I am not a professional vagrant. At least, not yet. I used to be the state capitol reporter for a statewide NPR affiliate until about a month ago.
Maybe it's just unemployment getting to me and messing with my head. But after some unfortunate circumstances happening one after the other, and a very uncertain future, I'm considering hopping a train out West, using http://www.couchsurfing.org as a tool to find people to stay with, dumpster diving for sustenance, and writing about the adventures I get into all along the way. Sort of a 21st-century Kerouac novel.
I'm writing you Kossacks for advice, because you are all smart, well-read, well-experienced and educated on just about everything.
More below the fold.
I realized last night that I am a true Mississippi Bluesman, by gawd. Before I get into my vagrancy conundrum and hard life decisions, allow me to give you a little background, if I may.
Being a Bluesman
It was at my favorite little hole-in-the-wall juke joint in the hood in Jackson, just last night. Now, a week ago, I found a stunningly beautiful woman there, and took her onto the dance floor, away from the loser she was sitting with. Around 4 AM, she ended up going home with me after we had discovered that I had inadvertently broken her dress in the back while twirling and dipping and twisting all over the floor.
After a stellar night, and morning, and afternoon, she and I were sitting on the deck of my apartment, sipping coffee, talking about life, and watching people going about their day, me in a bathrobe, her clad in a pair of my boxer briefs and a t-shirt that proclaims "THE PARTY HAS ARRIVED." I learned her story, and she told me all about her trip to Haiti to give surgical attention to those affected by the earthquakes. She told me about Ghana, and about her love of photography, and opened up to me about how she was still struggling with the recent experience of getting mugged in a parking lot and ineffective prescription meds and therapy. We connected on so many levels, and our chemistry was electric. I drove her home with the windows down and sunroof back, blasting Benny Goodman all the way, the Mississippi August heat beating down on us as the wind attacked our faces, our hands clasped the whole way.
Later that week, I made her my world-famous stir fry at her house, and then took her to another lesser-known local spot in the run-down part of town, where some of Jackson's most creative poets, rappers and singers gather for open mic slam poetry and spoken word. She and I were the only white people in there, but they welcomed me with open arms as they always do, and encouraged her to perform. I read some verse, namely, Mos Def's "Love Rain" that he did with Jill Scott. I remember looking her in the eyes with a roomful of strangers watching me and saying,
For you, I would peel open the clouds like new fruit.
Give you lightning and thunder as a dowry.
I would make the sky shed all of its stars like rain.
I would clasp the constellations around your waist,
And I would make the heavens your cape.
And they would be pleased to cover you.
They would be pleased to cover you.
May I please cover you.
She went onstage later that night and sang "Cry Me a River." And she asked me to stay the night at her place. And I did. And God help me, but after just five days of knowing this woman, we acknowledged that we each had powerful feelings for each other.
Fast forward a week later. The same juke joint. Thursday night. She hasn't answered any of my calls or texts, despite saying the night before she missed me and wanted to get together. I see her there with another man. From behind a drumset on the stage, I see them kiss. And I felt a wedge of glass bury itself in my heart, and twist itself to really make the pain more pronounced. I wonder if I was really a special case, or if she does all guys like this, and I'm just the latest in a string of fools she's played. Well, not the latest. The latest is actually at the bar with her, and I'm watching with jealousy in my eyes.
This all comes on the heels of me losing my job as the legislative reporter for the state's NPR/PBS station, and a resulting media firestorm that erupted when the word got out that I was let go for what basically amounted to standing up to media censorship. My fifteen minutes of fame are just about over, although the local alt paper still wants to interview me for a big cover story they're doing on the whole ordeal. It feels good to be famous, but it would feel better to have some financial stability. I have about $800 to my name right now. Another $1200 from the state retirement system is coming my way in September. My last month's rent before my lease is up on Sep. 30th, combined with bills, cellphone, car insurance and the like will eat that up real quick.
And that's when I realized that I am a Mississippi Bluesman. Along with the drumming, singing and harmonica playing, I've got no job, no money, my woman's been trickin' around on me, and I'm thriving on the goodness of others, of good music, and family. The only thing I trust in this world is my djembe. I wonder if Mississippi has this effect on everyone.
Becoming a Professional Vagrant
I've had some pretty good job interviews in town for some work that would pay pretty decently. I still freelance music, news and arts pieces for the local alt paper for $20 a pop (they actually made me freelancer of the month of July, which means $50 in restaurant gift certificates). I've got a job interview for a really stellar nonprofit organization, where I'd essentially be working as a program manager, media communications person and lobbyist for a cause that helps the working poor. The owners of my favorite BBQ place in town tell me to come by anytime I need a free meal. Things are on the up and up.
But regardless, I have to move out of here on September 30th. And this is what I've decided, if by then I still haven't found W-2 employment.
I'm going to jump a Westbound CSX train, ride incognito with just a change of clothes, a water jug, a harmonica, a laptop/charger, my digital recorder, and my notebook. I'll wear the Ranger jacket I found at a Goodwill for protection, and to discourage potential attackers. I'll carry a pocketknife. And I'll travel via couchsurfing.org. I've hosted about 50 people since last December and have plenty of vouches, so I'm considered trustworthy in the CS community and likely wouldn't have a hard time finding places to stay.
A friend of mine, an Iraq veteran, did something similar last Spring, where he spontaneously hopped a train to Atlanta using a comprehensive CSX schedule he found that has all the times, locations of train yards, arrival times and departure times. He ended up going on a 5-month journey and loved every minute of it. He's the same guy who taught me the art of dumspter diving; go to small grocery stores that don't have trash compactors, and wait for them to throw out stuff that's still good, still hot, and still in a case, and you'll never have to pay for food if you do it right.
In the meantime, I'd chronicle my adventures and the people I meet and the scrapes I get into in an all-encompassing nonfiction novel/travel memoir, with themes of neo-Bohemianism, the prevalence of altruism and the inherent good that is still in most of us. I think the book could sell really well.
The Reality
Now, maybe this is just unemployment and idleness getting to me, but I get the hunch more and more that this is the peak of human civilization, and that we will see widespread catastrophe and mayhem and disorder in our lifetimes, perhaps in the next 5-10 years. I hope I'm wrong about that, but you also have to realize that corporations are now legally allowed to buy Congress and White House, and are free to do so under the veil of secrecy.
A scientist who helped eradicate smallpox says human beings will likely be extinct in 100 years due to a combination of overpopulation, strained resources and climate change.
In the next ten years, a huge chunk of the ice cap could break off and submerge coastal cities in 23 feet of water. Keep in mind, there are still large numbers of people who don't even think climate change is real. And there are lots of people with lots of money who are good at keeping it that way.
In the meantime, North Korea is threatening South Korea with nuclear war, we're putting young men and women in a country thousands of miles away to die for a war with no realistic end goal or means of getting to wherever it is we're trying to take that country. And one of the most productive, progressive presidents in history is being barraged with an onslaught of lies and slander from his corporate opponents, and being tarred and feathered by his supporters whom he's ignoring for whatever reason.
In short, I don't have a lot of hope that the world as we know it will survive. I think by 2015, the planet Earth will likely resemble "The Road," by Cormac McCarthy. And if there's ever a time to risk it all, to purge myself of worldly possessions and embark on a journey to write a book I believe needs to be written and read by all, the time to do it is here and now. I'm 23. I'm debt-free. I'm single. I'm in good physical form and have no health conditions. I like to think I'm a talented writer and musician.
And right now, I'm writing this both for therapy purposes, but also to gauge what Kossacks who have read this far have to say about my plans, should I not find work in journalism, activism or politics by September 30. I'm being completely serious about all of this.
Thanks for reading. The floor is yours.