After a long day of sales attempts, our crew would meet back at the Black Angus Hotel and settle up with our bosses. This entailed taking inventory of our wares and paying them a set price for what we had sold---whatever we actually got from customers was our business. Anyway, it seems this particular evening our boss had discovered a discrepancy in the item count in the hotel room we were using as a makeshift warehouse. In other words, someone done made off with some items when no one was looking. I had nothing to do with this theft and I was wholly unprepared to be fingered as the culprit, which is what happened.
I was the new guy in the crew, which apparently made me the prime suspect. Never mind that I had never been arrested for anything outside the prior day's debacle, which was more than the majority of my fellow crew members could say. I also had no access to a vehicle that I could use to abscond with the products, nor did I have a key to the hotel room. Somehow none of this mattered and, more importantly, I was too young, timid, and naive to make a case for my innocence and tell these low-lifes to fuck off. I assumed things would work themselves out somehow, that an inventory error would surface or the bosses would determine who actually pulled the scam. No such luck--- I'm inexplicably the guy who done it.
There was really nothing I could do at this point, I was literally cast out of the crew and left to fend for myself. I don't recall why I was left basically broke, but I was. My cut may have been coming through Barlett, who had the vehicle we used, or the bosses held my share back---whatever. The stark reality was I was on my own, with night falling. In addition, I let myself be bullied into leaving my beloved boom box with the crew, naively believing I could retrieve it later when we were all back in Atlanta. Whatever. The bottom line is I was left with a small bag of clothes, and a sixty-case of cassette tapes. I honestly don't think I had any money at all on me, and now I had to get about four hours north. Good luck!
So off I wander, not knowing what to do, other than hang out at a convenience store/gas station to try and figure it out. Nowadays placing some calls on a cell phone would come in handy---to ask someone wiser than me for advice and what-not. As things stood, a call anywhere from a pay phone would be at least two dollars more than I had on me. Mom lived in Ohio, and Dad lived in California anyway. My options were, as they say, limited. In addition, my roommates in Atlanta didn't have a phone, and it was 50-50 at best to reach any of them through the next door neighbor. (Our house didn't have a furnace or air conditioning either, but that's another blog altogether.)
What I did have going for me was a newly found talent for sales. While I didn't have anything other than cassette tapes as product, I did have desperation on my side, and that's one hell of a motivator. So I started selling tapes out of my suitcase-style case, right there at the gas station. Honestly this was harder than I expected, because I treasured all of these tapes---these were the ones that made the "traveling team", after all---but to a random person in Albany, Georgia they didn't really mean shit. And it wasn't like I could just go back and burn new ones off my itunes, or pull them off the internet for free either; these were going to cost real money or real effort to replace. But of course none of the people to whom I was peddling these recordings cared, nor should they. Hell, I was just lucky they were willing to take a look at what in their minds were probably stolen property. But now I'm babbling.
So I was slightly taken aback that a 90 minute tape chock full of The Police's best songs could only fetch a couple of bucks. Such was the case with all of my classic compilations, but a couple bucks here and there add up to enough to buy something to eat, which was fuel to formulate a plan. While I was peddling my tapes I was giving my sob story, which in retrospect sounds very similar to the tale every crackhead/drunk has when trying to bum money, but I didn't realize this at the time. I suppose the fact that I was nineteen was working in my favor, but I digress. Every once in a while people would take an interest in my plight and make suggestions as to what I should do. Someone mentioned that there was a farmer's market down the road, and I could probably catch a ride with a trucker headed up to Atlanta the next day. So that was a start...
The tape selling got easier as the night progressed, probably because people had a few drinks under their belts and wanted to rock. Sadly though, I didn't make enough to afford food and my own room at the Black Angus, so I was then forced to think of where to catch some shut-eye, hobo style. I decided to wander over to the aforementioned farmer's market to see what was up. I had no idea what these places were or how they operated, after all. Predictably enough the two long, warehouse-style buildings were closed, and I was reduced to creating some place to rest. I was able to "borrow" a tarp covering some fire wood and spread it out onto a field of really high weeds, which made for a passable, inconspicuous bed. I also had the unlikely dumb luck of finding a roll of nylon screen, for windows and doors, and this served as a net to thwart insects as I laid in their midst. I want my Mommy!
After a most unfit-full night of sleep in thick humidity and weird sounds I started looking for a ride to the Big A among the numerous trucks that slowly began assembling at the crack of dawn. This wasn't the easiest task, needless to say, but I finally found a guy willing to give me a lift, but he wasn't leaving until the late afternoon. In addition, it would only be as far as the Atlanta farmer's market, which was still a good twenty miles south of my house. Better than nothing to be sure, but needless to say I was ready for this to be over quickly. So I kicked around the area for a few more hours, reading a shitty magazine or two to kill time. Might as well have been in jail again, really.
So after selling a few more tapes, I made the climb into the cab of a big rig for the trip north, thus fulfilling a childhood dream. Actually no, I've never did have riding in a semi on my bucket list, but I assume it was pretty cool. Fact is, I don't remember much about the ride because I was so tired and hit the sleeper portion pretty much immediately and slept the entire trip. Normally I would feel compelled to chat up the trucker kind enough to give me a lift, just to be polite, but I was totally exhausted. After a few unsuccessful phone calls to get someone to come get me I was in the south metro Atlanta evening, hitchhiking at a freeway exit ramp. This is when things got funny. Or sad. Or weird. I still d0n't know which...
I seem to recall the wait not being too long before the harelip stopped to pick me up. That's right, the affable enough guy in his twenties who gave me a lift was afflicted with that most unsettling speech impediment. Looking back, there's really no other way for the events to have unfolded, given the absurdity of this entire debacle. I remember not being surprised at all at the time too---this final episode was meant to be.
I'm not sure what the gentleman said prior to me getting in his car, but at that point I certainly didn't care. He was headed north, and that's all I cared about. As it turned out he, on the other hand, was asking me where I was heading. "As far north as you're going into town", was my likely reply. So off we went, into a galaxy known as Extremely Unintelligible. I might as well have been back at the ghetto supermarket where I had my first job for all I could understand of my current savior, the driver. Eventually I figured out that he was headed towards Stone Mountain, an Atlanta suburb that is about fourteen miles east of ritzy Buckhead, the unlikely place of my broke-ass residence with no furnace. I remember this guy saying that he didn't want to drive all the way there, but I wasn't having it.
Somehow I ended up with the upper hand in this situation, despite being the one who was bumming the ride. Perhaps it was my newly discovered balls I had grown from my gypsy sales gig, but I recall more or less telling this guy that no, in fact you are taking me to my house in Buckhead, thanks. Not a lot of begging or asking nicely involved, and I honestly feel bad about it to this day. In my defense, I was at the end of my rope at this point. Sleep-deprived and cranky from my ordeal, I was not in the mood to have to find yet another lift. Thankfully the driver finally relented, and we were soon headed through downtown Atlanta and to my house. Or so I thought.
While Mr. Harelip may have been something of a pushover, he was something equally significant: he was a gay pushover. I know this not because he made a pass at me, but due to the fact that we made a detour on our way to my house, into what I now know was a notorious patch for all manner of drugs, lady-boys, and seedy hook-ups. I suppose my driver figured if he was passing by anyway, might as well swing through and see where he could stick that thing. After all, this skinny young hitchhiker had an attitude and was clearly not interested in the cock.
Well he would just have to wait for his ride while he took care of business.
It took me a few minutes to figure out what was gong on, because while an explanation may have been forthcoming from my ride, I was unable to interpret it. Soon enough we were making repeat passes past the same corners full of the types you might see on an episode of COPS, but with a more refined, city slicker look. Eventually it became decision time, and I was given the option to either stay in the car and participate with a new "friend", or gtfo. Needless to say, I took the latter option, despite the surroundings being remarkably sketch. The good part was I was only two blocks from the city train system, so I had that going for me. I thanked my ride, who seemed quite pleased to see me leaving, or just giddy with anticipation for what the rest of this evening had in store for him---not sure which---and off I went.
I successfully made it to the train station, probably because I conveyed an unmistakable "I've had a horrible day, leave me the fuck alone" vibe. Caught the train, transferred to a bus, and finally made it home, well over a day after being wrongly accused and outcast. Predictably enough, I never did get my boom box back from the sales crew of jail birds I had left behind, but I didn't really care that much. There was also nothing resolved as to who was the actual thief on the crew, and I never went back to work in this "rock and roll atmosphere." But I can say I lived, and did I ever learn. This was probably the job that taught me the most about life.
