Memoirs from The Hound- Don't You Be Walking on My Wet Floor, & Shit

What sounds better than hot tea with people from three different countries in front of a fire on one of America’s most famous trails on a nice cool afternoon? To make it even better, hundreds of yards away from the fire,  deer wondered close enough to feed by hand at times.  Black bears were also a possible sighting. Hundreds of strangers walked the same stretch of wilderness that afternoon while always stopping to say, “Happy Trails. “ The river flew just loud enough to help you sleep. The serenity was nearly unbeatable.

After 350 miles of hiking on The Appalachian Trail, my second strongest battle with adversity came shortly after my new friends left with their tea for a different spot.  The wind howled loud and aggressive warnings of approaching fury.  Every hiker on the trail that day talked about how the temperatures were going to be in the mid 20’s (Farenheit) for the next ten days. This was usually followed by a somewhat sarcastic, "Happy Trails" good-bye.

 My trusty Guthook APP that tells Appalachian Trail hikers where the nearest town with services is, also conveniently informed me at this time that a town with hotels, food, cabins, resorts, and a whole lot of other stuff that sounded really good, was less than five miles away. The night in the cold wasn’t actually that bad from inside my cozy sleeping bag. The five mile walk into town the next day created the turmoil. Even walking at a lightning fast pace, my body temps still stayed as cold as Donald Trump’s heart. Terrible temps led me to the decision to blast off from the Appalachian Trail faster than Debby Maxwell’s prom dress on prom night.

So, I ordered a ride into the nearest Greyhound Station in Charlotesville, VA after breakfast on Sunday morning in the town. The ride came from an Uber driver named Becky. In my six years living away from America, Uber has to be the most significant change I have seen since living in Taiwan. The Uber drivers I have had usually are a totally different kind of person than the old taxi drivers I was used to. I always liked the blue-collared nature of the taxi drivers back then. I liked to get in their smelly old yellow car with bars on the back seat. If I was lucky, the driver would tell me some dirty jokes and didn’t complain too much about the fact that he was having a hard time raising five kids on cab driver tips only.

Becky from Uber spoke totally different from the cab drivers I remembered. She spoke with the voice of an educated person that knows how to relate to other people.  When she spoke, you wanted to listen. She could even make sad stories, and raunchy stories, fun to listen to. The Southern Accent works miracles.  She told me the story about how she got into driving Uber after her husband died at the young age of fifty.  She liked that she work a few days a week, picked up a few drunk college kids, and used the money to pay off some bills.  She didn’t like that once in a while , one of the drunk college kids might puke in the back seat of her car. She accepted this annoyance however because she was making a significant amount of money to help with the upkeep on her Shipping Container Home. She also said about the puking, “It’s not all bad. Uber usually picks up the car detailing bill if one of the little bastards vomits a meal in the back seat. “ It was a good ride and good conversation about drunks, shipping container homes, and economics.

Becky and I separated after I told her how excited I was about my upcoming four day exhibition on the Greyhound. I paid Becky money. So, she had to pretend like she was supportive of my decision to take forty hours to travel by bus instead of three hours by plain. Most of the other people I told I was going to take the Greyhound from Virginia to Arizona looked at me as if I told them I were considering purchasing and investment property, in the country of Chad.  

With Becky the Uber Driver behind me, I spent one last night on the East Coast of America in the city of Charlotesville, VA So, I decided to head to the bar. I met an interesting collection of characters that night. One was a waitress named Debby, celebrating her 30^th birthday. As hard as I try not to judge people, Debby wasn’t going to win against too many people in a battle of wits. I felt like I wanted to choke the stupid out of her when she said, “Yeah, I like backpacked for 10 years. I wasn’t on the trail or anything. But, I was on the road. “She followed up her overwhelming brilliance with, “Like every time it was cold, I think I was in Colorado.” 

Not to worry, the conversation got better than a girl telling me that she, “Like Backpacked across America for like 10 years. This came from a guy I met named Isaih. He was 40 years old. But, he looked like he was only 17 years old.  I couldn’t resist telling him one of the most interesting stories I had in my archive from the Appalachian Trail. It was from the night that a guy in the shelter named Mark from Texas decided to go hiking for basically the first time in his life, across Southern Maine. To those of you not familiar with the terrain in Maine, that would be like if you had never ran in your life, and you decided you want to start out running by running an Ultra-Marathon. Mark’s bravery didn’t stop there. He was dating a girl with legal issues. By legal issues, I mean she was on Death Row.

Now, I’m not a detective or anything. But, I do suspect that if you interviewed 100 people on death row, 100 of them would proclaim their innocence.

But, as he told me, “Don’t worry, she’s innocent,”

My new friend, Isaih , also proceeded to tell me that he had some of his own legal problems in his lifetime. Apparently, he had been in and out of prison most of his own life for dealing drugs. But, he looked at me with a straight face and told me that most of the people in the prison are innocent. He replied to my skeptic look with the brilliant reply of, “Just ask if they’re innocent or not. They will tell you. They're innocent man. Seriously.” 

He tried to overcome my continued skepticism with a comment of, " I'm texting a girl right now whose man is in prison for thirty six years on a crime he says he didn't do."  Isaih might have made a good match with Becky the Backpacker., “

Anyway, the time came for me to make the journey across this great land of ours. I felt like a real-life present day Mark Twain. Instead of a notebook and one of those pens that you have to dip the ink in, I was all set up with my Huawei Cell phone Notes section to absorb all of the anticipated chaos on the Greyhound, I couldn’t wait to hear more of the utter nonsense that was going to come out of people’s mouths over the next few days.

The circus started from the first time I opened the doors inside the Charlottesville, VA, Greyhound Station.  I apparently broke an unknown rule when I got to the station to check-in for my trip. This Greyhound customer service guy named Malcolm has this rule that you should know to check to see if somebody just mopped the floor inside his station before you come in.  Within seconds of opening the door, Big Angry Malcolm was screaming at me,  “Woah , woah, woah.  What do you think you’re doing? Dat floor iz wet, and shit. God Damn it  “

It was the perfect start to what I anticipated to be a nearly outer bodily experience of hanging out on the Greyhound for the next four days. I grew up in a small town called Nazareth, Pennsylvania. Most of the families in my neighborhood had money for cars, houses, and trips to the Jersey Shore in the summer time. I felt like I had to know what goes on inside the walls and bus sides of the Greyhound.

  

The Greyhound Customer Service guy, Angry Malcolm, calmed down after I offered my apologies. We proceeded to chat about life for the next five minutes or so.  At that time in my life, it was hard for me not to tell every person I talked to about my life on the Appalachian Trail.  I learned that Angry Malcolm wasn’t angry all the time. He actually had quite the sense of humor. I also learned that Malcolm had seen many AT hikers come wandering into his station. We spoke at length about a guy he had seen a few months back. This guy was a bit of a legend last year on the trail. He went by the trail name of Pappy. He was eighty seven years old and about to finish the 2,190 mile AT hike when I saw him in Maine.

Malcolm turned to me and said, “You gonna be here for a bit? I’m heading out for my dinner. If anyone comes, just tell them I’ll be right back.”

So, I stood there inside an empty Greyhound Bus Station while I waited for the Customer Service guy to come back with pizza. 

It still somehow seemed normal...

Next week- Learn about what happened when I was left unattended in the Greyhound Bus Station.