Hobo Lifestyles #5

Escape from New York

by Tyler Carey

By last Wednesday, at about 8:32 AM, I was sick of September 11th. I was unable to find anything on TV the previous night except for anniversary "observances" and amateurish analysis of issues that are beyond complex. Most of us still know very little about the people we are at war with, and why we're at war with them, but apparently devoting 24 hours of airtime to candle lightings and wistful remembrances is a good idea, as every network seemed to be doing so. By 8:30, I popped in a videotape full of Simpsons repeats and cracked open some beers.

My company graciously gave us all the option to take 9/11, but I wasn't sure what more I'd accomplish at home, shivering in my bed and waiting for the bombs to fall, than I would shivering in my cubicle on Times Square. The train ride in was almost half empty - an oddity during rush hour. By the time we reached Jamaica, though, the absent commuters were more than made up for by gawking tourists in American flag t-shirts who wanted nothing more than to go to Ground Zero. Sonofabitch! Has Ground Zero just become the new Broadway? I've never seen so many yahoos in my entire life, just eaten up with the idea of going to a place to try to appear serious. Like Mecca or the Vatican... No, that's not fair. They'd never let you in to the Vatican or Mecca in a see-through sheer American flag top. I swear; I saw a couple wearing them. It was almost enough to make me toss my latte.

I went to a sub-shop on 9th Avenue for lunch. While my friend and I sat there eating "Mile-High Heroes", some guy in a suit started rambling about how he was sure that somebody would blow something up in the city before the end of the day. Goddamnit. That did it. I wasn't going to hang out in New York City for the next week, while every John and Jane commuter either shit their pants with fear or creamed their shorts with excitement over the next terror attack. Within four hours, I'd booked a room in a motel in Maine. Within thirty-six hours I was on the road.

My first stop was Long Island City. I picked up the Bear and tried to maneuver the passenger seat to accommodate him. The Bear, you see, is even taller and broader than I am - a truly imposing warlord-looking fellow. It's not bad enough that he's the size of a Viking; he's added streaks of orange to his hair. As he barreled out of his house off Queens Boulevard, he nearly gave an old lady a heart attack. Jumping in the car, we were off to New England. Far, far, far from the madding crowds.

Along the way, we just popped in on pretty much everyone we knew in New England. Long lost friends, aunts, uncles, even former employers. Of greatest interest to us was swinging by the old alma mater. Our campus had been paved. The whole fucking thing. New signs, new logos, big imposing campus security trucks. There were even rumors that all the pigs carried guns. "Why's that?" I asked one student. "They've gotten rid of the hippies," he explained calmly. "Cut the shit..." I started to say, but as I looked around, lo and behold, everybody looked like they were members of N' Sync. "Sonofabitch," I muttered.

"I can't take this anymore," Bear said. "I think I'm getting the fear..." Off we drove, shaking our heads, burning rubber and drinking swanky beverages from the campus bookstore. "I don't get it," Bear said. "Where did all the hippies go?"

"Goddard, probably. Goddamn, man. They spent decades building that place into an oasis for long-haired freaky people, and now it's just like any other small liberal arts college."

"Why do they need guns, though?"

"Aw, that's probably just a false rumor. Those guys looked like motherfuckers, but they didn't look like trouble."

Bear nodded his head and sipped his crushed fruit smoothie.

The road to Maine was a long slow one. We didn't get to our hotel until 8:30. We would have gotten there about an hour earlier, but we got stuck going 5 mph behind an old fucker who was taking his sweet ass time getting to Kennebunk. "Fuck you, you Republican asshole!" Bear bellowed.

"I think this is actually Democrat territory," I said. "The Bushes are an anomaly."

"Same difference," Bear muttered. "We've got to do something about this two party system."

"We are. We're running Mark Hugo for Governor."

"What about that thing with him and the goat?" Bear asked.

"Again: a false rumor."

"Christ, I hope so."

We checked in to the hotel, ditched our bags on the beds, and then pulled up to the hotel office. "Where's the nearest liquor store?"

The manager scratched his head and muttered something about not drinking much anymore. After a bit of hemming and hawing, he said, "I s'pose it would be Red Perkins' package store, a little bit the ways up Route 1. Closed about a half hour ago, though." He grinned evilly. "Blue laws'll getcha every time." He crawled back to his desk, cackling. "Mother of God," Bear said. "No one will sell us booze?"

"Aw, they've gotta be serving it in a restaurant or bar..." Up and down Route 1 we drove, searching for an open restaurant. The AA Gods apparently wanted me sober, I guess. After much time, we finally found a fried clam shack that was going to be open for another twenty minutes. Down the beer and bivalves went. Unless you are a true professional, it's not really possible to get ankle-shaking drunk in twenty minutes.

Damn. I wish we'd spent the weekend in New York. Nothing like a twelve-hour drive and a beer to help you unwind. Sure, we got some fun in, but what with CNN reminding us about terror arrests and a waitress turning in swarthy people at the waffle house down south, it wasn't much of an escape.

On the way home, we met with Mr. Hugo in The Bunker to discuss his gubernatorial campaign...more on that (with illustrations!) in a few days...There's still so much to process...

Tyler M. Carey
Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, The Great Hoboes of New York
September 17, 2002