition along Lake Erie had still managed to wipe me out. I slept crazy late into the afternoon (like 2pm late) while Neil studied law at the far end of the room. It was the hunger that finally roused my senses, and there was only one place Neil could think for me to satiate it: Melt Bar and Griddle, an establishment known for its colossal grilled cheeses.

With stomachs sufficiently packed with cheddar we headed to the hart of downtown for the requisite sight seeing. The day was bright and warm and Neil was excited to played tour guide again. We wandered in and out of the public squares, parks, and malls nestled in-between the federal buildings, libraries, and skyscrapers of  the city center. It seemed quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, a testament to the decline of the once vibrant American hub. But it was cleaner and less destitute than Buffalo’d been. After the monuments in Cleveland square and the fountain at the Mall we migrated across Superior Av. to take in The Arcade. Built in the 1880s as one of America’s first indoor shopping center I was met with three hundred feet of four-tiered atrium, gilded and lustrous under an arched glass celling. The top two tiers, as well as the adjacent buildings had been turned into a hotel, but the bottom two were still boutique-laden. My first ‘arcade’ of the trip (I’d run into a few along the way), Cleveland’s would prove to be the benchmark for all future ones - and none would quite live up to its extravagance.

Committed to making it a true lazy day on the road, I supplemented my late start with a quiet night back at Neil’s apartment: T.V, beers, and some Chinese food delivered to the door.

9/29/10

          I caught a ride with Laura when she left for work. On the days she didn’t have class she sat behind the front desk at the Buffalo JCC. Not a member of the tribe herself, we spent the ride discussing the ridiculousness of Jewish tradition.

            “But I don’t get it. Isn’t walking up the stairs more work than taking an elevator?”

            “Of course it is. But that’s not the point.”

            “Then what is?”

            “It’s what their parents did so its what they do.”

            “But wh…”

            “Because their parents did it. And somewhere up the chain someone decided that electricity equaled work. It’s all about keeping the culture separate. God forbid we assimilate and loose our identity. An inquisition? No problem. Hitler? Close, but no cigar.  Carrying money on Shabbos?! Game over.”

            I hustled from the JCC to the greyhound station quick enough to run back out and grab a buffalo bagel for the road. (Note. Buffalo is not known for its bagels.)

            The benches for the 9:40 bus to Columbus Ohio were crowded, but not full. As I plopped my bag down I noticed two elderly ladies politely engaged in conversation with the man sitting next to me. His tattered UCLA sweatshirt and paint-splattered jeans complimented his ginger stubble and British accent. I put him at 28. When an awkward lull in their conversation arouse, Ferran turned to me.

            “Headed to Columbus?”

            “Nope. Cleveland bound. You?”

            “Louisville. What’s in Cleveland?”

            “A friend of mine. How bout you?”

            “Well, it’s the last place I called home I guess. To be honest, I jut got out of prison.”

            “No shit?”

            “Yeah. At midnight last night.  Three months in the Niagara County Jail.”

            “Well damn. Congratulations. How was you’re first night of freedom?”

            “Spectacular. I found a twenty-four hour Walmart and spent the night checking out the ladies.”

            He wasn’t kidding. “What were you in for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

            “Well, unbeknownst to me, I stole a thirty-rack from a gas station three years ago when I was blackout drunk. I guess I got away with it at the time, but I was pulled over a few months back for a busted tail light, and when they ran my license they found a warrant for my arrest. I had no idea what they were talking about, but it went to trial and I was found guilty. So that was that.  What’s the deal with the backpack?”

            “Well…”

            For the next five hours Ferran and I were fast friends. On a bus half empty we became seat-mates. (In retrospect, I should’ve jockeyed harder for that seat across  from the two cute backpacking Dutch girls.) He was born in Liverpool and had moved to the states in his twenties.

            “You go back to Europe much?”

            “All the time. But I’m not allowed in Germany any more.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yeah. A few years back I got spotted blowing up some tractors in the Black Forest. Monkey Wrench Gang type shit. Not that I care so much. I mean, I’m down to save the planet and all, but I was getting paid for this one.”

            “Of course.”

            “So anyways, I got caught. And they were like ‘we can either arrest, you or you can never come back to Germany.’”

            Somewhere around Fredonia he pulled a few miniature ceramic animal figurines out of his backpack and offered me one for safe travels. I took the falcon.

It was about that time that Charity slipped her way into the conversation. She was a skinny dirty-blond of nineteen, sitting across the isle in the row behind us. I’d noticed a double cherry tattoo on the side of her naked abdomen as she frantically taped up cardboard boxes of toiletries and tank-tops on the floor of the bus station.

              Charity was from rural West Virginia and had the twang to prove it. She took great pride in being white trash (her words): loved to shoot squirrels, ride ATVs, and drink copious amount of Corona Light. Fed up with her mom, she’d followed a boyfriend up to Batavia a month earlier. Around the same time Ferran was released, Charity was having a knockdown dragout with her boyfriend. He’d kicked her out of his apartment at seven that morning. Her mom had no idea she was on a bus home.

“I’ve never been to England.”

“I’ll take you. We can stay with my mother. She’ll love you.”

 While buying a bag of chips from the vending machine at the Erie, PA bus stop Ferran walked up behind me.

“I think you and Charity are gonna switch seats for the rest of the ride.”

As rural landscape morphed into suburban sprawl I youtubed The Presidents of The United States of America's version of “Cleveland Rocks." [The sentimental sound-tracking was more powerful two weeks later on the ride into Detroit; the bright orange of an un-obscured setting sun through the blown out windows of Michigan Central Station was as inner city a blues as I'd ever seen]. As I pictured Drew Carry and throngs of his friends gallivanting along spotless downtown streets, Charity’s bags were crowding my feet. Ferran’s tong was decidedly down her throat.

[By way of introduction: I applied to one college: Geneseo – early decision. I got the acceptance letter on my eighteenth birthday, December 15, 2004. Four months later, as my friends started hearing back from schools, my enthusiasm for the choice had waned. Dissuaded, I turned to the internet and began pursuing LiveJournal (a pioneer of social media for which you didn’t need an account to stalk others) for profiles that mentioned my college of choice. I ran across one dude who looked like my kind of cat. His pictures included the funeral of a pet centipede, as well as a group of friends on a broomball team, decked out in makeshift red uniforms with the letters “CCCP” cobbled across their chests in yellow duct tape. I could tell these kids loved each other, and that they were having the time of their lives. I put on the third track of the West Side Story soundtrack and decided that life was going to be all right.

The first weekend of college, a few friends I’d made during orientation and I decided to check out the school’s radio station’s informational meeting. Sitting in the back of a full lecture hall I watched the radio staff introduce themselves – music director, underwriting director, station manager - eight kids total, mostly juniors and seniors, and all clearly friends. Their dynamic was wonderful; their whit quick and their joviality contagious. One of my buddies turned to me:

“This is awesome. We should totally do a show.”

“Yeah man. And those guys seam crazy cool. I kinda wanna be them.”

            That night I experienced my first Radio Party. The kids at the front of the room were even cooler in person. And the radio community at large contained the warmest, happiest, most trustworthy group of cats I’d met in Livingston County. Those early radio parties are still some of the mot cherished memories amongst many of my college friends.

            And soon, I was hanging with the radio upperclassmen on the regular: swinging by their apartments after classes, attending birthday parties, giving toasts at pre-thanksgiving dinners – after a few months I felt as if I’d been friends with them since their freshman year.

            Lying in bed at home after that first semester I thought back to my pre-college anxieties and the subsequent good times. With a sudden realization I darted up and ran to the computer. Pulling up that same livejournal page, I laughed out loud. Those kids playing broomball, mourning their long lost centipede? I knew all of them. Fuckin’ radio kids.

            Turns out I met Neil a good five months before I actually met Neil.]

            “Welcome to Cleveland dude. So what do ya wanna do?” he asked as I tossed my bag in the trunk of his car.

            “I don’t know. What’ve ya got?”

            “There’s the Rock Hall of course. Have you been?”

            “Yeah actually, when I was here a few years ago with family. It was cool, but if memory serves, it wasn’t quite all that. Think its worth going again?”
            “Eh. If you’ve seen it, you’ve seen it. And its crazy expensive.”

            “Yeah. Totally don’t need to go again. So what else is there?”

            “Well, I’ve got some shit to do in a few hours, so why don’t we just drive around for a while so you can get a sense of the town.” 
            Driving through Cleveland felt bizarrely like driving through Syracuse. The scale was larger, but the views afforded from an elevated I-90 were remarkably  similar. Neil pointed out the Jake and Browns Stadium while informing me that Key Tower was the tallest building between New York and Chicago. I was particularly awed by the Lorain–Carnegie Bridge. The truss was flanked by two epic art-deco statues on each end: the "Guardians of Traffic." So mighty and mammoth were they, I could've sworn we were passing through The Gates of Argonath. 

           
           Neil had a studio in a condo complex on the outskirts of Cleveland and spent most of his time in the law libraries of Case Western Reserve. Staying with him felt more of an imposition than other places; a studio apartment meant tight quarters and an intense lack of privacy. Setting up the air mattress in the middle of his one room I was taken back to the early days of Geneseo. The life size posters of football players and flags of Italian city-states that adorned the walls brought me back to living rooms past.

            “You’ll be proud of me” he said, “I’m on the board of Case Western Law Students for Social Justice.”

            “Yeah? That’s awesome.”

            “It is. We’ve actually got a few events this week for our awareness campaign on child sex trafficking. We’re showing a movie and then facilitating a discussion this evening, and then there’s a ‘walk to end child trafficking’ this weekend.”

            “What’s the movie?”

            “It’s called Holly. It’s a drama about a Cambodian sex slave. I think Ron Livingston's in it. Good film. And there'll be free pizza. You down?”

            “Totally.”

            We got there early to help set up the law lounge, Neil introducing me to his colleagues as we swung around chairs and un-wrapped paper plates. The turnout was descent with around half a dozen students in attendance on-top of many members of the group. The movie and discussion that followed were high quality. The pizza slightly less so.

            We stayed late to help clean up the law lounge, me schmoozing with Neil’s colleagues as we straightened tables and tossed empty pizza boxes. When all was copasetic we headed out, dropping a few of Neil’s friends off at their houses on our way home.

            “So how long are ya in Cleveland for?” one of them asked.

            “I’ll probably be around for three or four days. I think my next stop is Oberlin where my sister’s in school, but I haven’t nailed anything down yet.”

            “Well, if you’re around Saturday, you should totally come to the ‘Stop Child Trafficking Now’ walk. It should be fun.”

            “If I’m around, I’ll be there.”

9/28/10

           The rain had continued through the night and I was in no rush to leave the warmth of Katie’s apartment. She’d left early for class, and I took full advantage of the fridge, television, and shower at my disposal. I hadn’t managed to pick up a thank you gift during my adventures the day before, so I figured a note and a kitchen rid of dirty dishes would suffice. By the early afternoon I’d re-folded the futon and was on my way.

            I was to meet Laura at one of her favorite Buffalo diner spots. It was a modest walk from Katie’s apartment, made more dreary (and adventurous) by the drizzle. I hadn’t recognized the name when she’d texted it to me, but as I approached the restaurant I realized it was the same place Dan had taken me three days before. And Laura was siting at the same booth no less. A man of routine, I ordered the same quesadilla.

            Laura was one of those girls I’d noted early in my undergrad tenure, but didn’t get to know till senior year. By the time a mid-ranged flirtation rolled around we were days away from graduation. Too little too late too bad. She was now in year two of a masters in history at UB. I showed her the text messages regarding the potential ride to Cleveland.

            “And you’re still thinking about taking him up on it?”

            “I admit, it’s a little sketchy…”

            “A little?!”
            “Okay. Clearly a total creepster. But how bad could it be?”
            “I mean if you’re into murder and rape and all.”

            “Look, I haven’t even talked to the guy yet. If it doesn’t work out I’ll take a bus is all.”

            She glanced at her watch.

            “I should be heading out in a minute. Let me drive you to north campus. If this dude doesn’t get back to ya you’re crashing by me.”

            “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”
            “It’s totally cool. We’ve got a futon in the living room.”

            “Won’t your roommate mind?”

            “I’ll text her, but Sarah will be cool with it.”

            The trip, east of Toledo, could’ve been mistaken for a college tour of the north east: Geneseo under my belt, Case Western and Oberlin on the horizon, and now the larger half of the University at Buffalo. While my brief foray into UB’s south campus the day before had felt college, north campus was definitively university; the scope and movement grander, the buildings more cement and less cloister. I found the student union and watched the students, a stew of ages and races, and was reminded once again how fucking vanilla Geneseo could be. As the clock ran down I meandered my way back to where Laura had class. Finding some hallway benches, I dialed and re-dialed sketchnumber.

            It was six o’clock when my phone rang.

“Hi. I’m interested in the ride to Cleveland you posted on Craigslist. I texted you last night. Do you know when you’re leaving?”

            Three seconds of heavy breathing were followed by a deep, gravelly voice. It sounded as if the person on the other end had his eyes closed, trying to picture me.  “Yeah….I’m not sure…..when I’m leaving………Where are you?”  It was out of a fucking horror flick. Scary Movie XI: RoadTrip USA. You couldn’t cast a more perfect rapist’s voice: ten words over a cellphone and I already felt violated.
            I was so flustered I didn’t know how to handle my shit. I think I squeaked out an “actually I think I’m all set thanks” before hastily ending the call.

            [And there it was; the second time my expectations for the ease of the rideshare were dashed (the first being the severe lack of postings from NYC to ROC the three weeks prior to my departure). In the end, I’d find myself hitch-hiking before successfully finding a ride through craigslist. But when I finally found one (somewhere outside Eureka, California) I’d practically fall in love with the girl behind the wheel.]

            So that was that. One more night in New York State. I texted Neil: “Doesn’t look like that ride’s gonna work out. Think ya can pick me up from a bus station tomorrow afternoon?”

            “Yep” he buzzed back.

            Laura’s apartment was small, and clearly inhabited by two women in grad school. With textbooks on the coffee table and Glee on the television set, an hour of Britney Spears covers was made bearable by beers and banter. The futon was uncomfortable, but at least I was safe.

9/27/10

I woke up again to an empty house, and, forgoing the stocked fridge at my

disposal, decided to go out for some food. This proved a bit of a challenge (car-less in suburbia) but the day was brisk and bright, and a nice long walk did  me good. Eventually I found myself a strip mall and, after grabbed a burrito, swung by Home Despot to buy some thank-you style potted flowers for the host mother (the gift goes to the most imposed upon. Sorry Dan.)

I locked the door behind me, and for the first time, I strapped up. Strapping on a backpack is quite different than putting one on. The first step of the former is the only step of the latter, namely sliding one’s arms through shoulder straps. The second step is counter intuitive – not tightening those straps, but rather lightly bouncing the pack up as you clasp and tighten the waste belt. Then comes the shoulder straps, and finally the  chest clasp. But there’s more to strapping up than the mechanics; there’s a mental part too. A visceral exhilaration of being in it for the long hall; a feeling of bulk and strength and freedom; an acknowledgement that, while I may be slower and more uncomfortable then the unburdened jogger, I am far more prepared. This wasn’t the moment the road-trip really started - that was still weeks away. But it was the first time I was on my own: no friends or family to drive me to the next spot, no real plan. Just the knowledge that I was to meet up with Katie later that evening, and that Google promised me there were busses from Tonawanda to downtown Buffalo. I wasn’t overly excited, nor was I giddy with adventure. But a boy never forgets the first time he straps.
With eyes alert I managed to spot a mundane NFTA-METRO sign not five blocks away, and glancing around, noticed the sky had turned grey and heavy with rain. As the minutes ticked my nerves grew. Thankfully, bus doors opened before skies did.

I spent most of the ride studying my phonemap, tracing the path of the bus and figuring out where to go and what to do. Bout half way through the ride a conversation caught my ear: two women, one middle aged and big and black, the other younger and smaller and whiter, both boasting badges of some youth  empowerment organization.
            “You think people will actually show up to the speak out?”
            “Who knows, but I hope so. The kids have been working there asses off.”

           For a brief moment I was sixteen again, in the SCAM offices on Mass Av, discussing the possibility of getting a permit on the commons for the spring rally. I smiled. Yes, I was still in the liberal bastion of the North East, but it was nice to know that the banner of progressive youth was being passed down.

            I decided to head to the University at Buffalo's south campus, the smaller and more centrally located of the two. I’d find me a place to sit for a while, make a plan, something – I still had six hours until Katie was free.

            I got off at University Station and, moving quickly so as not to get drenched, found the Health Sciences library and a comfy chair in a study area on the first floor. With four feet of backpack by my side and my already dying phone plugged into a wall, I pulled out my book and drifted between reading, scouring CraigsList for rides out of town,  and people-watching. During one of the fiction interludes I noticed a particularly cute girl walking away from me. Her jeans were deep blue and her long hair a soft red, with the edges pinned up and draped back in a light elegance. A minute after she drifted into the next room I thought “Damn, I bet that was Katie.”

It was.

            “Isaac! The fuck?!”

            “I know! Out of all the gin joints.”

            “No Shit. What are you doing here??”

            “Just came from Dan’s in Tonawanda and found myself a nice dry spot to park until yer free. You’re not free, right?”

            “Unfortunately not. I’ve got class in twenty. Want my key? My apartment’s a lot more comfortable than the library.”

            “Are you close?”

            “Not really. You can borrow the car if you wanna pic…”

            I cut her off. “No, no. I’ll find myself something to do. I’ve gotta get used to this doing-shit-on-the fly thang. 9 o’clock, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Cool. I’ll give ya a ring then.”

            Twenty minutes later my phone was charged and my mind read-out. I tapped up my map. Low and behold, Buffalo had a subway. Okay, not really a subway, but a one-line straight shot fifteen stop metro rail that connected downtown Buffalo to, well, the outskirts of downtown Buffalo. Turns out the terminal station was 'University.' I dipped into a computer lab and went up to the student at the help desk.

“Excuse me. What time does the library close?”

            “We're open until midnight tonight.”

            “Excellent. I’ve got a bizarre request. Think I could toss my backpack behind your desk for a few hours? I’ll be back by nine.”

            “Sure man, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

            The wait was short and the train was small: like Boston’s T but narrower. I hopped off in what looked like the heart of old downtown, grabbed a sandwich, and found myself in Lafayette Square. [We insist on calling them freedom fries, but help us win one fucking war for independence and we name streets upon counties after ya.]

            The square was a bizarre amalgamation of beauty and unpleasantness. Half-century old buildings with facades of grandeur offset by homelessness and withering Doritos bags. With an eye forever on structure I had a plethora of unique ones to study. In the center of the square stood an 85 foot monument of granite, guns, soldiers, and sailors, saluting proudly under the clouded watch of the Liberty Building (which boasted not one but two replicas of the lady herself, each on her own two story tiered pedestal). Around the corner, a white, almost cathedral like building which sparkled in the drizzle. And finally, down Court Street, city hall.

            I was always a sucker for art deco. Some of my earliest memories involve glimpses of the crown of the Chrysler Building as the potholes on the FDR Drive bounced my eyelids open (the Phoenician sandstone etchings and bronze trim of my grandparents lobby hitting me moments later). It was the symmetry that got me.

            And thus, Buffalo city hall was heaven. Tier after tier, depression over depression, dome crowning dome. Painted indentations reminiscent of Iroquois tapestry added an element of color and pattern I’d never noted in the style before. I walked up the steps to peer inside the lobby. As nose touched glass, a woman exited the door next to me and held it open. I didn’t notice, but it must have locked behind me. The lobby was as spectacular as the façade, murals with titals like "Frontiers Unfettered By Any Frowning Fortress" and "Construction Education Protection Charity." Walls imbedded with woodwork inlays of American Walnut. I read every plaque I could find. And then I began to wander.

            The building was totally, soullessly empty, eerie and beautiful. I wandered up staircases and into janitorial closets to peer out at unimpressive grey views of the city. I found a legislative chamber with a magnificent sun-motiefed stained glass ceiling and managed to resist the temptation to sit in the speakers chair. But within the hour the silent grandeur began to feel spectral, and the realization that iI might be doing something illicit forced me to the street.

            The evening had turned the rain cold, and the Buffalo Library (with it's spotless plate glass front wall) was closing in five. So I zipped up tight and wandered the city, hugging the rail line back towards north campus.

            Cabaret was the name of the restaurant, and it was the hope of entertainment that drew me in. It was a classy joint, a short walk but far cry from the Chippowa bars. Still full from the sandwich, I got an Irish Coffee to warm my chilled toes.

            Katie picked me up from the train stop on south campus. Her apartment was small but lovely. Colorful ceramic cereal bowels lined the kitchen shelves and pebbles were clustered around the drain of the bathroom sink, filtering the water as it made its way to Broderick Island.

            My phone buzzed with a text message from an un-labeled number: ‘How old are you?’

            “Katie, check this out.”

            “Wow. That’s kind of strange. Do you know who it is?” she asked as I sent back a six word response.

            “I think so? I emailed someone earlier about a craigslist ride to Cleveland. The ad was in all caps, had no punctuation.”

            “Yikes. Sounds pretty sketch."
            "Yeah."
             "So I need to apologize: I can’t be too entertaining tonight. I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.”

            “Not a problem.”

            “Do you listen to Radiolab? It’s my go-to study podcast.”

            “I do. Do you drink whisky?” I asked slyly, taking the small bottle out of my backpack.

            “Ha! You know I do, but not tonight I’m afraid.”

            “I feel ya.”

Finding a deck of cards on the coffee table I dealt myself a hand of solitaire, poured myself a nip, and let the supple banter of Krulwich and Abumrad render me heavy-eyed. By the time I fell asleep, the potential ride had asked me about my sex, race, and marital status.

9/26/10

            A good shower is a great thing. I’m not usually one to promote the wonders of impeccable hygiene - in fact, the number of times per-week I’d partake in such pleasures would make some cringe. [The distain for the inconveniences of cleanliness flowed deep. With ten pairs of socks & underwear in the backpack, I managed to go washingmachineless until Chicago. That’s not to say a few sink-and-soap sessions weren’t employed, but still…] Sometimes it’s the circumstances that make the shower: the excessively grimy night, the sore feet after hours of museum, the day stuck in downpour. Sometimes it’s the shower itself: shiny, clean, and new. Fixtures hitting from different angles. Precise heat adjustment. And most importantly, brilliant pressure.

            The main bathroom in Dan’s house had recently been redone, and it was the latter that started my Sunday off right.

            Some (like Dan’s mother) avoid hell by spending Sundays in church. But any true American knows the Lord’s Day is much holier than that. Church is nice and all, but there’s no way that eternal salvation is worth missing an afternoon of football and wings. Especially when yer a Boston Boy in Buffalo, the ralph is hosting the pats, and duff’s famous wings  are just a hispanic delivery boy away. Setting up shop in Dan’s living room and pulling up the menu on my spacephone, I ordered a pound of Wings (half hot, half honey garlic. Oy! Was I thirsty!) and watched my boys take the bills.

            [The effect sport can have on emotion never ceased to amaze me. At times (mostly when I don’t understand the sport) I’ve been sympathetic to the argument that its all stupid and bullshit. So much time and energy and money spent on meaningless, often violent nonsense. But the flip-side is just as compelling: a state of order and rules in a world of chaos - war with on death or “real” consequences.

            I was one of those bullshit sports-fans, only getting pulled in during fair weather and playoffs. But the way familiarity could comfort astounded me. In the spring of 2008 I was stranded by friends, left alone for five days in Morocco. Encased by the unfamiliar and having taken on much of my friends’ anxieties, I was utterly torn as to how to proceed. Alone, at night, in my hotel room was the first time I’d ever felt real, intense, true, palpable loneliness. Near tears, I turned on the tv and rolled myself a cigarette (the only time I’ve ever smoked one of those straight). As I opened my window and struck a match, CNN International reported the Red Sox had beaten the Yankees in the season opener. Had I been home, I would have muttered a “fuck yea” under my breath before changing the channel. But in such an alien state, I found myself quite literally fist-pumping for joy. That piece of tangible evidence; the reminder that there were things in this world I could relate to; the fact that I had a home, and that that home team won, was far sweeter than the Moroccan hash I had yet to smoke.]

            Continuing with the sports theme, we spent the rest of the afternoon shooting hoops and tossing a pig-skin in the street (getting a little high first, of course. Sensing a pattern here?).

            “Yo. I gotta do that insurance thing in a little bit. Wanna come for a ride?”

            “Sure.”

            “Are you rolling out tomorrow?”
            “Yeah. Crashing at Katie’s, and then head to Cleveland on Tuesday”

            “Word.”

            The “insurance thing” was officially Teresa’s gig, but she’d passed the work to Dan since he was closer to this one and could use the money. We hoped in the car and headed north towards Leweston. Typical commercial suburbia transformed into scenic ruralburbia (© Isaac Silver, 2012). It was the type of area I associated with red-state America: between forty-five minutes and three hours outside an urban center, a yard bigger than a lawn but smaller than a meadow, single-story modest and pretty homes, boasting American flags.

We found the house we were looking for just a few yards after a strong bend in the road. Seeing a toppled mailbox splintered at the post we sensed we were in the right spot. We parked across the street and walked up the long stone path to the house. Before we could ring the bell, a finalist for the Sophia Petrillo look-a-like contest opened the door.

            “You boys must be the Insurance people.”

            “Not quite. We’re from an associated firm, here to get your statement and document the incident. An official insurance agent will give you a call in a few days.”

            “Very well then. Let me show you what happened”

            She walkered her way down to the curb.

            “You have a lovely home” said Dan, noting the expansive back yard and the deep red brick of the house. “That rounded part, with all those bay windows: is that a living room?

            “It is! And thank you. My late husband designed the entire property, he was an architect.”

            As we reached the street she described how the car, having taken the curve too fast, careened off the road and onto her property, pointing out the skid-marks on the lawn, a dent in the telephone-pole, the downed mail-box. Dan snapped some pictures and scribbled some notes.

            “No one was hurt, correct? Just property damage?”

            “Thank heavens yes” she chirped.

           
              The sky gleamed brilliant pink and deep red as we road the Niagara Throughway towards Grand Island (“it’s that Buffalo smog homes. Same reason the Valley lights up like she do”). As we passed signs for the Falls I contemplated a suggestion: “Yo. Slight detour? Get a whiff of that famous borderline mist?” I’m sure Dannie would have obliged. But it was such old hat for him, and I’d been a few times before, and we were running a tad late on picking up Tim from their dad’s house. So I kept my mouth shut and stared at the sky.  In retrospect I should’ve talked -  would have been a brilliant five minutes.

            It was cool meeting Dan’s father. Gave me some insight into why Dan was who he was, especially after having met his moms.

            Back in Tonawanda with nothing much going on, we spent the evening back at Venessa’s: an indistinguishable experience from the night before.

9/25/10

           I woke up to an empty house and helped myself to the box of donuts and pot of coffee I found siting in the kitchen. Being the looser I was, late Saturday mornings equated themselves wholeheartedly with Wait,Wait…Don’t Tell Me, so I busted out the spacephone and tapped up the NPR app.

            By mid afternoon Dan was back from work.

            “I’m looking for some authentic Buffalo shit. What’ve you got for me?”

            “Ever been to Broderick Park?”

            In the middle of the Niagara river, less than twelve miles upstream of the falls, sat a small island. The bulk of the landmass housed a water treatment facility, but at the northern tip lay a quaint city park. Connected to mainland Buffalo by a small footbridge on the east, the fast moving waters off it’s western edge belonged to Ontario. Taking in foliage and fresh river air, Dan and I walked around and bullshat - watching kids play on the swings and petting dogs as they passed by. In a quiet corner right close to the water sat an old stone foundation and the remnants of a few walls and a stairway, once part of some twentieth century cement structure. The ruins were a local tagging mecca of sorts, and Dan showed me some of his favorite pieces. A little more strolling, and it was back across the footbridge to the car.

            After a quick stop at a pizza joint, Dan dropped me off at his place and continued on to job number two. Borrowing his laptop, I caught up on a backlog of Daily Show episodes, and proceeded to lie down for a nap.

[Despite being on an overt adventure, I refused to give up my pension for sleep. No matter how exciting or novel my location, I had zero problem slumbering ‘til two pm, eating some breakfast, and heading back down for a much deserved siesta. Some call me a slacker, others lethargic. Really I’m just a lover of dreams. (And a bit of a slacker.)]

            The evening took us to our second seemingly-abandoned warehouse in just as many nights - this time in a less desolate part of town. Walking up the stairs I was struck by the odd mix-useedness of the building: a punk band rehearsing in a recording studio, the offices of Local 10 (the Buffalo chapter of the Stagehands’ union I was destined to join), and finally our destination, Verve Dance Studios, for their monthly youth break-dancing competition.

            The crowd at the throwdown was just as eclectic as the building itself: a refreshing mixture of races and ages, especially after the vanillocity  of Geneseo. The cap for the competition itself was eighteen, but the kids had it down. With a DJ spinning, two competitors would face off, trading routines. Applause determined whom moved on to the next round. The space was packed with flirting teenagers and parents buying their kids lids done up by the aerosol-artist in the corner. We posted up with one of Dan’s friends and her adorable five year old.

            After an hour or so of increasingly fly moves, a winner was declared. The crowd petered out and we moved on. By the time we arrived, Pearl Street was bumpin: three floors, various bars and dining areas, maybe even a dance-floor or two. A few other Geneseo cats were already there waiting for our hang. We found em in a quiet corner shooting pool and sipping Street Brawler Stouts.

Not wanting to spend bank on brewhouse food, Dannie and I ran around the block for a slice. I busted out spliff number two of my road-stockpile in preparation for the modest feast ahead. Before we finished our slices we got a call from the crew. We were moving on to Chippowa.

There are hot sick messes. And then there are shitshows. And then there’s West Chippowa Street at midnight on a Saturday: a five block stretch in the heart of downtown Buffalo with shitty club after shitty bar after shitty club. The throngs of duchbags knew no bounds, as if the strip had been cordoned off for some disgraceful parade of Labatt-light-loving twenty-four-year-old post-econ-majors. We entered a bar called OMEGA. I rolled my eyes. With a beer in hand we stepped out onto the patio. Dan, running off the high of the breakdancing competition (and the high of the weed no doubt) broke out his fluid moves to the crap music bumping our ears. The ladies were impressed.

Running off the same high (as well as a light drunk and my pension for subversion and naiveté) I set my Blue Moon aside and stepped to the police officer posting guard outside the bar. He was standing, arms folded, board as shit.

“Excuse me officer. What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

I looked down the street. There were at least three cops per block as far as the eye could see, with squad cars parked every thirty yards.

“The police presence. I can’t remember the last time I saw a force out like this. Something’s gotta be going down.”

“Nope.”

“You mean this is standard fair for a Saturday night??”

“Yep.”

“Holy crap! The fuck you guys looking for?!”

“Looking to make money.”

It took me a few seconds for it to sink in.

“Wowwww. That’s absurd.”

He let out a monosyllabic laugh. “Yeah, well...that’s the way it goes.”

“I guess so. Well, thanks for your time.”

“No problem” he said, accepting the departing low-five I offered.

The rest of the posse was only slightly more tolerant of the scene than I, and with my encouragement we were shortly headed out.  After a few daps to departing friends, Dan and I made our way back to the car. As we pulled into his driveway, he noticed the lights still on in the neighbor’s house. I was informed that Vanessa and Mary were pretty cool cats who’d been in town just a few months, and as the night was still young (2am) we decided to see what they were up to. It wasn’t anything too exciting, but we hung for half an hour, making snarky comments at reality TV shows and finishing off the half-smoked bowl sitting on the coffee table.

9/24/10

              My alarm went off at ten fifteen. After a quick shower I packed up my bag: a feat that involved little more than shoving the one item dirty enough to be deemed laundry into the backpack’s bottom pouch. I put the thank-you bottle of gin I’d bought Sarcophagus on her night-stand, deciding that thank-you gifts were best left in secret and upon departure (a practice I habited across the country. It made me feel subversive and menchlidich at the same time.) I poured myself a cup of coffee and took my book onto the porch, letting the late morning sun ripple onto the pages as I waited for Teresa’s call.

“Yo! I’m on Main Street. Where ya at?”

“Orchard. I can be in front of The Statesman in a minute.”

“Word. I’ll drive down.”
            I washed out my mug, hoisted up the backpack, and walked down the block to the corner bar and the car that was waiting for me.

I’d met Teresa junior year when she returned from a study-abroad program as a close friend of my housemates’.  By senior year she was a staple of all-night living room paper writing sessions, as well as all-night bowl-and-Jamison sessions (which for her were more or less one in the same).
            The ride to Buffalo was nothing too special. Teresa played a CD of some of our friend’s music I hadn’t heard before. And she talked. And talked. And talked. It’d been a while since I’d seen her, and it was nice to be back.

We drove straight to the organic food store where Dan worked, finding him munching on some grilled tofu in a white apron behind the deli counter.

Dan was one of my earliest and closest college friends. (Introduced himself to me as a devout KRS One fan after I had spit “Can I Kick It” at a karaoke session way the fuck back at orientation. With our powers combined we formed 2/3-2/5 of the famed Thirsty Shrew Krewe - two hours of illicit, un-edited hip-hop, Thursdays 10-midnight. Be sure to tune in round 11:30 to hear my “brilliant” beat-boxing skills and the other boys rhymes, ‘cause we’re putting it on wax with The RatTail Special.) Dan was a man of brilliance: incredibly patient, quite smart, somewhat apathetic, and intensely committed to not getting his shit together ever. He gave me an epic hug.

When Dannie’s shift was over, the three of us headed to Amy’s Place, one of Dan’s favorite diner spots. There was some schmoozing with the wait-staff (whom he knew), and a delicious quesadilla. A flyer by the door caught my eye - a sketch of a suffragette-era woman holding a flowing “Strike!” banner. Upon closer inspection: “The Subversive Theatre Collective presents The Furies of Mother Jones. Musical accompaniment by The Erie Lackawanna Railroad Band. Thursdays-Sundays 9/24-10/9 @ 9pm. 255 Great Arrow Avenue.”

            “Yo Dan. You know this place?”

            “Nah. What is it?”

            “I have no idea, but it sounds fuckin’ sweet. Mother Jones was the ill turn of the century labor organizer. We should check it out.”

            “I’m in. Teresa?”

            “Did I hear the words ill labor organizer’? ‘Cause fuck yes.”

            We took down the address and drove to Dan’s house to hang until show time.

            Tonawanda was the reason I hated America. Well, not Tonawanda per-se, but the extent to which Tonawanda, NY was utterly indistinguishable from Elyria, OH. The same stretch of highway with the same Burger King next to the same Home Depot between the same independently-owned Jacuzzi show room. The first time I’d visited Dan I was struck by how much his neighborhood resembled the opening sequence of the first season of Weeds.

            Dan’s older brother Tim greeted the three of us with great big hugs. I didn’t know him well, but would’ve expect no less from an extra-chromosomed individual such as himself. I set up camp in Dan’s sister’s old room, and we spent the afternoon coolin’ around the house. A few hours in, one of Dan’s neighbors rolled through, a childhood friend whom I’d never met. Mike was a beefy kid who’s favorite topics of conversation appeared to be vitamin supplements and whey protein shakes. Late in the afternoon Dan’s mother poked her head out of her perpetual daytime TV.

“Michael, I saw you in the driveway the other day. Don’t talk back to your mother like that.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

            I was not in Kansas any more. It was the first (and practically last) time I’d see Dan’s mother. A nice enough lady from the little I experienced, she was the principal of the Catholic school Dan had attended. It was her conviction in the Lord that forced Teresa to sleep on the couch in the living room whenever she crashed at the house. At twenty-three years old we still had to smoke our bowls illicitly, in a darkened car across the street, tiptoeing back into the house so as not to awake the disapproving eye. It felt like I was in high school, and it made me laugh.

            At eight o’clock Dan, Teresa and I piled into the car and GPSed our way to the play. The neighborhoods got sketchier and sketchier as we followed the blue line on my spacephone.

            “Are you sure this is the place?”

            “According to google it is.”

            We were in some sort of decrepit industrial district (in Buffalo? Not a chance), staring at a seemingly abandoned warehouse. But it had the right number and was on the right street, so we hesitantly approached the entrance and made our way up the dimly lit stairway.

            The double doors on the third level opened onto a surprisingly buffed and bright floor. To our left was a long hallway of studio and gallery spaces, and directly in-front of us stood a poster-sized version of the flyer I’d seen earlier. Glancing around a group of people sipping wine out of plastic cups, I caught a glimpse inside a  blackbox. The set was sparse, but I dug it.  We approached the betableclothed ticket table.

            “Three please.”

            “Did you guys pre-order?”

            “Shit. No.  You sold out?”

            “Yep. All weekend unfortunately. If you wanna hang out for a while, I can put you on our standby list…”

            We popped our names down, perused the program (the show looked small and inspired and righteous) and peered into a few of the galleries. As the theater doors shut we were informed they were full-up, and we slunk back to the car in defeat.

            “Well that sucks.”

            “Yeah, it looked real cool. Maybe we’ll check it out next weekend.”

“If I’m still around. So now what. Find a bar, grab a drink?”

            “I guess we could. Doesn’t look like there’s much around here. You know what? Fuck it dude, lets go bowling.”

“Nice! I haven’t been since last time I visited. It’ll be like my Buffalo tradition.”

            “Word. We should call Kyle and Tom, they might want in.”

            I knew both kids vaguely – friends of Dan’s from high-school. Kyle had thrown a couple of impressionable parties during the college years, and Tom seemed to be perpetually in-between tours of Iraq. We picked up the boys, drove to the lanes, got high in the parking lot, and knocked down some pins. As game two wound down and rental shoes were being slipped off, Dan handed me a few of our emptied pint glasses.

            “Here. Take these.”

            I was a bit confused, but grabbed them and walked to the bar. When I turned back, the crew was nowhere to be found. I looked around the alley, went to the bathroom, and headed outside. The car was idling by the curb.

            “Quick! Get in!”

            “Where the fuck did you guys go?”

            The car pealed away.

            “Where are the beer glasses?”

            “Wait. You wanted me to jack ‘em?? Did we just steel two games of bowling???”

            “Yeah man.”

            “Really? We can’t afford $12 and a few beers?”

            “Look. Fuck those guys.”

            I felt lame, but I didn’t push it.
           We got back to Dan’s place around eleven, busted out a Nerf football, and played catch in the middle of the street, encased by the silence of midnight suburbia.