And THAT's why I call it The Crazy Bus.

So I've been living in the East Bay area of California for a while now, about closing in on two months at the time of this tale of blunder's commencing. Alameda is a nice quiet island nestled up between Oakland and San Francisco, an old naval station safe haven where the speed limit never reaches higher than 25 miles per hour. Fact. Much time is spent traversing the great Bay Bridge by my hombres and I. And to do this we rely nigh solely on public transportation, specifically the AC Transit system. I could write volumes of essays on the sociological strata encompassing riding this bus everyday. But I haven't always been a hotshot at navigating these semi-reliable systems of public service, in fact, get a ready for a shocker here, I used to actually fuck it up all the time.

But this one time, this one night trying to catch the All-Nighter home through Oakland for my very first time unaided by helpful companions or local guides.

It took the whole fucking cake.

It started with a night out on the town, somewhere on Polk St, with my newly-of-age best friend and roommate Jamman. We had been treated to some new establishments by our friends and now it was time to embark on the great journey seeking a suitable place to pass the hell out. Jamman made plans to crash at one of the friends, while I corresponded with Conman, who was subletting in the city, to hook me up with some personal face time with his hardwood floor, as soft as downy clouds.

He texted me the proper methods of entry into the building, for he was also crashing, mentioning blankets on the floor.

The only problem here is I had only ever been let into this building. I could get past the large gate, but the door on the inside seemed to require a key, and this stumped me. The current state of my blood alcohol content also allowed much more misdirection. I tried calling Conman. No response. Called Jamman. Also dead to me. I hate being 'that guy' sometimes but I definitely called them both at least four times each. Sorry, guys, I was desperate.

How desperate? Starting my second day of my new job in the city desperate. Need to sleep at least six to seven hours just to make sure I don't sleep through my alarm desperate. Desperate desperate. So desperate.

Desperate enough to try and hobo it up under an awning on some nice red carpet, insulated by three layers of newspapers just so I could definitely make it to work on time desperate? You betch'ya.

The lapse into homelessnessy-ness only lasted approximately twenty minutes. I think. I was pretty drunk and considering chugging the last three bottles in my backpack just for inner warmth alone. Survival of the Drunkest, here. But I became distraught and had a pretty classic "Look at Yourself!?!" moment and got myself out of that situation.

I had to make the All-Nighter home, if it was the last thing I did. Fuck work the next day, I just needed bed. Jamman, Conman and T-Company had briefed me on the details on catching the 800 to Oakland only on the 11th minute of every hour so the 851 from Broadway to Alameda is waiting for me upon arrival... But that sounded too simple. Right?

The 800 is always a rough scene of folks up way too late, probably just as fucked up if not more than anyone else, sleeping the cruise into Oakland. Angry ghetto-blasters, annoying homosexual goths, hippies, hobos, ancient Asian women, security guards done with their shift, and of course, the raving lunatic crying-laughing at his hands shaking against the window. It hits me I don't know what stop in Oakland to transfer to the 851. I'm freaking out and don't want to talk to a single soul in this 80 mile per hour roller derby tin can. It's 3:30 am or something, nobody's answering their phones. Except...

My brother. Asleep with his girlfriend. Last ditch effort met by only her voicemail. Until he called me back, clearly tired and confused, but still there. Still caring. I love my brother.

He told me which stop, and even stayed on the line as I got off the bus and hit the dark, wind-torn streets of Oakland. I couldn't find it at first, but eventually saw the 851, ran across the street and boarded it. Graciously thanking my saving grace of fraternal love, I rested happy as a clam on the bus, ready for the tunnel to Alameda.

I'm still drunk, and awfully tired, and I guess it just didn't click with me for like half an hour that we should have been in Alameda. But outside the plexiglass, all I could see was trees, strip malls and ... road signs? With names. Names I did not know. I was riding the 851 in the other direction. The wrong direction.

Before I could react properly, or even panic properly, the bus hissed and cooled to halt.

"Last stop!" the driver shrieked.

The only other man on the bus was a sleepy drunk old black man, and he argued profusely against her exclamation. Declaring she was false in stating this and must drive further. She naturally trusted her route and schedule and the situation started escalating so I got off the bus quickly. Two minutes later it pulled away as the old man stumbled off probably nowhere in particular. I was in a large open space of road, near tall buildings and at a distance from a shorter one. The shorter one's sign read "BERKELEY AUTO-REPAIRS," upon reading I instantly texted at least five people who this could affect and three others it probably didn't:

"I think I'm in Berkeley."

But it was past four in the morning at this point so it was entirely unnecessary. I redialed my brother's girlfriend, due to his not owning a cellphone, a point of personal pride for him and endless irritation for everybody else. Thank Creation he answered. He'd never been to Berkeley. His only advice was find a bus, and talk to the driver. The driver would help. I didn't want to believe it, but this was the only person I could trust at the moment. Then he went to bed. So now I had to trust a stranger in the night.

The bus I eventually did spot and run down was driven by a short Korean fellow, but his English was superb but tired, and he could help me. I think it was the 800 I caught but that didn't make sense. I was delirious perhaps. But this guy brought me back to Oakland, to the large open intersection on Broadway where all kinds of buses waited for each other. In a way, this wasn't helping me at all. Oakland isn't a scary place during the day, just mildly unnerving. But between the hours of 2:00 am and 5:00 am, you try and invent great reasons to not be awake on the street in Oakland.

The wind was ghoulish and lashed at me. It was chillier than the Ninth Circle of Hell. Instead of seeing Satan buried up to his three heads in the ice of Lake Cocytus, I watched an overweight haggard bag lady pushing a shopping cart of junk towards me. Bunched up in her too-large ragged down jacket, she gazed at me and in her most sultry voice inquired "You gotta transfer, baby?" Further down the street, Crips all reppin' blue hoodies and rags rolled six-seven-ten deep going nowhere near me. I made it to the shelter of the bus stop, checking the signs carefully. It appeared I had to catch the 51 into Alameda, the first bus of the day.

Waiting impatiently next to an unconcious black teenager, I was joined by a couple, I think Hispanic but I was focusing with a lot of effort to not pay attention to anyone more than they needed. Then a fat white guy cruised up on his bicycle and got off.

He instantly began talking to the couple. All I could think was, Oh fuck, looks like we got ourselves a talker. Some Chatty Cathy who likes to meet strangers for uncomfortable small talk on inescapable bus rides. He was trying to make jokes about how cold it was and in my stupor I was so pissed he thought the goddamn temperature was fucking funny. Pissed.

Finally the 51 rolls up, and this is when shit gets weird. I get on first and sit close to the driver, dead set on not missing Alameda this time. There are a few other folks on the bus. When Powder Puff gets on, he has this final little laugh to himself and no one else "Nowhere as cold as main." I think he said.
But I double-take. What. Maine? Did he say Maine like the State?

"Did you just say Maine?" I ask in a hoarse unused rasp.

"Yeah, Maine. I'm from Portland, Maine."

"Shut the fuck up."

Not the most appropriate response, but it was like 5:30 and I was in no mood for games.

"What?"

"I'M from Portland fucking Maine."

We talk a bit more and I stop cussing, realizing he thought I was very upset at him for this common ground between us. Turns out he went to University of Southern Maine, where I just graduated from, and then to University of Maine Orono, and then on to Maine Maritime Academy, and there's only three places to go from there... back to the trailer park community, the Coast Guard, or where this chipper bastard ended up, the Navy. And Alameda Point was one of the most important naval bases in California, and the Pacific Theater. Okay, I don't really know that, I just wanted to use Pacific Theater in a sentence. Why the hell did they call areas theaters during wars? Nevermind.

The oddest coincidence ever. Had I not attempted sleeping outdoors for that amount of time, or caught the right bus the wrong way all the way to the last damn stop in Berkeley, then I would never have talked to this weirdo Navy geek from Portland, Maine who graduated from my college.

And that's why I call it the Crazy Bus.

But I need to think of something more clever..

Elevators.

I don't know what about being in a small tiny room carted up and down by a pulley system appeals to me, it just does. It could be the forced awkward social interactions had within the tiny room. Or maybe just the confinement and isolation. Whatever it is, I like elevators. I had sex in an elevator once, it was hot. But some elevators are sketchy.

The elevator going up the Eastland Hotel Parking Garage is a very sheisty deal. The double steel doors like to shake violently with a terrible noise as it travels between floors. Terrifying. Sometimes the delay between when the elevator reachs the floor and the doors open is just long enough for you to think that the doors might not open. Also terrifying.

Once, on top of the Eastland Hotel Parking Garage, we went to the elevator to find a homelessmen sleeping in it. We were all very frightened that he was dead. But I thought I heard him breathing. Tim, Aaron's roommate, was with us. Without missing a beat he shouted "YO! YO, DUDE!" but the sleeping man did not respond. We took the other elevator. Later, we found out it was John the Prophet.

The elevator on the World Trade Center was very, very fast.

The elevator in Robie Andrews residence hall was a pretty cool one. There was a button with a picture of a fireman's hat on it. It was an emergency button of some sort. One of my old roommate's Corey always wrote in marker over it "Push for Free Hat." He even mentioned that he wanted to arc weld a plaque with that engraving over the button, so the janitors could not erase it. But we shortly after concluded that to arc weld in an elevator would cause a lack of oxygen and he'd pass out. Thus, he would not be a smooth criminal.

John the Prophet

When Mark Hotz came up to visit, we went to Autonomous Government's place, got high and went on top of a parking garage to enjoy the view. Once up there, we heard some shouting down below. Perhaps, it occured to me, someone shouting up at us, in a conversational matter. I could not determine if this was true though.

But after several minutes, from behind us, we heard a shout too. We all turned and a figure stood by the elevator on the other side of the parking garage. He was greeting us. In a purely defensive manner, my friend Mark looked at me and said, "...get ready." I'm pretty sure he was ready to fight whoever this was.

But it was just a homelessmen. As predicted. He got closer and I greeted him. I am as friendly as possible with these people, and almost more positive than with regular people. He had a kind face, stylish beard, and old dirty clothes. He was very friendly, but proved also crazy. He walked up to the side, placing his arms on the wall beside me, Mark to my left, Ashley, then AG. When I exchanged name's with me and everyone else, he said his name was John, but also asked "Who's the girl with the cute butt?" to which AG tactfully replied, "Oh, hi. I'm A..." and shook his hand. A nice save.

I asked him what he did, you know, every day. He told me that he blessed people. I suddenly remembered shaking his blackened dirty hand and feeling kind of funny. This was either the violation of my hygiene, or a religious experience. He also made fun of a passing police cruiser, shouting "Get lost, piggies. Oink, oink, watch out, they'll take you off to Pumpkinland." I inquired as to what or where Pumpkinland is, and he told me it's where they dress everyone up in blaze orange.

I asked him about blessing people, but being fairly burned, I had trouble getting my point across to him. I resulted in just asking him, "Are you a Prophet?" My use of the term prophet intended to be more like Apostle but coming out wrong. He stared at me for a while with a strange look in his eye, and I didn't know if he received my meaning or not. Mark stood very tall behind me with the intention of intimidating him, thinking he was perhaps about to attack me That was not the case though, I think he was judging me. John responded that he believed in Jesus Christ and kind of laughed it off.

At one point prior to that, he complained about getting his bike stolen. I empathized with him hard on this one. He said he knew the guy, but the guy still stole his bike. That just sucks. He told me how he used to get everywhere quickly with the bike, and had fun riding about Portland. But now he has to walk everywhere, and that sucks. I agreed.

When we left the parking garage, he ran into the same elevator as us. We became all simultaneously worried about him following us without saying a word to each other. But when he got in I heard him mutter that he was "one of the good guys." I believed this. At the bottom of the elevator, he took off in the opposite direction to all of our silent relief. I shouted goodbye to him. He was a nice homelessmen.

And I think he blessed me.

New York.

I only been there twice.

The first, when I was like nine. Family trip with my cousins. Stayed in a hotel nearby the Empire State Building, kinda shady. A homelessman sold us all umbrellas for a dollar out of a trashbag when it rained one morning. This may be one of the primary roots of my empathy and respect for the homelessmen. But I don't want to get into that right now.

There's this one picture of me, nine years old, standing on top one of the World Trade Center towers. My mom thinks it's real deep and special now.

I visited it or passed through it again not too many years after, but it was only very briefly and I only kind of remember it.

Whenever I think of New York, all I can really remember is it being kind of like Super-Boston.
It was also very dirty.