Category: random

And here I thought the worst thing Trump could do as President was admit he had sex with Hillary at one point.

Did you miss me? No? Hmm…

I missed you!

Well, so much for running away from problems and taking 30-days to travel about. Life on the road isn’t like it had been a few years ago, but I’ll bring you up to date when I post my journal entries for those days a little later today.

Lots of things have happened in these few ensuing days, including the death of one of my wife’s friends and the euthanization of one of our dogs, which actually precipitated my sudden departure. So, clearly there is a reason for the way events shook out this go-around.

Anyway, this is the story I had planned for my return September 1. It’s called ‘Thirty-days Later.’

“So, you say you entered Mexico without your passport, correct?” the state department clerk asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” Tom answered.

“You do know they’ve been searching for you since you disappeared last month?”

“I figured people might look for me.”

“And now you’d like help securing a passport so you can get back home?”

“Yes, please.”

“How did you enter Mexico in the first place?”

“I came in with the Swedish Bikini Team.”

“The Swedish Bikini Team?” the clerk asked, a look of puzzlement washing over his face.

“Yes,” Tom answered.

“How did that happen? Were you kidnapped or something?”

“No. Not at all. I got in their raft willingly.”

“I see. Their raft.”

“Yeah, I was taking a picture of a flower when I heard a woman yell ‘Hey!” I looked up and all these beautiful bikini-clad women were floating by. One  asked if I wanted to join them and I said ‘Yes,’ hopping in their raft as they passed.”

“And you remained with them, even after the rafting trip was over.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“They had lots of beer, lots and lots of beer.”

“So where is this Swedish Bikini Team, now?”

“I don’t know.”

“What, did they abandon you?”

“No,” Tom said, “Quite the opposite!”

“I don’t understand.”

“I abandoned them.”

“Why?” he asked.

“They ran outta beer!”

It took me a little more than half the day to finally get home, having hitched a ride from a fella named Jim, in the back of his pick-up truck. I showered, and dressed in clean clothing, ate a thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich and downed two cups of freshly brewed coffee.

My stomach was a bit queasy from nerves as I sat outside on the front porch step and waited for my wife to get home. Her beaming smile at the sight of me was wonderful to behold and worth the absence.

And while I expected her to chide me with some sort of ‘I told you so’ comment, none has come. Instead she gave me a strong hug and a gentle kiss as we went inside.

“It could have been worse,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, “They could have slit my throat or something.”

She screwed up her face before turning to the stove, “Do you always have to go to the worse imaginable place?”

“No,” I answered, “But I gotta admit you were right about the dangers.”

Her back may have been to me at the time, but I felt her grin as she glowed at the idea that I admitted she had been correct.

After finishing telling her what had happened, she made a huge plate of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes with fresh salsa, some crisp bacon and sourdough toast for my dinner. Once I had eaten, I washed the pans and loaded the dishes as I’ve been doing for years now.

Since then, we watched a previously recorded TV show and now she’s gone to bed. I’m still up tidying up this last entry to my notebook and very happy to be back home.

Once finished here, I’m going to retire to the backyard patio with a small glass of whiskey, put my sore, swollen feet up and stare up at the twinkling stars, the glow of the moon, and enjoy my ‘isness.’

Tired, sore, hungry and stupid. These have been my four companions all this day as I struggle to recover from the night before and this morning.

Allow me to preface this with a few extra facts that didn’t seem pertinent yesterday, but seem to play a solid roll in my life this day: Jake, Karen along with Sam lived out of an old beat up Pontiac, that they had draped with plastic tarps for a makeshift shelter.

That’s the first thing. The second is that cup of Earl Grey that I was offered and accepted.

It may have been doped as I awoke with a banging headache, and much later than usual, and no memory of the family packing up and driving off. Worst of all, they took everything I didn’t have on me or in my sleeping bag with me.

My rucksack, food, extra clothing – gone. I am finally done with this adventure and have been heading east along the back roads towards Reno.

“What’s wrong with you?” one of my former escorts from the day before said, with a knowing smile beaming across his face.

“They robbed me,” I admitted, while trying no to sound defeated.

“Should’ve kept going, huh?” the other one laughed.

“Yup,” I answered as I rolled up my bag and tied a length of twine I’d found nearby.

Without saying anything else and head held high, I trekked off towards the highway some mile-and-a-half away. With my ‘bedroll’ slung across my body, I couldn’t help but think of the 1970’s TV show, ‘Kung Fu,’ only I am not Kwai Chang Caine or David Carradine for that matter.

Night seemed to fall too quickly and I have set up a cold camp, if I can call having only a sleeping bag, notebook and pencil, a camp. I shall have no fire this night as I’ve nothing to start one with and nothing to eat.

As I try to fall asleep, I can hear my wife: “See? I told you so!”

Late in afternoon I tripped upon a homeless encampment. There were some fifty people here, from children to slightly older than me and it has me unsettled.

When I first realized I was nearby this tucked out of the way place, I was confronted by a pair of men who wanted to know what I was up to.

“I’m traveling through,” I said.

“What does that mean?” one asked.

“It means I’m simply going to keep on going, not stopping.” I answered.

“Good,” stated the other one.

As they escorted me from one side of the encampment to the other, people said ‘hello,’ and one young man asked if I’d like to sit and have a bite to eat and visit with his wife and little boy. I looked at my escort and they turned away.

It was obvious I was out of my depth. I studied the guy that asked me to stay, he looked like he’d been living rough for a long while and that some of that time had or was still spent on a meth addiction.

Tired and hungry, I failed to heed my voice of intuition that whispered harshly at me to be careful. I sat down anyway and allowed myself to relax.

“Don’t mind them,” Jake said, “They’re assholes and think they’re protecting us. But guaranteed, if the law showed up they’d disappear as fast as a jack rabbit.”

“Well, thanks for rescuing me from them,” I said.

“My wife, Karen and this is Sam,” Jake said.

I stood and shook Karen’s hand, then smiled at their baby. Cute kid.

We talked about life, travels, shared a few stories and laughed. This greatly lifted my spirits from the day before.

We had hot dogs, beans and a salad, made mostly of wild gatherings including dandelions and dandelion leaves. I offered some of my beans and rice, which they refused to take.

To drink they offered me a warm cup of Earl Grey tea, a treat, I told them. And as I readied to toss-off for the night, I felt better about the aspects of travel come the morning.

This date would have been my younger brother, Adam’s 56th birthday. I remembered to wish him a ‘Happy Heavenly Birthday,’ as I said my prayers that evening.

“You Can’t Go Home Again,” is a novel by Thomas Wolfe published posthumously in 1940. I cannot help but think of that title and apply it to my situation now.

Only the third day out and I have realized that the life of a vagabond, bum, or what have you – isn’t as it was nearly two-decades ago. I am older and the world is much harder, and because of this I am unable to enjoy myself.

My friend wandered off after breakfast this morning and I’ve not seen her since. Women! Perhaps, this is one of the reasons that this evening as I establish my camp, I am unhappy and in puzzlement.

Whatever the reason, I’m certain that it comes down to this fact: both the times and I have changed. I am thinking that I ought to return home and enjoy the goodness I have there.

Tonight, I’m having beans for dinner and since I’ve found a small creek, I shall eat and soak my aching feet in its icy waters. This will make up for the lack of adventure I’ve experienced, after all, how many people can claim to be doing what I’m doing under these blanketing stars?

Answer: not very many!

It’s a slight hole-in-the-wall diner, standing alone in a partially graveled and partially asphalted driveway and parking lot. My wife and I have eaten there on occasion while visiting Sacramento.

Good food as I recall. And I’m certain my memory is correct as the delicious odor of cooking wafts through the air.

It was behind this building that I found a small depression in the earth on which to pitch my sleeping bag and build a very small campfire for cooking. It felt glorious to sit down as my feet are swollen and legs are cramping.

A stray has befriended me, a little black, wiry-haired mutt with a goofy set lower jaw. I figure she’s been hit by a vehicle or something — but she ain’t talking.

“Hello,” I said as the tiny thing wagged her tail and danced around my feet.

Once, I tried to pick her up, but she made it known she’d prefer to remain independent. I understood her completely.

So, we shared a meal of rice and water and afterwords she curled up and fell asleep on my ruck sack and I, in my sleeping bag. It’s nice to have some company.

The smell of burnt diesel, trapped under the overhang of the bus station and caught in the chilled night air stung my nostrils. We few passenger’s stood ready to board the Greyhound, with fewer loved ones to offer goodbyes, towards the Bay Area.

The plan, which I held loosely in my head, was to travel in a clockwise direction: California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho and back to Nevada. And I was going to do most of it on foot.

My wife said, “It’s too dangerous. It’s not like it used to be, Tom!”

I said, holding up my weathered paperback copy of ‘On the Road,’ “I know, but I gotta get a little adventure in before it’s too late…you know like…”

She said, “Bullshit!”

She was right, as in less than an hour on the highway, I opened my window and tossed the book, pages scattering out onto the road behind us, prompting a warning from the driver.

“Sorry,” I said, “Won’t happen again. I never like that stupid book anyway.”

That simple truth left me feeling lighter.

The woman seated across the aisle from me snickered. Once the bus crested the Sierra Nevada mountain range, I called for the driver to pull-over, grabbed my rucksack, got off, turned north and walked.

The small band of friends were hiking a few feet from a small river and through the low hills of the National Park with Tom lagging behind about two-hundred feet. While they continued, he knelt down to take a picture of a group of flowers.

When they realized he had not caught up to them, they stopped and returned to the spot he’d been last seen, but he was no place to be found. They reported him missing and professionals, including blood-hounds, gathered to search the area, but no trace of him was to be located.

It would be thirty-days…

He was looking forward to a chilled tumbler of Scotch, his deep recliner and  newest book, ‘The Call of Cthulhu and Other Stories,’ by H. P. Lovecraft, as he, the night manager, turned the key in the restaurant’s backdoor lock. He had two days off and looked forward to the coming respite.

Hobarth Stonegrinder lived only a mile away, less if he took the short-cut that led through the local cemetery. Since he was in a hurry, and since it looked like it might storm, he quickly walked to the corner and up the hill into the cemetery.

He was a quarter of the way through the quiet place when he heard a set of voices coming from behind him somewhere in the absolute darkness. He quickened his pace as he heard a louder voice say, “There’s one now. Get it!”

Hobarth took off at a sprint, fearful that some smart-aleck kids were intending to run him down and do whatever kid’s do to people they found in graveyards. Ten, 20, 30 steps – and suddenly the earth fell out from under Hobarth and he toppled into space.

The fall had been into a recently dug grave site, left half uncovered and completely unseen by the now dazed Hobarth. He had slammed into the packed clay with both knees and smashed his face into the side of the hole, barely missing the thick plywood that lay at an odd angle across the far end of the fracture.

Gathering his senses, he moved into the deeper darkness of the well provided by the cover of the plywood. There, Hobarth Stonegrinder huddled, listening to the voices as they searched about, trying to find him.

He quickly glanced at the luminescence of his Timex: 12:41. It was practically the only light available at the moment.

His nose began to throb and he felt the area, realizing he was bleeding, “Must have happened when my face hit the side.”

Whereas he had been certain he’d heard footfalls mashing down and swishing through the dew shrouded grass surrounding his accidental hide-away, all sounds had died away, save for the frogs which joyfully chirped their night-songs in the distance. Hobarth took this to mean that the ‘coast is clear,’ since the rhythm of the frogs appeared totally undisturbed.

Quietly, Hobarth created foot-and-hand holds in the compacted dirt wall before him. He eased himself up until he could reach out and grab a fist full of grass with his right hand.

With his hold secure, he shot his left hand out, grabbing for another clump of grass. Instead his hand seized on something canvass and as he realized what it was, it was too late.

As he thought, ‘shoe,’ a piercing scream of unbridled terror cut through the dark, with the unmistakable words, “It’s alive!” close behind, followed by a multitude of bright and white and yellow flashing stars. Hobarth Stonegrinder had not seen either the person nor the foot to which the shoe belonged, as they violently lashed out with a well-placed punt.

Nor did Hobarth know that his body had arched backwards from the unseen blow, causing him to clock the back of his head on the cock-eyed board that half-covered the empty well, as he helplessly flopped back into its depths. For the next few hours, he slipped in and out consciousness, never becoming fully aware of either time or place.

He was shivering with a damp coldness and was completely soaked as he tried to open his eyes. He couldn’t tell if he were blind or if he simply had dirt caking them closed.

He gently felt them; puffy and as sensitive as an egg souffle. He further felt his plugged nose and realized it was like the thick end of an uprooted tree stump.

It was raining, how long he couldn’t even think clear enough to hazard a guess. But it was enough to fill the bottom of the hallow with at least an inch of water and leave his black suit, white shirt and black tie both soaked and stained a muddy brown.

Slowly, Hobarth sat up, having to rest his left hand on the side of the crater to steady his swooning head. The violent twisting of his balance threatened to toss him back into the mud as he rose, still leaning on the wall, to his feet.

Dizziness over took Hobarth Stonegrinder as he stood holding the dirt side of the chamber, then he heaved violently, but nothing came up. He stepped back under the board and leaned in the corner.

With time and more rest, he grew stronger and more confident that he could finally make it out of the vacuity. Again, he placed his feet and hands in the previously dug-out holds and lumbered upward.

He threw his right arm over the lip of the grave, grasping a large clump of grass and pulled. It took much of his strength as he clawed for another handful of grass, dragging himself further out of the cavity.

To his surprise, before him stood a man, leaning on a shovel waiting to begin his work day. Having not spoken for several hours, the first sound to come from his throat was not the word, ‘help’ as he intended, but more like an ‘ack.’

The working man jumped and spun following the unhuman sound. He cried in his native tongue, “¡Jesús sálvame!,” and after witnessing too many ‘dia de los Muertos,’ as a child, using the flat-edged spade as a weapon, slammed it on top of Hobarth’s barely visible head.

The blow, dropped Hobarth into the bottom of the cistern as if he were a sack of unwanted bricks and with as much gravitational force. As for the man with the shovel, he raced away in an unholy terror and before his supervisor could learn what had scared the otherwise stoic man.

When Hobarth next awoke he was puzzled about where he was. “You’re in the hospital,” a nurse told him as he attempted to ask after realizing his tongue was half-bitten off.

“You’re in Intensive Care,” she said, “With a skull fracture, a broken nose and a double-concussion, among other injuries. Now get some rest.”

After she left, Hobarth, shifted slightly, wiggling further down into his fresh and clean bedding, and finally relaxing, enjoyed the softness of the pillow beneath his shattered and scabbed, but stapled head, dozing off. Hobarth Stonegrinder’s respite didn’t last long, as another nurse came to his bedside, a large medicine-filled syringe in her gloved hand.