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There is a fine line between being a free man and a completely uncivilized savage.

I wear that line like a jock strap – figuratively speaking…since I haven’t worn pants in something like three days.

That is not to say that I have been running around stark naked or anything. Please. I have worn an Oxford shirt that I cut the sleeves off and leave unbuttoned.

I have been dressed, not unlike, a member of the 70s cartoon, “Help! It’s the Hair Bear Bunch!”

Anyway, Trixie informed me that someone noticed that I haven’t been posting much lately and was curious if I was still off doing whatever it is I am off doing.  Wow. I had no idea I had a loyal reader out there. Frankly, I haven’t done much but hide from winter. But, out of a sense of noblesse oblige, I herewith present a run down of how I have frittered the time away recently:

As you may be aware,  The EM-50 Phantom Rambler broke down last week.

It is up and running now, but it took 5 days. This is partly due to the fact that I have no understanding about how anything in the modern world works and people can read that on my face.

Just like this

I stayed in a motel room while the mechanic thought up more things he could claim needed to be replaced.

In that time I became…civilized. A tenderfoot. Completely unprepared to resume life on the road.

I mean, I was living like a Viking before the Rambler threw a shoe. Five nights in the luxury of the Barstow Travelodge left me spoiled and a feeling a bit entitled.

I’m ok with hardship – hell, I prefer it. But, I had gone soft.

The only thing that has kept me from going all Jerimiah Johnson – I can’t stand wearing dirty clothes – especially dirty socks.

One of the only things that has kept me from becoming completely domesticated, of course, is that I hate doing laundry – any household chore, really.

The eye of the needle between these two hates is the path I am fated to wander.

When I was finally sprung from the fix-it shop, my first stop was the local laundromat.  The Barstow coin-op, like all coin-op laundromats, is in a bad neighborhood.

I carried my mountain of soiled clothes in, and stuffed it into an oversized washer, then sat down to begin a crossword puzzle.

Presently, a thugish-looking black fellow with several tattoos on his throat came sauntering in all a-panic.

He struck up a conversation with a thugish-looking Mexican fellow with several neck tattoos who was preoccupied with trying to look dangerous and unpredicatable while sorting his delicates. They became deeply engrossed in the subject of which of them the cop who had been circling the parking lot for the last several minutes was after.

The black fellow insisted that the cop was waiting for him to leave. He seemed certain that the cop knew that his license was suspended and wanted to nab him driving. All because that very cop had arrested him for that same infraction just last week. It did not help that his vehicle was a conspicuous orange and black mustang.

The Mexican fellow, not to be one-upped, insisted the cop was after him because he had four outstanding warrants.

Feeling left out I offered, “He might be after me. I just got my vehicle repaired down the street and he might want to know if the work was down to my satisfaction. You know, community good will. That sort of thing.”

They stared at me. I gave them a reassuring nod.

I went back to my puzzle.

After a couple of minutes the room went eerily silent. Not a sound. The machinery seemed to pause.  It was a loud and ominous silence.  I looked up from my puzzle. The police officer had entered the laudromat and everyone went next-level non chalant. Of the 35 or so people in there, it was like there was a contest to see who could draw the least amount of attention to themselves.

The cop scanned the room with an angry glare. Then, his eyes met mine and locked on.

“Afternoon officer!”, I said cheerfully.

He pointed at me and said, “May I have a word with you, sir?”

I had a pretty good idea what was going on. I rose, excused myself and followed him to a corner, well away from the prying ears of the others. The crowd seemed to relax but just a notch.

When we got to the corner he asked to see my ID. I handed it over.

Staring at it, he said, “I’m not really after you…”

I said, “I know. This is a ruse because you figured I am your best bet for a cooperative citizen in the crowd. You’re after the black guy with the neck tattoos. Suspended license. You are waiting for him to drive. He won’t.”

He gaped at me.

I said, “He knows.”

He pretended to write down my information. When he handed me back my license he said,

“If anybody asks what this was about, just make something up.”

“Wilco.” I said.

He did a quick double-take to see if I was being a smart ass. I was.

The cop returned to his car and sat there. Watching. Waiting.

The two gangster types raced over to me.

“What did he want?” One of them asked.

“You.” I said, pointing to the black fellow.

He displayed a moment of elation that comes when one is right. Then deflated again.

“I knew it!” He said, almost happily. Then added quickly, “Shit!”

“Yeah, he didn’t even know you were in here…or anything about ANY of your outstanding warrants.” I said, good-naturedly, to the other fellow.

As you might expect, he looked fairly taken aback upon hearing this. When he finally found the proper words of outrage at my NARCishness, I cut him off.

“Relax. There is a 65% chance that I am kidding. The odds are in your favor.” And, I gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder to show solidarity.

Everybody pretty much left me alone after that.

When I left, all fluffed and folded (well, rolled, actually), the cop was still in ambush position and no one, not a single person, had dared exit the laundromat.

 

I guess this is what they mean by “white privilege.”

I still needed to get my funk back on and, after that experience, was none too keen about hitting a laundromat soon. My best hopes for delaying that task and getting road ready again lay in the conservation of clean clothes by the wearing of none.

And, this is how I have managed to find myself back in Slab City. The Last Free Place in America.

The people are few and far between and pants are optional. I guess. They are to me anyway.

But, all is not necessarily well. I just noticed that The EM-50 Phantom Rambler is leaking coolant at an alarming rate. (pic related)…

Maybe it’s no big deal. I have the same reaction when I see Trixie.

I went to the 99ç Store yesterday.

All Hostess products were on clearance.  33 ć a piece.

There had been a run on their stock.

Really the only things left (and there were plenty of them) were powdered donuts.

This should shut up the powdered donut apologists once and for all.

When you can’t give these things away to poor folks, then you know these things suck.

Case closed.