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.