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.