8/5-8/6/08: Denver V-Scalped!

Tuesday was a defining day, although I am not sure of the definition provided.

Work was fine, and I had emailed my people at Coors Field to arrange tickets for the game against Washington. If I were to pick ONE team I would LEAST like to see, it would be the Nationals, but ya can’t beat free.

I really did not feel like going to the game once I had relaxed after work, but knew that would change once I got there. Eric picked me up at about 6:00 and since he parked about 10 blocks up the street, we had time to chug a beer or two before we reached the “$6.25 Beer Zone”.

I had two extra tickets, so rather than let them go to waste we decided to find people in line to try to save them some cash. I never sit in these seats anyhow; I have a friend who is the usher in the section behind my old camera well and he seats me in some of the vacant box seats behind the dugout whenever I go.

I thought it would be nice to hook up a father/son with these Row-5 seats as a nice surprise if Eric couldn’t find his "hot 30-year olds"! We had arrived late, so there were very few people to fit the bill. The last thing I wanted was to hand these out to some drunken fool, or some backward hat wearing Frat Monkey, in case we HAD to sit there for whatever reason.

We were about to give up when I looked across the street and saw a guy from suburbia trying to buy scalped tickets across Blake St. The scalpers had always driven me batshit when I worked at Coors. Whenever I would walk toward the stadium, they’d pounce. “Got any extra tickets man?!?! You work here dude…you can get me some tickets, brah” (‘brah’ is ‘scalper’ for ‘bro’ apparently; they all say it)

This was my opportunity to piss them off just a small fraction of what they had annoyed me. I bounded across Blake St., and asked the suburbanite if he wanted two free tickets in Row-5. The look on his face screamed “Hell yeah!”, but before I knew it another Peruvian looking scalper was in my face saying “I do!! Duuuude! I want em!!”, and in the process reaching across my body, in front of my face, trying to grab these tickets! Oops.

Remember The Greenpeace Affair?

Ron?

Yeah….

This was much worse however. I have no recollection of exactly HOW I got in this guy’s face, yelling, screaming, and completing a full time warp back to my Redneck Youth. However, there I was none to nose with this idiot telling him to “back the fuck up”, “Stand down motherfucker”, and “step the fuck back”. 

Lots of ‘fucks’. None with an upward inflection.

I could see the mental evaluation process in his eyes. Should he lip back, or let this one go? First, it was amusement because, apparently, he thought I was kidding. Then there was “oops, I messed up”. I believe he saw A LOT of rage in my eyes, because then I could see much fear in his. I had him. Todd was an Honorary Redneck again.

When I saw his fear and realized how close I actually was to fighting this guy, I regained control of myself. I literally have very little connective memory of this exchange, until I heard his fellow scalpers, who wanted no part of me themselves, egging him on. They used the time honored trick of questioning his manhood. He was a “pussy” if he didn’t… get his ass kicked! Pure Michigan in Denver! Then his posturing changed.

All of the sudden he appeared to WANT to fight again, and told everyone so, as he was running away from me! Sprinting. Can you picture the comedy of a grown man talking trash while running away from you? My blood was still boiling rapidly, so I began to pursue him. My agitated reptilian mind was telling me that this would be a glorious way to release pent up frustration. But common sense got the better of this debate. Either he did not want anything to do with me, and this was how he could save his “Scalper Cred”, or maybe there was a weapon stashed wherever he was running. Whatever. Both scenarios told Todd to turn around and just go enjoy his ballgame. Therefore, he did.

The suburbanite/gentry-type man had a look of shock on his face when I walked back across the street and asked him if he still wanted the tickets! Unfortunately, so did his kid. He was probably eight or nine, and I had completely forgotten he was there during all of this. Eric not-so-gently reminded me by informing me that “Well, you freaked that kid out, dude.” I felt like an ass. In all honesty, the kid (and dad back at the office) now has a hell of a story to tell his friends later, but still…

The adrenaline rush was astounding and familiar. I was literally shaking like a leaf in anger as we walked toward the gate, and Peruva-punk followed, still running his mouth…on the other side of the street. I blew a kiss to him as I obnoxiously waved my tickets high overhead. He reminded me of the dog behind a fence who WANTED to do SOMETHING, but just couldn’t quite climb it.

I said hi to a couple of friends I had worked with, more or less just to calm myself down. That helped a bit, but now the realization had set in that I was actually in quite a precarious mental state. Telling a Greenpeace Puppet to fuck off is one thing. Some might even say admirable! This, however, was something else. Dangerous. Foolish. Immature? All of the above?

Eric had yet to see that side of me, and I expected him to either laugh, smack me in the head, or never speak to me again. He knew about the other things that had happened however, and had some remarkable insights to offer: the same insights as Chris. I had no tolerance for any unnecessary hassles associated with being ‘plugged back in’. I’d been literally in survival mode for over a month, and apparently had liked it. I literally felt like I was short-circuiting when I tried to readapt to contrived priorities. I felt caged. As Veronika put it in California: I’d “tasted the blood”.

As we sat there and watched the game, it began to dawn on me that I really needed to move on. It had been three weeks since I’d ridden into Denver with Ken, and it was obvious that I was seriously disturbed by being there. I concluded that it did not really matter where I went, but it had to be soon.

We finished watching the Rockies beat the Nationals, and then walked adjacent to the train tracks back toward the truck. The parking lot spans 12 city blocks, so we had ample time to survey the yard, and chat. 

A funny thing happened during that long walk; something not so surprising. My energy level skyrocketed, my mental awareness sharpened, and I felt… oddly…at home. Everything I had been missing since I had returned from the road. Smokers will get the metaphor that this was to my brain like the first cigarette after going 2-days without. That was telling in the sense that it seemed apparent, all of the sudden, that I was seeing a mental manifestation of what Chris and Eric had been telling me: "get the hell out of here"!

On the way back to The Friary, I decided that I really needed a drink. Eric had decided not to work Wednesday, so I called Chris and we arranged, against my better judgment, to head to Barracuda's. I just needed to chat about this stuff and did not want to be in the house caged for the night.

Remarkably, the night was rather uneventful, but productive. We discussed alternative ideas about the temper flares and even talked about the possibility that tonight’s example may have been The Road’s way of tapping into something a bit more primal than I am used to thinking about: a return from the Laws of Man back to the Law of Nature. The Anarchists in the audience will love that! When I thought of it in that light, it didn’t seem so bad.

Much of the debate leading up to this trip had a lot to do with talk v. action, and killing duality by living your ideals as opposed to those imposed upon you. I will post a lot of that when I get more time, but these three weeks has seemed to bear that fruit.

Another series of discussion went along these lines in that the common theme with these outbursts have centered on manipulation. I was not yelling solely at the Greenpeace Puppet; I was yelling at the puppet master as well. The scalper had gotten to the brink of violence because he had gotten physically in my space by reaching in front of me, and was trying to protect his ‘Manipulation Zone’ as I saw it. There may be a small bit of rationalization in there, but as is usually the case, there are probably elements of truth in all of this. Either way, it was becoming clear that it was time to move on. Remember the two day (week?) rule? HA!

We went from Barracuda's to the Park Tavern for a couple of drinks, just because I’d never been in there-even during the year that I lived in Capital Hill. Amazingly, considering my initial mental state, we did not drink much and got to bed relatively early.

Wednesday was a chill day. Not much of anything outside of walking to Office Depot to get business card paper for the next leg of the trip. While there, I decided to buy Chris a stick of RAM for his laptop as a thanks for letting me stay. 

That took an extra trip, but it was worth it. His computer really needed the added memory! I spent the rest of the night writing and dwelling more on the previous night.

8/2-8/4/08: Denver V-Manipulating the Universe

Saturday it felt nice to just chill out and do nothing. Chris and I finally managed to get to the grocery store for food in the afternoon, thankfully without incident! On the return, we crossed paths with a friendly homeless guy hanging out in an alley with his little dog. We both commented that he seemed like a decent guy and noted that he was one of the few who will chat with you without the conversation turning to what we could give him.

Chris worked, and I wrote, until 10:30 then it was off to Barracudas to relax and have a bit of fun. So much for not drinking. It was an enjoyable night highlighted by a conversation surrounding the definition of ‘art’, on which I won (!), but we agreed to disagree.

After the bar closed, we were outside chatting with some people we had met and gawking at what appeared to be a souped up hearse, driven by some characters from a Gothic novel. Quite interesting. As we were about to leave, we saw the homeless guy from earlier. Chris began chatting with him, and before I knew it, had offered him a place to stay for the night. 

That Friar...he had offered Catfish a place the week before as well; it is his way of returning the generosity he’d found on his cross country walk. I didn’t think anything of it. Sounded like a nice gesture and a good way to generate some good will in the universe. I also remembered the alley earlier in the day, when he was content to chat with us and not expect anything. I had a good feeling about the guy. Ron was 50, seemed to be pleasant, didn’t reek, and had an ornery little dog. A perfect combination for a house guest!

We headed back to the Friary with Ron and Bella (the dog) in tow, and broke out the remainder of the Jim Beam gallon Chris has had since May. We all drank up, chatting, while Chris and I were getting to know Ron. He was from Raton, NM so I felt a kinship to him in that regard and he seemed to have a Christian background; spoke of “Jesus” quite often. 

We asked him why he was living on the street, and he said it was because he was ‘tired of all the bullshit’. He did not seem to be an addict of any kind, but did like his Jim Beam.

I began to notice some things that seemed odd, however, when I began to press him on some of his opinions. He would not elaborate. Just rattle off the same answer again. I pictured Eric’s analogy of the punks selling speaker boxes with no guts inside! That was enough for me, and I essentially shut myself down, and let them chat until it was time to pass out. Then...

I had been giving Ron cigarettes since he had been there. No big deal, but then out of nowhere he decided to reach over, grab my pack of Pall Malls, and start to put them in his pocket. I asked him, “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my cigarettes?” He responded that these were HIS cigarettes, Goddammit! I took them out of his hands, forcibly, let him know that he was full of shit, and asked him what kind of idiot he took me for. Again… he couldn’t elaborate. Just to further explore what he was all about, I reached over and picked up the glass of Beam & Coke Chris had poured him. Christ on His Throne! “Hey, that’s fuckin’ MINE!” I had my answer.

Chris didn’t see any of this going on. I was going to let it go, to try to practice my new policy of forbearance. However, after I laid down, I realized that if this guy were going to try to steal my cigarettes with me SITTING there, what the hell’s he going to take while we’re asleep? My backpack and everything else I had brought with me was at the foot of the couch! I pulled Chris aside, told him what had happened, and he agreed that Ron had to go.

Chris, being the Divine Friar he is, gave Ron a shot at redemption. He asked him about the cigarettes and, of course, he said he did not try to take them. When I told him to look me in the eye and say that, of course he could not. It is about here that my blood began to boil. Ron had been lucid all night, standing and walking just fine, then suddenly he was too drunk to talk! As this little exchange continued, my voice steadily got louder and I was getting angrier by the second. The one thought I remember having is that THIS is the EXACT stereotype I was fighting on the road. I was assumed by many people to be THIS character! I heard echoes of Eric’s sentiments on the welfare state, how people will gain a sense of entitlement. Then I heard the hippies saying "Oh, they’re ALL just down on their luck and need a second (or thousandth) chance" with the upward inflection on ‘luck’ and ‘chance’ of course. The longer he sat there, the angrier I was getting.

Chris finally told him he had to leave. It was then that Ron, mysteriously, lost all use of his legs. When he tried to stand, he crashed into the makeshift bookshelf and onto the hardwood floor with a loud thud. Then, he couldn’t stand up from there! Chris gave him the benefit of the doubt, but to me this was too coincidental and convenient and began telling him so. I believe my response to this was “Oh, just get the fuck up, and get the fuck out of here.” 

Upward inflection on "fuck" and "here".

After some effort, Chris finally got him out the door, down the steps, and outside where Ron, again, mysteriously lost all motor functions. He crashed onto the sidewalk, and refused to move. His dog was not any too pleased about any of this, and I tried in vain to get her back on her leash so she wouldn’t run off in what was left of the night.

Ultimately, we decided that if we left him there at least we could keep an eye on him from the window. That solution lasted maybe 3-minutes before Chris chose to go back down and try to get him back to his couch. I declined to take part.

Chris was gone quite a while, and I began to get a bit concerned to the point of getting up to go looking for them. When I heard the door open, and just Chris walked in I was quite relieved. Apparently, Chris had gotten him to the couch when Ron’s motor functions just as mysteriously returned, and decided that THIS couch was not quite the proper place to be. He set off for a few different places, and Chris in his concern stayed with him until even he was fed up and had come home. Thus ended the Saga of Ron.

I had no idea how to digest this, but it occurred to me that many of the conservative leaning friends were correct. At what point does a person have responsibility for themselves? When does "‘I need a little help" turn into entitlement and a "get everything I can" mentality? How many of the ‘homeless’ people we see are simply looking to exist solely on handouts in an effort to avoid personal responsibility? Charity has its place, but so do common sense and the ability to see through a swindle.

Chris and I discussed this for a short time before we passed out with the sun already in the sky. The only conclusions were that we are probably a good counterbalance to each other, and that Chris was right when he asked Ron “How many people try to help you out after you try to steal from them?”

Sunday consisted of nothing but recovery. We talked a bit more about Ron and a few other things including more about South America. I touched base with Eric regarding work on Monday and that was it.

Monday was again mostly uneventful. We worked almost all day, then Chris and I walked to a video/CD store where he bought, then we watched, “What the Bleep Do We Know”. One of my favorite movies, and one that inevitably triggers deep discussions! However we both, and Eric too, had been noticing a type of mental fatigue. Chris and I spend most of our time in discussions, and Eric and I do the same thing, all day. It seemed that it was starting to wear all of us out! A good thing I guess.

Despite the fatigue, we talked about the movie, the Latin America trip, and began to do some research on what to expect once we got to Mexico. I also had arranged tickets for a Rockies/Nationals game at Coors Field for Eric and I. THAT would turn out to be quite eventful, and even more eye- opening than the weekend had been, and it would begin to illuminate the door out of Denver!

Ron was obviously the Event of the Weekend, but over the past couple of weeks, as you have probably noticed, Chris and I have been having more in-depth conversations about this winter’s trip south. I have neglected to detail much about this intentionally; I wanted to see how the ideas developed and whether we would have second thoughts. It is a much bigger decision for Chris because it means abandoning some of his plans and expectations in favor of the nomadic lifestyle again. Over the last 2+ weeks, it would appear, and he has stated, that this open ended adventure seems to have almost set itself in stone. It feels right; synchronized. 

The “Rest of the Americas” trip outline and philosophy deserves its own space.