potheadreturns2

Ok well this is really long to be reading on this type of site, so read at your own discretion, and remember it's not yet finished.

1
I got on the Troost Avenue bus stop around seven P.M. With me I had a gray sweatshirt and a pair of pants, stuffed into my newly purchased single-strap backpack. Also, I had brought along my toothbrush, and stolen my dad’s sole supply of AIM whitening toothpaste. I knew he’d care, but I didn’t. I’d be damned if I were going to have bad breath on my venture. In my pocket I had a large kitchen knife, with plastic handle, and 400 dollars in cash. I brought the knife along because of the areas I would soon be in, for I knew I might face danger at any turn. I was taking the greyhound to Texas City. My friend Jared Moble, whom I met on the net, was currently living there. I had just quit my job at a local fast food restaurant, and was fed up with Kansas City. As an alibi, I told my dad I would be spending the night at my friend Jamey’s house, and would not be arriving home until late the next day.
My father’s work schedule was complicated enough to allow me to pull something like this off. He went to his first job at nine in the morning, usually got home around five, took a shower and went to bed until around one in the morning, when he woke up and went to his second job until around eight. By leaving at 7:45, my calculations suggested my dad wouldn’t know anything was wrong until 1 A.M. two days from then.

I inserted my wrinkly dollar bill into the machine, and got my transfer and quickly made my way to the back. I was very high. I had gotten hold of some K.B. while making preparations for my trip, and had rolled four joints out of it and smoked half of one. My heart was racing incredibly fast. I was unable to control it as I sat down in the very last seat of the bus. I was very relieved too finally be sitting, knowing I was on the first leg of my journey. I was also very tired. Not getting much sleep due to chronic insomnia, undiagnosed of course, really took a toll on me. It had gotten to me bad the night before, however. Every minute of the night was a new position, every position a new frustration.
I was scared. I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do when I got into town, or even where I was going to sleep. I knew I couldn’t care though.
Every new passenger made my heart jump. Each one that got on looked at me, I could swear. Suspiciously. Hatefully. I was white, an easy target. That’s why I brought the knife. I knew I couldn’t be too safe. A large black man got on the bus, and was making his way down the walkway, when he suddenly glanced at me, and stopped. He quickly turned around and walked back up to the front to sit down and chat with the driver. I was paranoid, was all. A stoned kid who didn’t know what he was doing or why he was doing it, and liked to let his fears get the best of him. The black man at the front of the bus kept turning back to look at me. Pointing.
It was then that I suddenly realized that the knife had fallen out of my pocket, and onto the bus floor at my feet. This had to be the reason people were looking at me, I thought. I looked as if I was some sort of, teen-age fugitive who had stabbed his parents in a rage over the prestigious slaps he received from his drunken father. I knew then what I had to do. The only option was for me to get out of the bus, calmly leaving the knife on the floor where it lay. I pulled the cord to signal the bus driver to stop. I don’t think the other passengers could have been happier. They all gave me shifty eyes as I stepped off the bus and onto the grass. As I left that knife on the bus, I knew it had a vast future to it. Though it was just a knife, its story would be epic. It would cross paths with many people, each with a history and presence of their own. The bus would be considered the beginning. Someone might pick it up, and take it with them, to protect themselves from me. And the knife would travel, like it has before. From the assembly plant, to the store, to my house, up and down Troost, to a man’s pocket, and then to his home. Eventually it would end up trash. A side-story to the footnote of a parenthesis. Meaningless. Though so will I, and everyone I love. I will end up dead, decaying into dust after 4/5th’s of a century on Earth. No matter how I see myself as the turning point of the galaxy, I will end up no different than that knife with the plastic handle.

2
I stood waiting for the next bus to come, enjoying my high, glad to be away from the aura of untrusting people. It came and I got on. As I fumbled with my bus transfer the driver accelerated and I was thrown off balance in a way that my head met directly with the ceiling of the vehicle. Some girls chuckled while I headed toward the back. I immediately wanted to get off this bus as well; I felt the same level of coldness and mistrust. As an answer to my prayers, I saw the greyhound station ahead. I got off and bid the chuckling girls farewell before making my way down the sidewalk into the circle drive. I passed a group of sad, angry looking people. One kid stuck out in my mind. Maybe it was the young look of his face, or the hot pink golf visor he was wearing, but I felt bad for him. He was surely in a gang of some sort, or prostituting himself to lonely men from around the country, scared of another beating from his sole friend and pimp. I walked past this group trying extraordinarily hard not to make eye contact with anyone. The kid was crouched down smoking a cigarette butt, resting in a corner.
I made my way past the set of double glass doors and into the lobby. There were benches and chairs next to the waiting line, and movie style ropes to show customers where to stand in file. When I got to the front of the line I noticed that the cashier was extremely beautiful. Her hair very curly and her figure rather curvy. She had a gold cap on her top left front tooth, and spoke with a ghetto accent. When she handed me my ticket she also told me what gate I was leaving from, though I didn’t pay any attention. I went to the waiting area they had set up: It was a large room with a hundred or so people in it. The colors and sounds made this a very vibrant room, harsh to the senses. All the people were different. Some children, some senior citizens. There were tired looking Mexicans, and middle aged drunks with long dirty hair, wearing Nascar hats. Arcades were set up alongside the outer edge of the room. I sat down on a bench that faced the computerized pay phones, which were aligned next to the video games, and accepted either phone or credit cards. People stood by these; practically shouting over the noise to talk to their colleagues, associates, and loved ones. Each one had their own reason to be there, in the Kansas City downtown greyhound station. A reason to be on the phone. A story behind them. A story behind the ones on the other end of the phone. They’re all the center of the universe.
While I waited, the same people repeatedly passed by me, wearing baseball caps and mustaches. They seemed as if they were trying not to be connected with each other. When they were conversing I occasionally glanced at them, and they would immediately walk away from one another once they realized I was looking at them. Surely they were undercover cops on a sting operation, possibly to bust me. Everyone in the station knew I was high, knew I had weed on me, and knew I was alone. It was only a matter of time now before I was killed by a maniacal traveler, or arrested for drug trafficking. I had to stay sharp, and keep my wits about me, which is hard to do when your heart’s beating so fast.
It was 7:45. The announcement was unclear and gravelly. I couldn’t make out what gate to go to. I panicked as I saw two different lines form at the same time. I stood in-between the two, close to the gate doors peering at my ticket looking for an indication of door A or C.
“See, Johnny, look at him. That’s what drugs will do to your brain.” I heard her say from my side. A heavy-set blonde woman of middle age, standing with a young brown hared kid about four or five, and a woman similar in appearance, the only contrast being her gray hair. I was positive that I was being used in her perverse lesson of social conformity. I wanted to walk up to her and tell her exactly what I thought. That it’s people like her that make me scarred to go out after a smoke. I wanted to yell and ask her who she was to judge me, but settled for asking her which bus was going to Houston.

While I was waiting in line a drunk man with long unkempt hair and a shabby beard stumbled into me and shouted something unimportant that I didn’t bother to remember. I was very high. Very paranoid. I was the topic of conversation for everyone around me. Every stranger, every other person on that bus that laid eyes on me knew I was high. A slender black man standing behind me mumbled “Man! That kid’s lit up!” I was scared, every one was staring at me, and all I wanted was to find a place to sleep. I was fairly awake, however, even going on a day without rest. I suppose all I wanted was a sense of security. In a few minutes my entire world had been changed. That couldn’t matter though. Not then. I had to do it. For me, for Jared. I had been locked up for far too long. Now it was time for me to learn what freedom truly means, and bring Jared by my side along the way. The bus was very crowded. The few seats that were open didn’t look very spacious. They were also being guarded heavily by the person in the next seat. I got a glaring look from next to every empty seat I passed. I finally decided to sit down toward the back of the bus, next to a middle-aged, country looking man, with a Marlboro baseball hat, and plain black T-shirt on. I hadn’t realized until I sat down that my neighbor chewed tobacco. It didn’t bother me much, but I had never seen someone chewing tobacco before. That was it. I suddenly decided that that man was why I was going to Texas. I had seen so little, and wanted so much to say I knew everything.
As we pulled away from the bus station a security guard ran out, flagging the driver to stop. Oh no, I thought. I was caught for sure. My heart was racing. All my fellow passengers were waiting to see me get pulled off the bus and arrested in the parking lot, I knew. The bus-driver stopped, and got out to discuss something with the security guard. He got back on the bus and we left. As we pulled out from the back of the parking lot, past the front of the station, I saw five or six cop vehicles in the circle drive.
“Slipped by ‘em again.” I said to myself. Just like that, I was off to Texas. I was sure to see things unusual and strange to me. I would come out wiser than if I had chosen to stay home and smoke out my house. And my dad wouldn’t have a clue for two days.

__________________
2

potheadreturns2

3

The bus ride was rather uneventful. It was mostly long, and tiresome. Sitting in front of me was a very young couple. A pretty blonde around 20 or so and a lanky white man with a blue jump suit, and sideways Kansas City Royal’s baseball hat, who was about the same age. I could see half a crypt gang tattoo on the back of his lower neck. It was peculiar, I had never seen a true white gang member before. The closest thing I’ve ever run across is a white drug dealer named Durden. Durden was a short, strong looking guy a little older than I was. He wasn’t in a gang, though. He was a wanna-be. All he did was sell guns and weed. This person was for real. The strangest part about it all is that the couple had a newborn child with them and the white guy had to be the best dad I’ve ever seen. I watched them for ten hours to Texas. I had been sucked into their world. Their reality was now my reality. I was very close to obsession. From what I gathered of their conversations, they were on the way to Oklahoma City for whitey to meet his father in-law and their child to meet his grandparents. In a way I loved them. I could almost swear that I knew their lives better than my own. And in a sense, it was true. There is something calming about concentrating on the problems of others. I know what to do when it’s someone else, but I seem to falter when it’s my world I’m dealing with. Yes, this couple, for a short number of hours, was closer to me than anyone ever had been.
We came into OKC sometime early in the morning, around three or so. The skyline was a tremendous site. Huge buildings I’d never seen before. A million lights and just as many stores, none open of course. The white gang couple got off with their baby, and that was the end of it. I’d never see them again, so I slept.

We were heading into Dallas when I woke up. It was around six in the morning.
“As we reach our final destination today,” the bus inter-com said. “I want to take this opportunity to thank you for choosing us on behalf of greyhound. We know you have options when it comes to travel, and we hope you will chose greyhound again.” I was surprised to suddenly realize I had been mistakenly led onto the bus for Dallas instead of Houston.
“I’d also like to say that it will be my personal prayer that as each and every one of you passes through the day, God shines his own light and grace down onto you, bringing safety and love to you all. Thank you again for choosing greyhound bus lines, and enjoy your stay in Dallas.” The inter-com clicked off. That was incredible, I thought. I couldn’t deny it, no matter how scared I was. An extremely religious bus driver was just the experience I needed to help me become a writer. The feeling, though, passed, and I was left only with uncertainty. I got off the bus and walked into the Dallas station through the front doors. A small lobby met me with a desk directly in front of where I was standing, and monitors off to the side with a list of departures and arrivals. There were chairs in front of the monitors and along the wall.
I went directly up to the desk to buy a ticket back to Kansas City. I was tired, in the wrong city and didn’t have enough for money for two more bus tickets. It was the only choice I had.
“Hi I’d like a ticket to Kansas City.” I said as I met eyes with the woman behind the counter. She typed away at her computer and looked back up.
“OK sir the next bus for Kansas City doesn’t leave until noon.” That was another six hours away, and the last thing I wanted to do was wait around the bus station with no where to sleep all morning. It looked, however, as if I had no options.
“Noon’s fine.” I said back. “How much will that be?”
“$100. What’s your name, sir?”
“Mark Galeau.” I stated as I pulled out a crisp hundred and handed it to her. She put it away in the register and prepared my ticket.
“Alright you’ll be leaving from gate D at 12:01, enjoy your day.”
“You too.” I made my way past the desk and into the waiting room, which was extremely big. It had a much different set up than the one in Kansas City. First and fore most I noticed the incredible amount of Mexicans in the station. I was not used to being such a minority.
The arcades were set up in a section secluded from the rest of the area. Toward the back of the room were the restrooms and shops. Left of the bathrooms was a dining area, with low to the ground chairs and tables. Maps of American roads and cities were hung on the walls. TV’s were off to the right where the gate doors were, hanging from the ceiling over benches and vending machines. The vending machines separated the doors into two halves. Off to the left of the room were advertisements, water fountains and pay phones. There was a particularly large woman talking on the phone, sitting on the floor, presumably talking with her boyfriend. I first went to the back to buy some food from the store that was hiding there.
It soled two varieties of things: Gift shop trinkets, and cafeteria food. The food area was set up like a school lunch line. Two counters placed three to four feet apart, one with hot delicious food items laying in pans embedded into the counter, and a sneeze guard to protect the shelves of seran-wrapped plates of pie. To the left of these were miniature refrigerator’s holding soda, milk, and orange juice. Behind it was the kitchen. It had a frying stove top, which they used to make eggs, and heat steak for the meals. The counter makes a quick corner, and instead of steamy side dishes decorating the top, it was covered with novelty items, such as buttons, mints, gums, and lighters, which I bought one of. The other counter with nothing on it was used solely to herd people in line. Further back in the store they carried the gift shop items: Magazines, books, postcards. I bought a plate of eggs, two dinner rolls, and two bottles of chocolate milk. Also, I bought a lighter, and a postcard, which I filled out after I got done eating. I went into the dining area and sat down in front of one of two Americana maps, which I studied while I ate. It was surprisingly interesting, though it could easily be chalked up as a side effect from the boredom experienced on the bus ride.
The eggs were terrible but I didn’t notice because I was starving. I finished them with the utmost speed, and quickly moved on to the dinner rolls which were thankfully much better. I downed the chocolate milk and soon found myself sitting with nothing to do, a feeling I’d get much more used to while waiting for my bus. I took my previously purchased post card and wrote a short, maniacal paragraph to my father in which I said that I had taken all of his checks and left for good.
I deposited my trash into the bin and took off for the bathroom with my backpack. Inside was a front line of sinks and mirrors, each one with a middle-aged man shaving or brushing their teeth, and a line behind him. I got into the shortest line and waited until it was my turn. I hadn’t looked into a mirror in over a day, which was a tremendously awkward sight for the self-conscious teen-ager that I was then. I brushed my teeth and had a quick shave. I went into a stall and changed into a hooded sweatshirt, and pulled the other half of the joint from my sock. I knew it would be a bad idea to smoke, and would only make me paranoid again, but I had nothing else to do, so I pushed the thought to the back of my mind, as I pushed the roach into my pocket. I paced out surely, through the gate area, through the main lobby and out to the streets.
There was a security guard right outside the door, wearing a gallon hat and smoking a cigarette. I bummed one off of him and took off to find a mailbox. I turned a few corners where I strolled past a Bank of America office building, and I soon spotted one. I dumped the post card in and ran to the nearest parking lot to find smoking cover.
I smoked my weed in between two cars while I peered solemnly from the parking lot to watch pedestrians pass by and live there lives. What kind of wild stories these people must have, I thought. To be in downtown Dallas on a Saturday morning, they must have been unique and different than anyone else I’d ever seen. Their stories surely had drama in them, because I knew mine did. What love did I feel for the people of Dallas that morning? A deep, blind love that could only be felt by someone who’d hated as much as I have in my life. To truly love one must be able to truly hate.
On this thought I flipped the roach and lit up my square. A clever smokers trick: Lighting up a cigarette to hide the smell of freshly smoked marijuana. It was funny, I thought, that I was high in Dallas at the early hours of the morning for no good reason. I was simply there.
I made my way back to the greyhound station as I finished my cigarette. The security guard was gone; he had left and gone home. I walked into the waiting area and sat down in front of the hanging TV’s. The girl was still talking to her boyfriend on the telephone, and still sitting on the floor. The same people lined the chairs and benches as before. It was 8:30; I still had three and half-hours before I left. I spent the time observing people, many of which are worth mentioning.
The first person brought to my attention was a short redheaded woman of about thirty years old with a baby. What struck me about this woman was how she dealt with her child. She was incredibly loving. From the moment I sat down to the moment I got up she never stopped playing with her child for even a second. I might never know if her vocabulary consists of more than fart noises and baby talk: For all I know it didn’t. While I watched her I thought about my parents. I wondered if they were ever that loving. Possibly, before the drugs and the criminality.
I shifted my attention. I was now focused on a man in a group of Mexicans off to the left of the benches. He was wearing the most beautiful, luxurious tailored suit I’d ever seen, and on his head was a marijuana leaf baseball cap. He was also wearing a very large smile. Through out the morning he and his group repeatedly got in line for the wrong bus and had to be explained to what time they needed to leave. I was utterly fascinated by this man.

weedzinger

Very impressive for an insomniac. When does the next chapter become available to the public.

__________________
Half of the people can be part right all of the time,
Some of the people can be all right part of the time.
But all of the people cant be right all of the time.

potheadreturns2

Watching from afar, I obsessed. Finally, around eleven, his bus came. He and his posse got on; relieved no doubt that this time it was the right bus.
The boredom sunk in, deeper now, to the bone. A tall, muscular man with a noticeable scar on his neck walked my way, and my focus changed again. As he approached, an elderly drunk black man wearing an old naval uniform, a half gallon hat with strings hanging from it and no shoes, who sat a few seats to my side, yelled something inaudible at him. The muscular man responded with something equally meaningless, and sat down. He had an odd way about him, could have been the way he carried himself, I’m not sure, but it made me extremely uncomfortable. As I hoped to myself that he wouldn’t initiate a conversation, he spoke, and we talked for a bit. Not too far along I ran out of things I felt appropriate to ask him. I did find out though, that he was on his way back home from the war in Afghanistan to his wife in Sacramento. The conversation was lethally awkward, as are most conversations held between strangers. Talking to random people entails having something you want to say to anyone and everyone. Unfortunately for Jon, I don’t.
Soon enough after the silence began, a skinny young brunette holding a pad and pencil walked up to my particular line of benches and started asking the old drunk a few seats left of me questions. She was a writer for the greyhound newsletter, and was looking for stories to put in her next article. It turns out that the drunk wearing the naval uniform, oddly enough, used to be in the military. Jon heard this, and as the drunk started his sad story-we all have one remember-he started telling both the reporter and the old man at point blank range, his own story, which for all intents and purposes was probably better suited for a Greyhound Bus Lines newsletter. Leaving the drunkard shell-shocked, and in her trail, she rushed over to sit next to Jon and me. He was clearly hurt.
“Alright! Alright!” He shouted. “Just know you’re leaving the best story behind!” And he was probably right. His story most likely was more entertaining, more suspenseful, and more climactic; but he was a bum. Useless if there was a more palatable story to be found. Besides, another bump in the road wouldn’t hurt him: Or it would destroy what was left of his soul. With a simple glance, I couldn’t be quite sure which. I got up and moved to a different bench in order to give the reporter a seat next to her stories war hero.
Soon a line formed for the bus to Sacramento, ironically, right next to my new seat. I watched Jon as he got up and stepped over bags making his way through the waiting area, and got in his file. As he stood there, the child of a couple in front of him kept yelling the same question at his parents. “What’s that mark on that man’s neck for?” He repeatedly shouted over and over in a fashion that made Jon noticeably embarrassed. His mother slapped him in the face and turned him around, which I’m sure, only brought more discomfort to Jon. After a short while people started getting onto the bus, Jon too. The driver sat down and closed the doors, and they roared off into the Dallas streets. It was so beautifully sad, I thought, that I knew I’d never see him again, but his story would go on. And with this idea of an ever vast, ever-lasting world came comfort. And for the first time in 16 hours, I relaxed.

TheCleric

This is very good, i really think i get what your trying to say.

Cleric

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potheadreturns2

Heh, I think when I actually finish this whole thing I'm going to go back and re-write the first few paragraphs, so when I finish I'll probably also post a new chapter one. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it..... and I don't mind replies/honest(or dis-honest) criticism, so long as I know somebody's read it......

4
After my bus had arrived, and we rolled out of the station, we passed by the Grassy Knoll where Kennedy was shot. I was somewhat overwhelmed by this, my first major landmark. I’d remember this, I knew, for the rest of my life. The sensation that went through me I can only try to explain, in that it felt like my heart had exploded and quickly reformed while my lungs simultaneously collapsed. I knew then that surely this was the purpose of my life: To live and see everything I could. Yes, to live.

**************
The rest of the bus ride was relatively dull, except for a group of people sitting a few rows behind me. The group consisted of a couple of guys my age and a short blonde woman in her forties. Through out the ride they were very loud, and kept making tons of sex jokes. I didn’t see any of them standing together at the station, so it was fate I assumed, that brang them to sit together. I wasn’t particularly annoyed at how incredibly obnoxious they were being as the rest of the passengers seemed to be, but I was more entertained by them than anything. They gave my mind something to concentrate on, and I was thankful. At the next piss stop I got off and bummed a cigarette from the kid closest to my age, and after we struck up a conversation I asked him if he’d be interested in buying a joint of KB for ten bucks. He upped for it and he got his fat joint of bud, which he told me he’d share with the middle-aged lady, seeing as how she was heading to Chicago because her brother had died there from a massive heart attack just days ago. The driver yelled and we all got back on the bus before I could find out anything else about the three of them. I went to my seat and they went to theirs; they continued being obnoxious and I fell asleep. I woke up in the Kansas City greyhound station parking lot at 12:30, bid them adieu, and got off the bus.

The waiting area when I got inside was crowded, as it was the day before, with the same mix of low class people who can’t afford a plane, some just like me. When I got outside, as luck would have it there was a cab there waiting for me, and I jumped inside with my backpack still neatly around my right arm as we left. I got back to my place and gave the driver a twenty before I went inside. I had gotten home just in time; my dad would wake up in fifteen minutes for work. He knew nothing of my venture. I had done the most pointless thing in my life with complete success.
The house had that same feeling that all homes have when you leave for a day or two: When your dogs come running to greet you, and you finally get to lie down in your own bed. It was good to be home. I called my roommate Don down to smoke some weed. We went out front and puffed, as I told him my stories from the past day and a half, he listened and he laughed, while I talked and exaggerated. We went back inside and he thanked me for getting him stoned before he went upstairs. My dad got up and I told him hi, and that I was going to bed. I proceeded to my room and passed out.


Part 2
1
Anyone who knows me knows of August, a girl I had been futilely chasing since I met her in the Fall of 1997. She lived with her troubled father and stepmother for most of her life in Shawnee Mission, KS, a suburb of Kansas City. At first we went to school together at the Kansas City Academy of Learning. KCA was an expensive private school for the kids with problems that couldn’t be dealt with properly in public schools. We loved each other both but never said anything; instead we fought as if we loathed each other equally. After two years we had begun to get along, and were more fully aware and understanding of the feelings we had. Around this time we both left KCA: August’s father put her back in public school, and I had been expelled for unclear reasons. I was sent to public school as well, and had my first major personality change there. After about six months apart we got back in touch and spent many nights on the phone. We sometimes got to hang out and get high when she was at her mom’s house: Her father hated me.
In mid 2001, August began dating a violent man named Smythe, whom would often beat her. Around this time I was terribly depressed and alone. My parents had been beating me, and the only person I had to rely on was August, but she was extremely involved in her new relationship and didn’t have the time for me then. I approached her in 2002 and was rejected, as I feared I would be, even though we continued to talk. In April 2002 her father, stepmother, and self moved to Ft. Scott, KS, a small town about two hours southwest of Kansas City. Shortly after she moved, August and Smythe broke up. We talked about things, and agreed it best if we begun dating. I was invited to her dad’s lake house for the weekend, and when she asked he reluctantly agreed. On Sunday before the ride back to Kansas City she came to the conclusion that things between us wouldn’t work out. I was crushed and we didn’t speak again for about a month, in which time I had gone through another large-scale change in my personality. She called me and we mulled things over. I said I was desperately alone and needed to see her soon. I invited myself over under the circumstances that I could no longer keep my pride and keep calling her at the same time unless I saw her again. My mother gave me money to buy a round trip ticket to Ft. Scott, and drove me to the Grandview bus station where I left at 7:30. When I got into town at around 9:45, I got a cab to take me to August’s house.
The driver was a fat middle aged man with a mustache and glasses, and spoke very loudly. I started asking him questions. “This is a pretty cool little town, don’t ya think?”
“I suppose it’s alright,” He replied. “Lived here all my life so I don’t know nuttin’ else.”
“So you probably got a lot of family here then, huh?”
“Nope. Just my youngest son and my ex. Sixty-three years old and I got a damn five-year-old!” He yelled. “The ***** tricked me, is all. Needed someone to play daddy, and stupid me I married her.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“Well I was trying to settle down with my life, and along comes this young girl trying to get me to chase after her to play dad, and I married her. Puh! Worst mistake of my life, I’ll tell ya that.” He went on like this until we got to August’s house, where I paid him and stepped out.
The street that she lived on was very dark: Shaded by a million trees. The air was dead and smelled musky as if it was going to rain. I knocked on the front door when she and her father, Jack, answered.
“Mark, what the **** are you doing here?” He yelled. “Are you insane?” I laughed.
“Insane? You’re not too fast are you?”
“Listen buddy,” He said before I replied an affirmative. “My daughter made it clear a long time ago that she doesn’t want anything to do with you. Now get the hell off my property or I’m gonna call the police.” The door slammed shut before August and I even got to speak. What had just happened? I was confused. It was then that I realized even worst, I was lost. The house was located in the middle of a block on Clark St., and I knew which intersection to get to but had not the slightest idea which direction to go after that. I went left and made my way to a highway and had to turn back. If it wasn’t left it was certainly the other direction. I walked back and passed Clark, and followed 6th street down as far as it led me, which was a dead end at Mallgrave Rd. At this point I made a right followed by a left onto a street I don’t remember, and got really lost. I made hundreds of turns and came across many dead ends. It was extremely dark and there were no streetlights as I walked. Houses were spread sparsely apart: one every mile or so. Never in my life had I felt so low: I was rejected from August’s house in a city I didn’t know at 10:00 at night with no money left, and I seemed to be far away from where I needed to go.
Finally I got to a main road called Wall and I knew where I was. I turned left towards National St. and kept walking until a green jeep with it’s top down pulled up beside me. The two passengers told me to come over and talk.
“Hey man what’s your name?” The driver asked with a Long Island accent.
“Mark. Who are you?”
“I’m Mike, this is Hayzeus.” I looked at Hayzeus and he nodded his head. “Do you know that there’s a curfew?” Mike asked.
“Oh, well I’m just going to the bus station to get back to Kansas City.”
“What are you doing that for?”
“I live there, I’m just up here visiting my girlfriend.” I lied.
“Oh I see.” Mike said. “Dude, do you got any bud?”
“No, do you?”
“Nah, man.” Mike and Hayzeus turned in their seats and cursed themselves, almost speeding away until I asked Mike for a ride to the bus station. “Sure, jump in the back.” When I got in he offered me a beer and I gladly accepted. The back was extremely cluttered and it was hard to find a comfortable seat. “So is your girlfriend hot, dude?” I laughed.
“Yea man, I think so!” I said.
“She give good head?” I laughed again. They were ****ing with me.
“But of course, man!”
“Oh yea? Where does she live?”
“Over there on Clark.”
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m probably gonna be ****ing her after you leave town.”
“No man of course I don’t mind, I’ll share with anybody.” They laughed and I got another beer as we turned onto National St.. Hayzeus and Mike were talking up front when two guys on the sidewalk shouted something neither of them could hear.
“What did they say?” Hayzeus asked me.
“I think he said ‘Half-gallon, wanna drink?’” I told him as he turned to talk to Mike again.
“Dude do you wanna turn back and see what’s up?” Mike looked back and asked what time my bus was leaving. The clock on his radio read 12:03.
“Not until 4:15. I’m up for it if you are.”
“Sure. What the hell.” Mike said as he turned around. Finally, I thought, this night is going a little better.

AndieBear

I love the way you put such a deep thought into all of the details of your experiences. It is excelent. Please keep posting so we can keep reading about your many adventures.

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Ten people who speak, make more noise than ten thousand who are silent.

potheadreturns2

2
We pulled up to the two who had yelled at us. One was a young drunk in his 20’s with a backpack and a ponytail down to his shoulder blades. The other who was with him was also a drunk, but much older. His alcoholic face made it hard to pinpoint his age, though I’d guess him to be around forty. It turns out that the younger one, Randy, had with him a half-gallon of southern comfort in his bag, and was so piss-drunk he was perfectly willing to share with us in exchange for companionship and a ride. His friend, Bill, it turns out was extremely trashed. For the rest of the night he mumbled consistently: No one knew who he was talking to or what he was saying. I’d imagine he was just a lonely soul who’d converse with who ever would listen.
Randy was very loud and somewhat bothersome. When he got in I was forced to scoot over to an extremely small space in the back. Hayzeus, it seemed, had a container of Kool-Aid with him in the front seat, so we all drove around dropping shots of SC and tropical flavored fruit drink. Randy it seemed, had just gotten out of prison from somewhere in Kansas, and was returning to Ft. Scott to see his family. Mike decided to drive under a bridge to sit and drink with the stereo on: In retrospect it probably wasn’t the best of ideas, seeing as how Randy immediately started bragging about the teardrop tattoos under his eye, which I later found out are supposed to mean that he had killed in prison. Randy was in deep conversation with Mike and Hayzeus, and didn’t seem to want anyone else to join, except when he told me I was a man for finishing my cup of Southern Comfort so quickly. Bill was still babbling ignorantly drunk to the fact that no one was listening, so I listened. He talked and talked to the point where I no longer wanted to give him my attention, which might have been different had I been able to understand more of what he was saying. It seems as though he was upset with his father for being stubborn: His old man had recently broken his hip and refused to get a replacement. It also seemed that he had just gotten a new job at a tire store and wanted a ride home so he could get to bed. I tried to help him out but Randy wouldn’t let me get a word in to Mike so I gave up. Eventually we were all real drunk and happy and ready to get back on the road. We had all come to the conclusion that we needed to find some ***** to make the night.
We were going to a girl named Sara’s house. When we got to the building, we all jumped out and went in the front door, except for Bill; he got out and started walking home. We went up some steps and knocked on the door when Sara answered; she was a tall skinny blonde about my age. She invited us in and we sat down in the living room smoking cigarettes with her and her brother, Don. Randy sat down and got comfortable and talked with Don while we executed a quick yet effective ditch by walking back to the jeep without proper warning. I knew they wanted to ditch me, too, but I needed the ride and couldn’t get lost again. We left Randy’s bag at the doorstep and stole his whiskey, before driving back off into the night. We kept drinking beer and Southern Comfort until we got to Mike’s first house and switched cars. After that we headed to Pittsburgh, KS, a college town some miles away from Ft. Scott: Mikes second house was located there.
We got onto the high way and quickly sped up to well over 120: The speedometer needle was lost somewhere in the depths of the dashboard. “What’s the purpose of life, man?” Mike asked me.
“Simple my man: To live.” They glanced at each other.
“Oh dude! You’re in!” He shouted. “You’re in!” I felt happy to be in, though I wasn’t quite sure what I had joined. We kept talking and drinking; I felt as if I knew them all of my life. We made it to Pittsburgh in the record time of ten minutes, they had told me. We got to Mike’s house and jumped out. Inside it was as messy of a house as I’d ever seen-and I’ve seen some dumps in my life-but I liked it. It was a true party house, and I felt comfortable. The short stay was bland except for when his roommate Jill flashed us her barely there breasts due to our insisting, and promptly fell back asleep. We hopped back into the car after only fifteen minutes, and made our way back to Ft. Scott in the same amount of time.
Hayzeus had to go home, so we dropped him off at his house and went back to Sara’s. It was 3:00 A.M. when we pulled up and saw that Randy’s bag was still sitting in front of the house after three hours. We went inside to find that he had already left, not long after we ditched him. I suppose he didn’t even notice his backpack. Inside we watched kung-fu movies and passed out until after my bus had left and Sara woke us both up at 5:00. Mike and I stumbled drunkenly out and into his car, and we left to get me to the bus stop when it started to rain and I took cover underneath the eave of the closed bus station. I lied down on the ground and tried to catch some sleep for an hour or so but it was useless: I was cold and somewhat damp. When it stopped raining I walked down the street to an all night diner named Gracie’s Place. The streets were wet and dark, with weeds sprouting up from every other crack or so.
I hobbled inside and sat down at the counter alongside three of the saddest looking old men you’d ever hope to see. The one nearest to my side was a mailman, wearing full uniform and a mustache. His resemblance to Cliff from Cheers was alienating. A pretty little waitress came to take my order of grilled cheese, a biscuit and chips. In the kitchen there as a yokel looking man with a cast on his arm smoking a hand rolled cigarette as he slaved over the countertop grill. I looked around me and noticed many pieces of Coca-Cola memorabilia hanging from the walls, along with framed articles cut out from the Ft. Scott Tribune. The food arrived at my table hot and fresh and delicious. I took my time eating and made weed jokes with the cook before I left into the now pouring outdoor rain, and walked back to the bus station where I waited under shelter until the owner came and informed me that the next bus to Kansas City wasn’t coming until 8 that evening-If the driver decided to stop-and that I better wait inside until then. I came inside and was offered a couch to sleep on in the back, where I crashed until around noon.
When I woke up I quickly walked out and decided to try to find Mike, who had told me where he lived. I tried to remember what corner he spoke of and thought that he said 81st and National, so I walked: Ten blocks and passed the elementary school until I hit 81st, at which point I admitted to myself that I didn’t recognize anything around me and decided to get on the highway, and go back home.

Mtg_dk

I havent read the story yet but one time I went to 7th Heaven on Troost late on a Friday night. I gota lost coming home and spent alot of time in that bad area. I was so happy to find 29 and get the hell back to Joetown

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I'll see you on the Dark Side of the Moon.......is 4:20 a good time?

bc_budz420

very good dude!!! Keep up the good work