IBE: The Days Of WanderingBuffalo free porn video

We left the Proctor and Gamble facility in Irvine carrying a full load of home cleaning products. Given the weight of the load and its length, Jake had to concentrate maneuvering the big Kenworth through the heavy Irvine traffic and the abrupt corners of city streets. Even though he had driven 18-wheelers for many years, Jake’s demeanor indicated that he did not wish to be distracted.

Driving an 18-wheeler in traffic is something of an art form. The other traffic- perhaps understandably- does not want the big behemoth in its way. Resultantly, they are entirely reluctant to let the truck in. It is not a fast machine and can not slice and dice the traffic the way a small car can. And understanding the geometry of a 53’ ft trailer and its 25-foot long head bent as they are about a third of the way along, requires extraordinarily spatial relations knowledge.

Eventually we made the turn on to Jamboree Ave at which point he relaxed somewhat. The road was more open now and therefore easier to navigate. We traveled through several miles of the boring concrete slab that is southern California. It is exquisite in its boringness. The exception that proves the rule of everything having beauty.

California was probably the worst of the states in preserving its natural beauty, at least in the the days before the age of the environmentalist. Even the rivers seemed to be hemmed in or covered in concrete. Greenery was few and far between. Everyone seemed angry and harried. The temperature was relentlessly hot. God knows why anyone would ever live here.

Some people called this paradise, and I often wondered why. It was boring and without character. So the weather is warm. So freakin’ what? The cold isn’t so bad, and I say this as a man who has lived most of his life outdoors. I’d rather live outside in the cold of Wyoming’s untouched wilderness than in this nasty paean to man’s belief in the fallacy of personal mobility.

People who think they need a car in life have another think coming. I’ve been getting around for the better part of 25 years, and I have never personally owned a car. I’ve travelled everywhere. I’ve shared one with a few people over the years, but never owned one- or rented one- while alone.

True, there are places that are difficult or impossible to get to if you aren’t willing to walk dozens of miles, or are willing to hitchhike or stowaway. Public transportation is not what it should be in the United States of Whiners. But I’m digressing on a political rant...

It’s a good thing Jake and I both liked country & western or this would not have been a tenable relationship. The Statler Brother’s “New York City”, which is ironically a negative song partially concerning the supposed immorality of that city, reminded me how much better a city could be. Its mass transit system allowed one to go anywhere in very short order.

Is it not indicative of the automotive fallacy that the largest city in our country has no expressways running through, or even within five miles of, its main business district? Not only has this city not built a limited-access freeway in Manhattan south of 200th street- the only one is far north and passes through more than accesses- but they have not built a bridge or tunnel into Manhattan in nearly 50 years. The last New York City bridge was the trans-harbor Staten Island-Long Island Verrazano-Narrows Bridge- and that was 40 years ago.

In fact, only now are they talking about building another crossing. Is it a coincidence that this new crossing, the so called Trans-Hudson Express tunnel, is a rail tunnel? Is it a coincidence that, despite this being our biggest city, and despite it having no major roads built in decades, it has the lowest traffic delays of our top 20 big cities? Despite the fact that every year, it seems like a dozen more blocks are closed off to vehicular traffic?

No, it’s no coincidence. Alone among the great American cities, New York largely resisted the urge to dismantle its mass transit network. Half of the commuters into Manhattan take the train. Metro-North Commuter Railroad from upstate New York and Connecticut. Long Island Rail Road from practically any town on Long Island- even Montauk and Oyster Point, three hours away, had multiple daily commuter runs into Manhattan. New Jersey Transit from central, and western Jersey. The Port-Authority Trans-Hudson from the NJ satellites.

Many of those who do not take the train into Manhattan ride ferries from the satellites. Heck, even Monmouth County, far to the the south, has it’s Sea-Streak high-speed catamaran ferry into Manhattan. The maritime transit within and to New York is more extensive than the entire transit systems of many American cities in and of itself.

Nearly six million individual MetroCards will swipe their way through the city’s massive and comprehensive 24-hour subway system each day. The bus system transports millions more. The system even includes an overhead cable car between Manhattan and Roosevelt Island.

Many- if not most- living in the City don’t even own a car. What’s more, New York has always respected the environment. Land in Manhattan is millions and millions an acre, yet the entire upper west side is barren forestry. Its many parks are full of green plant life. Central Park is home to both flora and fauna, lakes, reservoirs, a zoo and more. Central Park, taking up thousands of acres in the dead center of the city, can take you so far from the city’s bustle you can almost forget you were there if it wasn’t for the skyscrapers, peering out above the trees.

Even back in the 1900s, New York’s desire to reduce pollution expedited New York Central, Long Island Rail Road, Pennsylvania Railroad, and the New York, New Haven, and Hartford Railroad’s massive electrification projects. Operating steam and diesel engines in southern Manhattan was and is forbidden. This, 50 years before the London Killer Smog brought the massive dangers of air pollution from a fringe topic into a real concern.

It was a bustling city of many cultures, architectural diversity, and a respect for its history and what came before it. Every other city I have been to seems dysfunctional in comparison, and this was most apparent in the concrete abyss of racial tensions known as southern California.

Finally, we got onto toll road CA-261 and started winding through some mountains. This was more like it.

“Speaking of Hornell,” Jake said, “You said you went back there once?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “When I told Suzie I’d be there, for the first time anyway.”

“That must have been painful,” he said.

“Yeah, it would have been hell if it wasn’t for Rachel...”

The date was approaching. Soon the arranged date would be reached and it would be time to go meet up with my love. I was anxious. I’d get light headed thinking about it. The end of my long traveling seemed to be in sight. I could see my parents, my family, and Suzie. It had been a long and crazy road from the cruise in the Caribbean until this point.

I got to Hornell a few days before hand. I’d come in on a Conrail coal slug coming in from PA. I was lucky in that as I started to climb on when the train stopped just out side of Scranton, they caught me.

That would normally not be lucky, but the particular engineer and conductor on duty were hobo-friendly lads. A lot would just call in the bulls, but these were different. Instead of being stuck in the coal hopper hiding, or in the hoosegow, I was allowed to ride in the cab with them. They made me get out a mile outside of Hornell Yards, but it was still more comfortable.

I found a big K-Mart and bought a bunch of supplies and then found the tree best suited for a hideout and climbed it. I would be waiting here for several days, but I was prepared for that. I climbed it for the last time the night before and fell asleep in the big old oak. I was used to living in strange places so this wasn’t that out of my range of places to live.

I sat there as the sun rose, my heart pounding in my chest. It was as if not enough air existed to feed my thirst for it. Questions raced around in my head like formula racers in the Monaco Grand Prix. Was she coming? Did she still love me? Would she forgive me for running? Did she forgive me for beating the stuffing out of her father? Was she going to come alone? This could be a trap, and that was my greatest fear.

Finally, about two in the afternoon, three figures walked towards the area. I couldn’t make them out, especially given the dense cover. I was pretty well hidden. It was a very dense tree.

When you are a hobo, you learn how to hide. People simply don’t like hobos. It seems to be a standard thing. You want to hide so that the police don’t catch you. You want to hide so that people don’t see you to begin with. It’s not paranoia either.

It’s functional primarily. You need to hide in order to, for example, sneak a ride on a passing train. If they see you by the side of the road when they pass by, they will watch you and see you board the train. If most train crews see a hobo board, they will chase them off the train.

Boarding a moving freight train was dangerous enough without the crews seeing you. It required speed, stamina, and timing. Being able to do it without them observing you was a key aspect of successful travel on freight trains. So I was good at hiding in the tree.

I was in the upper branches of the tree, and I could see through openings in the leaf cover, but there was no way they could see me, if they even happened to look up. People don’t see what they don’t expect to see unless it is waving a red flag. Magicians work on this concept. So I could just wait for them to get within my recognition distance. It made me race more and made me even more light headed.

I recognized the three people. One was my darling Suzie, but my joy at seeing her- she was as beautiful as I remembered- was short lived. The other two were men. One of them was her father. They all looked stressed out as if meeting me was not something they were looking forward to.

As they got closer I finally recognized the third male. His name was Brian or Bryon or something like that. He was in her grade through school. He was one of the more desirable guys in the school when I ran away, as far as I remembered. It bothered me that she was with this big, strong jock fellow.

I could see them quite clearly; they were only about 150 feet from me. They were distinctly uncomfortable in the way they interacted with each other. It disturbed me. I was nervous to move from my spot and reveal myself.

I could feel my heart slowly breaking. She was going to turn me in to the police. That’s what this had to be about. I started to tear up and feel anger flowing through my veins, but I managed to control it. I cried softly to myself, not wanting anyone to know I was even here. I hoped that the most damage I could do to her was not show up.

Suddenly there was almost a feeling of hatred, laced with the love I have long felt for her. I wanted to cause hurt and pain. It was as if something in me was snapping. What was left of my sanity, I suppose.

Then, maybe if she decided they were responsible for killing me, she might be more amenable to listening to reason. I don’t know. I was paranoid. Crazy with love and desire and want and romance. I had been away from everyone I cared about and here she was with a boyfriend and her father- who had sworn to get me thrown in the hoosegow.

At around nine that night, with both Suzie and her father looking outraged, they started to leave. I could see they were talking, but it was very windy out. I couldn’t hear them. Didn’t matter, I didn’t have any real desire to hear what they were saying. I had a feeling it would break my already shattered heart even more. When they disappeared I jumped down from the tree.

I used to do that when I was a kid. I’d jump right down. Grass cushioned my fall and of course a young kid is very resilient. I admit that the prospect of it killing me wasn’t something that troubled me terribly at that point in time. How would you feel at this point? Honestly.

It didn’t kill me. I guess in retrospect that’s a good thing. But it did hurt like a fucking bitch. I probably sprained or wrenched something. It was painful to walk at that point, but walk I did. All the way to the train tracks. At some point I had resolved to see my parents, however this had gone, but at this point it was not something I wanted to do. As would become common for me later in life, discomfort lead to a desire to run. And run I did.

I was sick, nauseous, and worn out. I was tired, like a huge weight had been burdened upon my shoulders. I felt like I had actually been hit by one of the freight trains I had been riding. I was suicidal. The only thing that stopped me from ending it forever more was an even stronger desire. That desire was the desire to run away as fast as possible. That desire reached full strength that night, and has never left me; it governed my life.

I got to the tracks, and only had to wait about five minutes before a surprisingly sluggish Conrail train started chugging by. I quickly spotted a box car with a broken lock and partially opened door, and hopped on board. It almost looked like a reefer, but no hobo worth their salt would break the lock on a reefer and go inside. It was late at night and it was dark in the car. I quickly noticed, however, that the car was empty of goods. I went into a corner, and now, feeling safe, started to cry.

I bawled my eyes out. All my hopes, all my dreams. Everything I had hoped for, had kept me going, for the past three years was destroyed. Suzie either hated me or had found someone else. I mean they didn’t look to be in love or anything. Not in their body language. But Christ, what else would the kid have been doing there?

I was broken and I wasn’t ready to face the future anymore. I had been living with this one thing driving me. My reunification with my girlfriend. That had been stupid. Marty was right; two and a half years was too long a hiatus in a teenage relationship. I had been a complete fool. Without a reason to live I wasn’t sure I could manage to bring myself to keep doing so.

If you’ve never ridden in a box car, and I doubt you have, you probably don’t realize how carefully insulated a passenger car is. Box cars are deafeningly noisy places, especially over neglected track such as what we were passing over now. So it is not surprising I didn’t hear the person approach me until they were practically on top of me.

“What are yuh cryin’ ‘bout?” a female voice said, slightly harshly.

I jumped and started to stand.

She gently kicked my legs out from under me. “Doan leave, I’m just askin’ yuh a quesshun.”

“It’s a long story,” I said, “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Rachel. I’m a hobo, too. Dat is, unless you’re a bull, yuh know what I’m sayin’?” she added.

“I know what you’re saying, and I’m not a bull,” I said, laughing. For those of you who don’t know, “bull” is hobo slang for a railroad police officer.

“I din’t tink so,” she said, “Look, we seem tuh have time at de moment. Also, I’m lonely, and yuh sure seem like yuh could use a friend right now. Yuh with me?”

Something about that voice just made me calm down a little. I don’t know why. Still, I was defiant.

The freight train picked up speed, and it soon became impossible to leave it.

“I don’t want or need a friend,” I said, “I don’t want to be hurt.”

“I won’t hurtcha,” she said, “I promise. Okay? Look, at least tell me your name.”

“Johnny,” I said absently, “Look someone who I thought loved me and cared for me just tried to betray me.”

“Tell meh ‘bout it, Johnny,” she purred, “Maybe I can help, yuh with me?”

I told her the story, in short form. It was hard to tell a long story in the loud cacophony of the box car. Her ear was right in front of my mouth as it was.

“Basically, Rachel,” I finally summed up, “She apparently got a boyfriend and also told her dad about this meeting. She betrayed me on several different fronts, and it hurt like you can’t imagine.”

“Johnny, I doan know exactly what happened,” she started, “But de fact of de mattuh is, neithuh do yuh. Yuh saw huh basic emoshuns, butcha din’t see how dey were directed. Right? Dere are tons of reasons why dat played out dat way, and not all of dem are huh betrayin’ yuh.”

“I feel in my heart she did,” I told her, “I realize I have nothing to live for at this point. I don’t know where I’m going to ki-”

“Oh, aren’tcha de tragedy queen, or what?” she hissed, “Come on, Johnny. Yuh two were TEENAGERS when yuh left. Ya’ know? Teenagers break up and fall apart and get back togethuh again. Yuh got me so fahr? Its de way it wawhks. Now I admitcha are lonely and upset and all of dat stuff. That’s ok! That’s nawhmal. Right? But fawh God’s sake, man. Kill yawhself, yuh nuts or somethin’?”

“Well what do I have to li-”

“JESUS!” She roared, “Ok, let me tell yuh a stawhy, ok?”

“Alright,” I said.

“One day,” she began, “A dog was wawhkin’ through a railroad yard. Okay? He had seen somethin’ off in de distance and wasn’t payin’ attenshun de way he should have been. He ran in front of a movin’ train wit’ poawh timin’ and de tip of his tail was tawhn off, okay? He spun around so fast his head was chopped off by de next wheel. Yuh with me?”

“Ok?” I asked.

“De point is, doan lose your head ovuh a piece of tail!” she yelled at me.

“Suzie wasn’t a piece of tai-” I tried to interject.

“Maybe she meant de wawhld tuh yuh,” she said, “So what? Dere are othuh women in dis wawhld. Ya’ dig? You’ll find one. Me, fawh example.”

She scooted over next to me and put her arm around me.

“I’m not ready-” I started again.

“Fawh anudder lovuh?” Rachel asked, “That’s ok. Right? Lets start wit’ companions and take it from dere, okay? I can’t be someone’s lovuh anyway, but I can be someone’s company, I promise. Yuh with me?”

“Uh...”

“Look, bein’ wit’ someone is often bettuh than bein’ alone. Okay? Its not wintuh out, thank god, but it’s still early sprin’ and its cold out. At de very least, we can share body heat. We can help scavenge food. Okay? Let’s take dis where it goes. Ya’ dig?”

She later admitted to me the reason she was so desperate to be my companion was that she was putting me under a sort of suicide watch. She wasn’t a sweet girl; she didn’t know what made her suddenly want to help me. But she did. It saved my life, without question. Just the fact that someone wanted to help me.

The train seemed to be slowing down. I could get off now, but she had a point.

“Ok,” I said, “I guess its worth a shot. What do we have to lose?”

As far as I was concerned, at this moment, I had nothing to lose trying it. I was already done with life. All I could do was make it last longer.

“Dat’s de spir-” she stopped mid-sentence and cocked her ear.

I listened too. Then I heard it, too.

“ICE!” we both yelled.

“Let’s get outta here!”

We both scrambled out of the train, and then she grabbed my hand.

“Togethuh, Johnny, okay?” The feeling of her hand was electric to me.

We both ran, so as to get off of property we could be arrested for trespassing on. We looked back as we ran. We had gotten out of the car just in time, because they just dumped ice into the coolant area. Hobos can and do get killed when in reefer cars that are being charged.

When we finally stopped, and looked around, we realized we were in a fairly large city.

I finally saw her, though. She was ... she was ... Well, she was something. I couldn’t see her face with insane clarity but I could see her. She was tall- around six feet in fact. Her hair was curly and matted. She moved with a lithe athleticism that suggested a life of constant motion.

“Where are we?” she asked. In the relative quiet of the city scape, I could better hear her voice. It was a bit nasally, and very distinctly- thickly even- New York City. It was kind of cute. It added to her apparent sense of enthusiasm and sarcasm.

“You don’t know?” I asked.

“I got on dat train yesterday in Scranton, yuh know?” she said.

“I got on just outside of Hornell,” I told her, “Timing and density suggest we are in Buffalo.”

We saw the lights of a slow moving car. Slow moving cars are either: drug sales people, gangs looking to do a shooting, or a police car on patrol. Any of the above is not something a hobo wants to run into, so we ran into an alley. We found a garbage dumpster that was only about 25% full and climbed in.

It was a bit smelly, but all the trash was bagged or didn’t need to be. It was soft, and since it was mostly empty, that suggests it had been picked up recently and we wouldn’t have the annoying problem of waking up inside a garbage truck. She spooned up to me “for warmth” and we fell asleep.

Under her winter clothes, I could feel her body. She was distinctly lanky under there. Gangly. Feeling her like that was ... there’s that word again, electric. I was attracted to her. It felt wrong, like a rebound, but it was strong. I mean how strong does it have to be to feel it inside a garbage dumpster?

The next morning we woke up and I found she had turned around in her sleep and we had wrapped our arms around each other. It wasn’t an unpleasant way to wake up, and I enjoyed it. It was the most pleasant wake up in a dumpster experience I ever had. Although ... aw skip it. I shook her until she was awake, and then we popped open the lid of the dumpster and climbed out. We were relieved nobody saw us.

This was the first time I could actually see her clearly. She had a sort of Jewish look to her. Her curly hair was oily, matted, and a surprisingly becoming dark brown. I don’t think either of us had showered in a while. But I had been living life as a hobo long enough that I didn’t really notice that so much. I’m sure I smelled bad myself.

She had dark but soft eyes, a huge nose, and big ears. Her mouth was uncommonly large for her face. It wasn’t what most would call attractive, but it gave her a really nice smile. She must have been 5-6 years older than me, though, and was tall enough to almost look me in the eye, as I mentioned before.

She was dressed very similarly to me. We were both wearing overalls. Under the thick jacket, she had on a t-shirt that I think was white once. I had a khaki colored work-shirt because I found they stay presentable longer. We were both wearing work boots and had jackets.

Overalls are an ideal clothing, because they can be worn even when they don’t fit. When you’re never sure when or where your next meal is coming, you eat as much as you can when you can. Hobos gain and lose massive amounts of weight depending. In addition, they are comfortable, and generally quite durable.

She wasn’t quite as skinny as I had originally surmised. She didn’t seem all that shapely, although in overalls 2 sizes too big, it would be difficult to tell. I liked the way she looked. She had a look of sarcastic street smarts, and of laughing the world out of her purview, the survival tactic of some hobos. Like me, she sat outside of society looking in- and laughing at it.

During that mornings discussion, we decided to pool our resources for a while.

Between us we had:

Two large backpacks

One fountain pen, three ball points, and a plastic bottle of ink.

Seven notebooks, four of them filled, and two of them half filled

A dime-store compass (hers) and a SuperFire Weslinger compass (mine)

A thick road atlas of the US

A more compact atlas

Two sets of male overalls and three t-shirts, two sets of female overalls and two t-shirts

Six pairs of mens underwear, three pairs of panties, and one sports bra

Two warmish light weight jackets

10 sticks of beef-jerky

A big box of something called Halavah

Two jars of peanut butter

Several cans of instant soup

A bunch of disposable BIC lighters

A Coleman stove/grill, with a gas can.

Two Swiss-made Victoria officer’s knives

A Rolex wristwatch on a stainless steel expansion bracelet

A Seiko divers watch on a NATO-type nylon strap

A pair of battered MAGLites, a 2D and a 5D

A mini-MAGlite, 2AA model.

A set of lock picks (hers)

A deadbolt lock (like you would find on a home door) with keys

A butterfly knife (ditto)

30 feet of rope

Six rolls of duct tape

$276 in cash.

It amused me that she seemed to have some more illicit tools than I did- particularly the butterfly knife and lock picks. Given the fact that we had some money we went into a crummy-looking, but actually good, diner near where we slept the night before. We ascertained by looking at its address on the place mat that we were, indeed, in Buffalo, NY.

We ordered breakfast and agreed that from now until such time that we changed our minds, we’d work together. The first order of business was a base of operations.

“We need tuh find a place tuh stay,” she pointed out, “even if we’re just squattin’ in an abandoned buildin’, yuh followin’ meh?”

“I agree, there certainly are enough of them,” I concurred.

Buffalo was not Rochester or one of the other New York Ghost Cities, but like many upstate cities, it had seen a major population decrease. A lot of companies had left and there were major buildings that were distinctly abandoned. While they did make a point of trying to put up an image of keeping vagrants out of them, they didn’t really do a good job at it.

We went looking for a place to operate out of and found what appeared to be an old office building converted from a house. There was a basement window that was opened. When we examined it we found it to be in poor condition, but everything there suggested it had not been occupied in some time.

One problem you have is that squatters are territorial. While it might not be my home, it is my home. What I mean by that is, there is a food chain of who belongs in the building. While the actual owners, if they even exist, have more of a right to be there, the current squatter has rights over an eventual future squatter.

One thing that surprised us was that the place had clearly been used for squatting, such that conversions had been made for that purpose. For example, the window had a jury-rigged catch that allowed it to be closed and opened from the outside without making it apparent that such could be done.

Structurally the building was in decent but not great shape. The stairs, for instance, seemed like they would be distinctly uncomfortable if we were to trod too heavily on them. Running up and down the stairs would qualify as a bad idea.

We found a bunch of things laying around, including an old mattress, some blankets, a couch with pillows on it, and, thankfully, a lavatory with running water. But the best thing we found was a closet with a solid door in the basement. She explained to me this was the reason she carried around the deadbolt. It allows you to leave things you don’t need in your base of operations. It allows for accumulation of things.

The first order of business was installing the lock onto the door. I did that using my Swiss Army Knife. We each took a key, and put a lot of things we didn’t need to lug around with us in the closet and locked it.

We laid the mattress and blankets and pillows out on the basement floor. Sure, they weren’t that nice or anything. But remember: last night we slept in a dumpster. Take your pick, mildewy mattress and blankets, or a dumpster. Yeah, that’s what I thought. The price was right, ok?

That night we went food shopping and bought some fresh food- hot dogs and white bread are a cheap and tasty food you can prepare on a portable stove/grill device. In the late 80’s, MREs were not readily available to the public, yet.

Rachel briefly disappeared into a liquor store and came out with a really cheap bottle of wine. I asked her about glasses and she rolled her eyes. I had never swigged wine before, but there’s a first for everything, right?

I grilled the hot dogs using a stick I had found outside to poke them and roll them and otherwise manipulate them. They were ok, I suppose, considering they were Hoffman’s Red Hots. New York States’ best hot dog, really.

We shared the wine and chatted about some of our shared experiences in the world of hoboing. Places we’d seen. Things we’ve done. Money we made and how we spent it. Some of the cool things we’d done when we were flush. Some of the improvisations when we were broke.

She got around to telling me her story. She was 29 years old- she looked younger than that, although I was making allowances for her lifestyle. You seem to age faster when you don’t take beauty care of yourself. She had been in college at a party when a guy raped her.

I know it would seem strange to you that she’d be willing to tell me that, but when you’re in this world, you all have a secret to tell why you are here. Beggars and the like often have serious problems at birth that prevent them from being normal. Hobos, rogues, and vagrants usually have an event or string of events that make them do what they do. Transience in a human is usually a result of getting a scare related to forming bonds and allegiance of place.