33. One October Day (October 2014)
One windswept October day in 2014 found me at the corner of Elizabeth Avenue and North Kings Drive, the corner where the old Central High Building (of Central Piedmont Community College, which was once Charlotte College and Garinger High School) rests atop Little Sugar Creek in an often flooded depression in near-uptown Charlotte (just outside the inner loop). I wonder if anything valuable is down in that creek tunnel at this very moment. Maybe some hidden gold? Why would anyone hide anything valuable down there? Why do I think such nonsense?
I was waiting to cross Kings, while watching the cars and trucks zoom by on I-277, which was about a football field or so in front of me. Liverpool played in this city a little over two months ago. I think they looked better back then. They had better win the next three games. Chelsea is running away with it. [Chelsea would win the 2014-15 English Premier League season going away.] Still can’t believe Gerrard slipped. The football/soccer gods must despise LFC [Liverpool Football Club] now. Some cruel payback for the glory years in the ‘70s and ‘80s.
I turned my gaze back to the pedestrian signal that still had a red hand up. I waited, though no traffic was coming, as I didn’t want to set a bad example for the students nearby. Ah, just wait it out. No rush.
I glanced over at the streetcar rail construction across the street. Most of the trackway had been poured and the rails inset; that segment was almost done. Looks like the project is back on schedule now. Can’t believe that the contractor set the tracks down at the wrong gauge. Maybe the foreman was from Russia. [Russian rail gauge is 5’-0”, not the standard gauge of 4’-8.5” that is used throughout America.] One costly screw-up. I bet he got fired.
Then suddenly, a middle-age, white guy with semi-long blonde-to-gray hair was next to me. Where did he come from?
“Hey man, which way to the South Boulevard?” he asked. ‘The’ South Boulevard? He’s from out of town.
I noticed his untied, tan, oil-stained, ran-through-the-last-mill hiking boots. “On foot?” I asked to prequalify my answer.
“Hey now, does it look like I have a car?” I wonder if this guy has been drinking all night.
A Google Maps image of central Charlotte appeared on my mind’s front screen, flickering at first before gaining a clean horizontal hold.
“Ok, listen, just cross this street and go about four or five blocks to Caldwell, and turn left. Caldwell will become South Boulevard after four blocks as you go over I-277. That’s the shortest route.”
“No, I don’t want the 277. I’m going to the 77.” What is it with his exaggerated use of ‘the’ definite article?
The Elizabeth Avenue pedestrian signal was now in red-numeral countdown mode: 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 …
“So, let me get this straight … you want to walk down South Boulevard to get to I-77. I’m sorry, but South Boulevard doesn’t cross or connect with I-77.”
“I know. I know that, man. I just need to take the South Boulevard to the Tyvola to the 77.” The, the, the … it sounds so insane.
“So, cutting across on TyvoIa. Ok.”
“I mapped it out before I left. It’s only 4.5 miles. I can walk ten miles. This is nothing. I walk everywhere. I’m a bigtime walker, man.”
“I hear ya. I’m a walker, too. Actually, more of a bicycler.”
“Dude, I walked a marathon route one day. Twenty-six point two freaking miles!”
The Kings Drive pedestrian signal cycled again. I was now staring at a white walk sign.
“Ok, I hear ya. Just follow me.”
“Ab-soooo-lutely.” He’s polluted drunk, or inebriated on something. Pills?
We walked across Kings Drive and stopped on the northwest corner.
“Ok, which way on the 77?” I asked. Wow, I’m now overusing the definite article, too. His the-the madness is infecting my mind.
“South, man, south. When I get to the shoulder of the 77, this right thumb is going out and I’ll be off to the Columbia, South Carolina – my next stop.”
“Ok, so you’ll be hitchhiking?”
“Yes-sir-ree. All the way to the Florida. Eventually.”
“Getting out of Charlotte before it gets cold?”
“Uh, yeah; that, too, I guess.”
“I’ve been to Florida twice. Tampa Bay area. Clearwater and Bradenton. That’s about it.”
“I’ve never been to the Florida, man! Can you believe that? Man, I’ve never ever been to the Florida! I’m like 48 freaking years old and I’ve never been to the F-L-A! Is that crazy?!”
“I don’t know about that. There are plenty of states that I haven’t been to.”
“But, you’ve been to the Florida, man!”
“Yeah, like I just said: I’ve been to the Florida.” ‘The’ Florida. Gosh, it sounds so whacked.
The soon-to-be-hitchhiker then noticed the Little Sugar Creek Greenway on the other side of Elizabeth Avenue. I hope that he doesn’t decide to walk it. He’s too amusing to be arrested by the police.
“Hey, I saw this greenway on the MapQuest. Can’t I just follow this greenway trail to the 77?”
“No, I wouldn’t advise that. This greenway just goes farther and farther away from southbound I-77.”
“But, it goes south, right?”
“Well, yeah, it does. But, I-77 South goes more southwest than south as it leaves this city. You really should continue walking up Elizabeth Avenue, which will become Trade Street without a clue.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
“Without a clue? What is this, the puzzle town?” Yep, I shouldn’t have tacked on that ‘without a clue’ prepositional phrase. He’s confused enough as it is. No need to pile on.
I looked at him with a straight face. “I mean that the street name will change for no apparent reason. It’s very typical for this burg.” Should I have just said city?
“Yeah, I’ve already noticed that since I’ve been here.” He’s more observant than I suspected.
“When did you get here?” I asked out of a quickly expanding curiosity.
“Five freaking days ago.”
“Where are you from, if I may ask?” His accent sure is hard to place.
“Everywhere but the Florida.” He started to guffaw.
“Hey, that’s a good one. Very funny.” I chuckled for a few seconds with him. He seems to be very inebriated on something. No alcohol odor. Probably pills. But, what pills is he on? A mix? Hydro and Xanax? Oxy and Adderall? Does he have any extras? What the hell am I thinking?
“Dude, I came in from Richmond – Richmond, Virginia. I had been staying with some old friends. One dude’s father dropped in on our conversation last night about old times and said that he went to high school down here in the 1950s. Central High, I think he said.”
“Wow, that’s the building across the street. The community college acquired it over a half-century ago. It was built in the 1920s, and the basement proves it.” I wonder if there is water in it right now. Probably so. [There was an average of 2.54” inches of water on the old slab floor.] Glad they filled in that creepy void with concrete. / I wonder what is in the basement of that building. Why would he say ‘the basement proves it’? Is Jimmy Hoffa buried in there?
“You learn something old every new day.” He’s still quite clever in spots, despite his woozy stupor.
“Nice turn of a phrase. You should write that one down. Maybe use it in some writing someday.”
“That’s a grand idea, man. You got a piece of paper and a pen?”
“Sure. One sec.”
I extracted an old psecret psociety card from my left front shirt pocket. I then handed the card and blue ball-point pen to him.
He accepted the two items. Then he read the front of the card. “Huh? A psecret psociety? What in the heck is that?”
“Nothing to get too concerned about. Just a frivolous Facebook group.”
“All of Facebook is frivolous!” he yelled.
“Yeah, you might be right. But, I can’t knock it completely.”
“Why not? It’s just a colossal time-waster that removes you from your immediate environment.” And, that’s probably why it’s so popular.
“Well, I met my wife on it. But, as to your point about it wasting time and removing a person’s mind from their here and now, well, I agree. I think that’s why so many people are on it. It’s a bit of an electronic-escape drug. And, it’s free.”
“My escape is the open road. Always has been.”
“I hear ya, man.”
“Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, kind sir, but I must be on my way as the song goes.”
“Likewise. Stay safe. Bon voyage!”
“How about Von Boyage? Can that be my alias in the psecret psociety?”
“Sure. Why not? Run with it. Join and stay in touch.”
“Will do when/if I get in front of a computer again. But, don’t hold your breath, man. It may be a while. Quite a while.”
“Well, excellent. No rush. There’s no shot clock running.” Shot clock?
He then began to walk up Elizabeth Avenue, heading towards the sky-reflecting glass towers. A definite article, he sureth [sic] be.
His 5’-10” frame soon disappeared as I crossed Elizabeth Avenue and began walking down the greenway en route to Target – my usual weekday lunch stop.
As I looked at the southward-flowing, greenish gray creek, my mind began to meander, ending up in a knot in the 1.15 MPH current. I wonder if he makes it to Florida. Heck, will he even make it to Columbia? Ah, sure he will. He seems like an old pro at this. I wonder what his story is. When did he start wandering? Did he lose it all in Virginia? Will he join ‘the’ psecret psociety? Will he return to Charlotte next fall? Will he find what he is looking for? Will he ever read this short story online somewhere? Or, in print? Will he relay this tale … one October day?