I was somewhere in Pennsylvania, on the second floor of a bus careening towards Washington like the leaning tower of Pisa on roller skates. I'd lost two pens and three dollars of hold'em games to Sun Tsu's cousin next to me. But everything was okay. I'm a professional. At least the press pass I made said I was.
The earliest recollection of the hell hole I can remember was on the train. Some feminine fur freak began arguing with the conductor over a hole versus a rip. Back and forth until he searched her bags and removed her at the next stop.
If she'd gotten kicked off the train after that I could expect the death penalty sometime during my trip. I had to get rid of my bag in case of this damn conductor. The windows of the train refused to move. I couldn't hop on and off without some suspicion. The bag wrapped tighter around my chest and my lips became more pursed. Easy job my ass.
The windows on the serpent looked like black pits. Good God, the conductor threw the b*tch straight into purgatory, I thought. I'd be next, especially if our other conversations mirrored our first.
"Tickets?" he asked.
"Yeah. Hey, do you guys ever think about having monkeys on these bars? Just swinging and sh*t", as I pointed to the rack.
"I don't think that would be approved."
"Like the Chinese. They did it. Give'em some opium. They'll be fine."
"Here's your ticket." as he left.
The closer the train pulled to the city the more I heard about the riots. If I ever got down there security would be breathing down my neck, a decent long haired hippie freak like myself. This bag had to go. Maybe into the trash. Maybe into a burning limo. But going. Somewhere.
I watched as the conductor trekked up and down the train. Each time his eyes bugging a bit more like a greyhound on speed, dipping into a barricaded car, hopefully to keep a lunatic like himself away from the public.
With each passenger that got on the urge to riot grew. I decided that I'd journey up about the time we reached Dobbs Ferry, second hand boredom getting to me. It's the type of place only the people live in go to. Never any visitors. Or at least I assume, I've never been.
When I hopped out at Grand Central I ran to a Western Union desk, inquiring for any messages for a G. Gonzo. My photographer requested we only speak through messages. The British fur ball was supposed to meet me already. I found that, supposedly, that tripod serf had snapped into a fit of rage, emptying some sort of handgun into a garbage can, screaming long live the queen and overdosing on crumpets.