"You can't go home again" — Thomas Wolfe " And if you do manage to go home again, it will probably smell bad" --Mark Smith

In order  to occupy my time during my self imposed exile I picked up a side gig, which is not to say I have a main gig, unless you count smoking copious amounts of weed and working my way through the vast array of cold cereals offered at the local grocery. Not for nothin , but Lucky Charms now have stripes and are even more delicious. Anyway, I needed to find something to keep my powder dry, lest I revert to my former lifestyle. So I took a contract type job picking up trucks for a local guy. First truck was about an hour outside of Chicago. Sounds fairly mundane, and it is, but getting there was the tricky part. Dude pays x amount for the delivery of  the truck, how you get there is on you. Flying would have  put me in Chicago quick, but  the place I needed to be was only served by Amtrak, so I took the train. Besides, with my luck I'd end up on a plane loaded with middle eastern folks, and I'd spend the entire flight waiting for a jihad.

I was stoked about riding the train. When I was a pup, my mother, sister and yours truly took the train to Oklahoma. I had these nostalgic memories of those train rides. We ate in the dining car, the train  rocked you to sleep, we played Yahtzee. Mom always had a book stashed away waiting for me when I'd get all bored and annoying. At 9 she was  turning me on to Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Harper Lee. She dug the southern writers, and in turn I still prefer southern writers,Conroy, Dickey and James Lee Burke for example. See I'm getting all nostalgic  even now.  My point being, I was looking forward to reliving a slice from my childhood.  Instead I ended up with a slice of reality.

Reality in this case smelled like ass, B.O. , and cheap perfume.  The train was packed, not an empty seat in the joint. I was seated in the upper level of the car. By the way, those upper levels sway like a West Bottoms hobo who is all faded on Wild Irish Rose and gold spray paint fumes. There was an older hippy looking dude seated next to me, and as I sat down next to him a stench hit me. We all know someone who has yet to discover the magic of antiperspirant. It might be a too close friend or relative. Maybe it's the guy who works in the next cubicle, or changes the oil in your car. Point being, from time to time we all end up in someones airspace who  just plain stinks.  Hippy guy was oblivious to the funk, and it was so strong I figured it was him. It wasn't. He departed the train about an hour outside Kansas City, but the smell remained. Eight hours of smelling someones musk is a long time. Turned out it was a big lady a couple of rows up, wearing one of those two foot tall African head wraps and a brightly colored Mu Mu. I know it was her because I got stuck in the narrow stairwell as we got off the train in Chicago. She was right behind me, a couple of steps higher. It was the longest 2 minutes of my life in that stairwell. I wanted to snort bleach and pine sol.

I was laid over for 5 hours in Chicago, so I figured I'd walk around downtown, let the exhaust fumes purge the  ass smell from my nostrils.  Downtown Chicago reminds you just how small Kansas City is in comparison. Chicago panhandlers are as thick as pigeons. I'm standing out in front of the train station having a smoke, still smelling the lady in the head wrap when panhandler number one  approaches.  Young guy, couple of grand in tatts covering his arms. He starts his spiel, " Man this is really embarrassing, but I lost my wallet and I'm trying to get bus fare to get home".  I give my normal humanitarian response, "Can't help ya".  He wanders off to the next potential mark. By the time I'd smoked that Light 100, no fewer than 3 more panhandlers  tried to hit me up.  Funny thing, at least 3  of the panhandlers used the exact same  line as the first guy.  I was walking around, took a few shots of the canal that runs through downtown, and I see tattoo guy and a couple of the other panhandlers. They are standing in a circle, every one of em has a pretty decent bankroll, as they count it up.  Being a bum appears to be lucrative in Chi Town. I grab some food,  head back to the station, wait a few hours, board my train arrive at my final destination.  The drive  back to KC after picking up the truck was uneventful.  Next trip will be to Boston. Then Delaware. If this all works out I'll then  be moving on to picking up cars that someone stopped paying on. Locally. So pay your bills.

Back to the nostalgic thing. It struck me on the long drive back that night, how perspective changes with age. I'm sure those  long train rides to Pauls Valley Oklahoma were full of funky smelling people, but I was a kid back then, and the excitement overrode the unpleasant parts. Looking out the window of the truck into the darkness, the sound of the diesel droning along, I got a little sad. I remembered the sound of dice rattling in the Yahtzee cup, the southern drawl of my mother telling me to read this book or that one. Harper Lee painting pictures with words, hoping Boo Radley wouldn't snatch Dill or Scout and do god knows what to them.  I was hoping to rediscover a little piece of that long gone  moment in time. Instead I found foul smells and unoriginal street bums. To quote another southern writer ""You can't go home again"
— Thomas Wolfe