Teach
04-08-2012, 09:37 PM
Everybody's talking at me.
I was resting with my head against the window. I was desperately trying to get some sleep. But every time we hit a bump I was jarred into awareness...or at least semi-consciousness.
I was southbound. Somewhere between Baltimore and Washington, D.C. It was late fall, 1963. President John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated. What was I doing on a Trailways Bus over 300 miles
from home? Well, it's a long story. In a word: escaping. Both physically and mentally.
I don't hear a word they're saying.
That fall, I had just turned 21-years old. I was about to enter my senior year of college. Everything seemed rosy. Save for one problem. Money. Or, should I say - a lack thereof. Part of it was my own doing; the other, could be classified as being a victim of circumstances. The circumstances were that my parents had divorced just as I was becoming a teen-ager. My father would soon re-marry - she had also been divorced - a woman who had two children of her own. Oh, my father contributed alimony and child support, but Bill Gates he wasn't. I didn't have any anger toward my father; it was more the disappointment that he didn't try to hang in there to make the marriage to my mother work. In any event, it left my mother, my younger brother and me with very little disposable income. I'm not patting myself on the back, but I earned all my own tuition money. I worked part-time during the school year and full-time during summers.
Only the echoes of my mind.
However as I approached that fall semester of my senior year, I was a little behind with what I needed for tuition money. I panicked. I started gambling more (I had previously gambled, but I rarely bet more than $2 or $4 a race). I was now putting more money into play. Oh, I had dodged some bullets. Like the time I went to Wonderland Park Dog Track in Revere, MA. Well, I was losing. To make matters worse I started "going tilt." It was as if I were possessed. I was in the midst "an out-of-body" experience. I was down close to $150. That was a fabulous sum for relatively poor college kid looking to make his final tuition payments. I'll never forget. I was down to my last "double-saw" ($20). I bet the $20 on a bitch called CherryToast. Wouldn't you know it, "the puppy" broke second and collared the front runner in the stretch of a 3/8ths mile race. The payoff: $15.80 for $2. I had bailed. I remember breathing a huge sigh of relief. Yet, I couldn't play Harry Houdini in all my gambling ventures. The track did come up and bite me. I don't know if it were Foxboro Raceway, Suffolk Downs, or Rockingham Park, but I got nailed enough that I was "financially embarrassed". Bottom line: Not enough money for my tuition. In the end: I took the semester off.
People stopping staring.
While many of my friends were in school or working, I was moping around that September. I must say that my mother was deservedly getting on my case (even the neighbors were asking why I wasn't in school). "You're so close to finishing," she'd say. "So close to getting your degree,"she'd add. I have to say that each day was a mental anguish. Oh, I gota couple part-time jobs. I worked at a Boston sandwich and soda fountain place called Brigham's. I also worked as a cashier at a local supermarket. However, although I was there physically, my mind was ona treadmill to nowhere. I was "lost". That's when I decided to escape.
I can't see their faces.
So, one early December afternoon, I'm on my was to Boston's Park Square Bus Terminal. I purchase a one-way (don't ask me why) ticket on a Trailways Bus bound for Miami, FL. Well, throughout that afternoon and into the evening we'd pass through New York City, Philadelphia and then Baltimore. I wasn't afraid or nervous. In fact, I was relieved. By the following morning we're riding south through Virginia, and then over the North Carolina border. It was a different world from the hustle-bustle of the northern cities. We eventually traveled past the North Carolina-South Carolina border. I saw a sign for a place called "South Of The Border," in Dillon, S.C. (Didn't Fed chief Bernanke work there?) Well, it was as we passed through one of these southern towns that I experienced a memorable, or should I say - forgettable event. I'm sitting in the right-front seat of the bus right overthe wheel. Anyway, we stop at this "jerkwater" town. This man gets on with his elderly mother. The next thing out of his mouth blew me away. He says, "I don't want my mother sittin' with any n*gger!" So, what's he do? He looks at me and then asks "Where y'all goin'?" I said Miami. He then proceeds to plunk his mother down next to me, and just as quickly he exits the bus.
Only the shadows of their eyes.
Well, onward and upward, or downward, however you want to look at it. We're now barreling through Georgia (I believe the elderly woman next me got off at Jessup). It's now dark. All I recall seeing are signs for Piggly-Wiggly Supermarkets and Stuckey's Pecans. Eventually, we cross into Florida and arrive in Jacksonville. It's here that another forgettable moment occurs. Now you gotta understand that as I exit the bus I'm "half in the bag". I could just as well be on the planet Mars. I decide to go into the JAX terminal. I wanted to grab a cup of coffee. I recall that in my zombie-like state I made my way to a refreshment stand. But just then I'm beginning to feel very self-conscious. Just about every pair of eyes is trained on me. Is it my heavy winter coat? Is it the way I talk (I haven't said anything yet)? Is my pale-white winter complexion in a place where everyone seems to have a tan. Wait a minute! I may be on to something. Then, it dawns on me. Every person in this waiting room is a Negro. Holy shit! I've walked into a black waiting room. Who knew? Who thought of these things? I'm from the North. Although I was a staunch believer in integration, I wasn't going to test my beliefs here. So, like a little mouse scurrying out of harm's way, I ambled out of the black waiting room and into the white one. Frankly, I felt very uncomfortable about the whole experience.
I'm going where the sun keeps shining.
Our bus keeps heading south. The Sunshine State. FLA. It's the middle of the night. We pass through Orlando in a day and age before Disneyland. Then, down Florida's Atlantic coast. Our bus arrives in Miami at approx. 5:30 a.m. I want to say a thirty-seven hour bus ride. Although I'm still a young man, I can hardly extricate myself from my seat. I feel like the "Tin Man" in "The Wizard of Oz" when it rained and he started to get rusty. Well, I leave the bus. I'm exhausted. All I wantto do is to go to sleep in a comfortable bed. Frankly, it doesn't even have to be that comfortable. I see a flea-bag hotel nearby. It's calledThe Ponce De Leon. Wasn't that the dude who was looking for "the fountain o fyouth." (I thought there's a race called that). Maybe, Ponce de Leon got confused by Lake Okeechobee? Anyway. I recall going up to the hotel clerk's desk. I couldn't tell you what it cost for the night (actually the early morning). At that point, I didn't care. I recall entering my room. I got to tell you I'm not sure I even took my clothes off, or that I slept under the covers. All I know that I was asleep as soon as I hit the pillow.
Thru' the pouring rain.
The next morning I checked out of the hotel a little after 11 a.m. What would I do now? I wasn't sure. I decided to head north toward the Hallandale/Hollywood area. But how was I going to get there? I'm cash-starved. I decide to thumb. In a few minutes, two black guys pick me up. I'm probably so oblivious that I don't realize that this could be a dangerous situation. Although I may mentally be on another planet, I'm aware enough to realize that the civil rights movement is beginning to take shape.
Fortunately, my ride to Hollywood was without incident. I thanked the two guys who took me and then proceeded to a nearby motel. I remember checking in. I recall that the room rate here was $5 per night, plus tax. The motel was located across the street from an Eckard's Drug Store. The motel was also just up thestreet from Hollywood Dog Track. I remember going across the street to the drug store and buying a couple cans of peanuts and two large bottles of Coke. I would have preferred a steak, well at least a hamburger, but... Hey, what did they say in "The Midnight Cowboy," "The two basic items you need to sustain life are sunshine and coconut milk." Well, I remember studying the dog form for a couple hours. I also remember taking a late-afternoon nap. I then walked over to the dog track.
Going where the weather suits my clothes.
That evening, I hit the first race (all that studying paid off). The dog paid $7. I remember buying a hamburger, fries and a soft drink. Hey, things are looking up. But, the rest of the evening was a downer. It's hard to call it a disaster when you don't have that much money to begin with. All I know was that when the night was over I had less money in my pocket than when I started. After theraces, I returned to the motel. I recall getting a good night's sleep. The next day, I took a bus back into Miami. I remember the bus left me off about a half-mile from Tropical Park. When I finally entered the track, I felt happy. I was in my element. I was confident that I could make a comeback. I remember betting a horse named Cooperstown; he finished third. Oh,I also remember something called the "Flight of the Flamingos". All these long-legged orange-colored birds, almost in unison, start flying around the track infield. If I had been an ornithologist I mighthave found the whole thing interesting, but frankly, at the time, I could have cared less. To make matters worse, as Simon and Garfunkel might have said: "I was slip-sliding away."
Backing Off the North East wind.
Well, I recall leaving the track. I remember there was a bus going directly to Hollywood Dog Track. I took it. I recall arriving at the dog track, buying a program, and then sittingdown with a burger and soft drink. That would be the last meal I'd have for well over eighteen hours. My efforts that evening at the dog track were an abject failure. I had a limited bank roll. I was playing scared. In hindsight, I shouldn't have even bothered. As I recall, I left the dog track around 11 p.m. I walked back to my motel. I tried to get some sleep, but I was now becoming nervous. I just couldn't sleep. So, I packed up my belonings and put them in my suitcase. I then walked to the main drag and started thumbing. One of the locals gave me a short ride to DelrayBeach. There, a cop stops and picks me up. He asks me some questions and then checks back with the station to see if there an APB out for me. The guy was actually friendly. I remember him telling me that he was originally from Providence, RI. I remember saying something cute like "that's only down the street from where I live." Yeh, thirtymiles down the street. After the cop left me off at the Delray Beach townline, I started thumbing again. This time I would hit the jackpot.
Sailing on summer breeze.
I remember I was thumbing at about 2 or 3 a.m. when this guy stops. I hustle up to his car. "Where ya going?" he asks. I say, "Boston." He says, "I can't take you to Boston, I'm only going as far as Jacksonville." I remember saying, "That'll be fine." So, off we went into the wee hours of the morning. As I recall the guy who picked me up was a big boxing fan. We must have spent two or three hours talking about boxing. Names like Willie Pep, Carmen Basilio, "Sugar Ray"Robinson, Jake LaMotta, Rocky Marciano. The list went on and on. The guy had an encyclopediac knowledge of boxing. I remember telling him that when I was a kid that my father and I would listen to the fight son the radio. Of course, then there were the Gillette "Friday Night Fights" ("Look sharp, feel sharp, be sharp...") I told the guy Carmen Basilio was one of my favorites. I remember the guy asking why. I told him that I was born in Syracuse, NY. I mentioned that Basilio was from Canastota, NY, not too far east of Syracuse. Big onion-growingcountry. In fact, they called Basilio, the "Upstate Onion Farmer."
And skipping over the ocean like a stone.
Well, it was now about 9 or 10 a.m. and we were fast approaching Jacksonville. I remember thanking the guy as he left me off in front of the bus terminal. Funny how you remember these things but it was cold in Jacksonville that morning. I remember looking up at a bank clock that gave time and temperature. Thirty-two degrees. Brr. I kept thinking that if it's freezing here in Jacksonville, what must the temperature be in Boston. As I walked into the bus terminal, I'm without resources. I may have, at most, a picture of Abraham Lincoln in my pocket. Maybe enough for a hot coffee and a sandwich but nowhere near enough for bus fare back to Beantown. As I stood there pondering my fate, this young kid about my age walks up to me. I remember him saying, "You Indian." I wasn't quite sure what he meant. Was he saying I was a Indian national, or was he thinking that I was a Native American? Anyway, he tells me he's Arab and that he has a bus ticke tfor San Antonio, TX, but that he wants to go to Detroit. I remember saying, "What can I do?" He says, "Can you put me in touch with an Arab person?" I start thinking. I look in the yellow pages. I decide to check out bakeries. There it was: Abdullah's Syrian Bakery. I remember calling. The person answered. I recall saying, "There's an Arab young man who wants to talk with you." I then hand the Arab kid the phone. That was the end of that. But what am I going to do aboutmy own predicament. Then, it dawns on me.
Everyone's talking at me.
The next thing I'm doing is calling my father (he has no clue I'm in Florida). "Dad," I say, "it's your son." "Walter, you sound distant." "I am distant, Dad. I'm in Jacksonville, Florida." "What are you doing there?" my father asks. I said, "Dad, it's a long story." I then said, "Doesn't Sue (my father's second wife) have a sister who lives in the Jacksonville area." "Yes," he says. "Let me get the number," he continues. He gives me her name and number. I write it down. That was that. Seconds later, I'm calling a woman nicknamed "Bunny". She picks up the phone. In a nutshell, I tell her that my father is her sister's second husband. I tell her I'm stranded here in Jacksonville. I tell her I'm at the bus terminal. I ask if she could pick me. She says, "Yes." She tells me she's driving a Ford station wagon. I tell her I'm about 6-feet tall and that I'll be wearinga green winter coat. I also mention that I'll have a suitcase. Well, about fifteen minutes later, "Bunny" arrives. She takes me to her house and gives me a glass of milk and a sandwich. We chat a bit and then I ask if I might take a nap. I recall as I take off my shoes (they were too tight to begin with) my feet are bleeding. In fact, the blood has come through my socks. I decide to shower.
I don't hear a word they're saying.
That evening, I meet "Bunny's" husband. They had a couple cute children. The next morning they loan me $45 for the bus fare back to Boston. About 9 a.m. "Bunny" takes me to the bus terminal. That wouldbe the last time I would ever see her or her family. The bus trip back to Boston was uneventful save for two things. One, this dude gets on somewhere in South Carolina and begins to tell me his life story. I mean everything: uncles, aunts, cousins, etc. I didn't want to be mean to the guy, but I just wasn't in the mood for all this. In fact, I got up to go the rest room at the back of the bus to get away from this guy. I take another seat. Wouldn't you know it, he finds me near the rear of the bus. "Oh, I thought you had gotten off," he says. No such luck. Finally, he gets off at Petersburg, VA. The other interesting development was that when we reached Maryland, I saw, for the first time, slot machines. Real-life slot machines that you might have seen in Vegas or Reno. The only problem I faced was that I wa sbasically down to spare change. In fact, when I reached Boston, I needed to have money to pay my public transportation fare. Yes, I eventually made it back to Boston. I was happy to be back in familiar surroundings. Oh, and I vowed one thing: Never again will I ride a bus from more than a half-hour.
Only the echoes of my mind.
As a postscript, after a few days I got my act together. I started working as a wallpaper delivery person. I also delivered samples of a detergent for an advertising agency. I began saving money. That January, I re-enrolled in college and went back evenings. That summer, as my class was graduating, I was taking summer-school courses. That fall, I took more courses and began my student-teaching. I would complete my degree requirements by January, 1965. I substitute-taught in Boston between January and June, 1965 before getting my first full-time job teaching math at a Boston high school in September,1965.
Oh, one final point, this may be the last time I'll tell this story of my youthful adventure. In a lighter moment, I told one of my classes an abridged version of my Florida adventure. Shortly after I related the story to the class, one of my students was absent for several days in arow. I asked one of the kids, "What's with Win? He's been out several days, is he sick?" "No, he's not sick. He heard your story; he took off for Florida!"
I was resting with my head against the window. I was desperately trying to get some sleep. But every time we hit a bump I was jarred into awareness...or at least semi-consciousness.
I was southbound. Somewhere between Baltimore and Washington, D.C. It was late fall, 1963. President John F. Kennedy had just been assassinated. What was I doing on a Trailways Bus over 300 miles
from home? Well, it's a long story. In a word: escaping. Both physically and mentally.
I don't hear a word they're saying.
That fall, I had just turned 21-years old. I was about to enter my senior year of college. Everything seemed rosy. Save for one problem. Money. Or, should I say - a lack thereof. Part of it was my own doing; the other, could be classified as being a victim of circumstances. The circumstances were that my parents had divorced just as I was becoming a teen-ager. My father would soon re-marry - she had also been divorced - a woman who had two children of her own. Oh, my father contributed alimony and child support, but Bill Gates he wasn't. I didn't have any anger toward my father; it was more the disappointment that he didn't try to hang in there to make the marriage to my mother work. In any event, it left my mother, my younger brother and me with very little disposable income. I'm not patting myself on the back, but I earned all my own tuition money. I worked part-time during the school year and full-time during summers.
Only the echoes of my mind.
However as I approached that fall semester of my senior year, I was a little behind with what I needed for tuition money. I panicked. I started gambling more (I had previously gambled, but I rarely bet more than $2 or $4 a race). I was now putting more money into play. Oh, I had dodged some bullets. Like the time I went to Wonderland Park Dog Track in Revere, MA. Well, I was losing. To make matters worse I started "going tilt." It was as if I were possessed. I was in the midst "an out-of-body" experience. I was down close to $150. That was a fabulous sum for relatively poor college kid looking to make his final tuition payments. I'll never forget. I was down to my last "double-saw" ($20). I bet the $20 on a bitch called CherryToast. Wouldn't you know it, "the puppy" broke second and collared the front runner in the stretch of a 3/8ths mile race. The payoff: $15.80 for $2. I had bailed. I remember breathing a huge sigh of relief. Yet, I couldn't play Harry Houdini in all my gambling ventures. The track did come up and bite me. I don't know if it were Foxboro Raceway, Suffolk Downs, or Rockingham Park, but I got nailed enough that I was "financially embarrassed". Bottom line: Not enough money for my tuition. In the end: I took the semester off.
People stopping staring.
While many of my friends were in school or working, I was moping around that September. I must say that my mother was deservedly getting on my case (even the neighbors were asking why I wasn't in school). "You're so close to finishing," she'd say. "So close to getting your degree,"she'd add. I have to say that each day was a mental anguish. Oh, I gota couple part-time jobs. I worked at a Boston sandwich and soda fountain place called Brigham's. I also worked as a cashier at a local supermarket. However, although I was there physically, my mind was ona treadmill to nowhere. I was "lost". That's when I decided to escape.
I can't see their faces.
So, one early December afternoon, I'm on my was to Boston's Park Square Bus Terminal. I purchase a one-way (don't ask me why) ticket on a Trailways Bus bound for Miami, FL. Well, throughout that afternoon and into the evening we'd pass through New York City, Philadelphia and then Baltimore. I wasn't afraid or nervous. In fact, I was relieved. By the following morning we're riding south through Virginia, and then over the North Carolina border. It was a different world from the hustle-bustle of the northern cities. We eventually traveled past the North Carolina-South Carolina border. I saw a sign for a place called "South Of The Border," in Dillon, S.C. (Didn't Fed chief Bernanke work there?) Well, it was as we passed through one of these southern towns that I experienced a memorable, or should I say - forgettable event. I'm sitting in the right-front seat of the bus right overthe wheel. Anyway, we stop at this "jerkwater" town. This man gets on with his elderly mother. The next thing out of his mouth blew me away. He says, "I don't want my mother sittin' with any n*gger!" So, what's he do? He looks at me and then asks "Where y'all goin'?" I said Miami. He then proceeds to plunk his mother down next to me, and just as quickly he exits the bus.
Only the shadows of their eyes.
Well, onward and upward, or downward, however you want to look at it. We're now barreling through Georgia (I believe the elderly woman next me got off at Jessup). It's now dark. All I recall seeing are signs for Piggly-Wiggly Supermarkets and Stuckey's Pecans. Eventually, we cross into Florida and arrive in Jacksonville. It's here that another forgettable moment occurs. Now you gotta understand that as I exit the bus I'm "half in the bag". I could just as well be on the planet Mars. I decide to go into the JAX terminal. I wanted to grab a cup of coffee. I recall that in my zombie-like state I made my way to a refreshment stand. But just then I'm beginning to feel very self-conscious. Just about every pair of eyes is trained on me. Is it my heavy winter coat? Is it the way I talk (I haven't said anything yet)? Is my pale-white winter complexion in a place where everyone seems to have a tan. Wait a minute! I may be on to something. Then, it dawns on me. Every person in this waiting room is a Negro. Holy shit! I've walked into a black waiting room. Who knew? Who thought of these things? I'm from the North. Although I was a staunch believer in integration, I wasn't going to test my beliefs here. So, like a little mouse scurrying out of harm's way, I ambled out of the black waiting room and into the white one. Frankly, I felt very uncomfortable about the whole experience.
I'm going where the sun keeps shining.
Our bus keeps heading south. The Sunshine State. FLA. It's the middle of the night. We pass through Orlando in a day and age before Disneyland. Then, down Florida's Atlantic coast. Our bus arrives in Miami at approx. 5:30 a.m. I want to say a thirty-seven hour bus ride. Although I'm still a young man, I can hardly extricate myself from my seat. I feel like the "Tin Man" in "The Wizard of Oz" when it rained and he started to get rusty. Well, I leave the bus. I'm exhausted. All I wantto do is to go to sleep in a comfortable bed. Frankly, it doesn't even have to be that comfortable. I see a flea-bag hotel nearby. It's calledThe Ponce De Leon. Wasn't that the dude who was looking for "the fountain o fyouth." (I thought there's a race called that). Maybe, Ponce de Leon got confused by Lake Okeechobee? Anyway. I recall going up to the hotel clerk's desk. I couldn't tell you what it cost for the night (actually the early morning). At that point, I didn't care. I recall entering my room. I got to tell you I'm not sure I even took my clothes off, or that I slept under the covers. All I know that I was asleep as soon as I hit the pillow.
Thru' the pouring rain.
The next morning I checked out of the hotel a little after 11 a.m. What would I do now? I wasn't sure. I decided to head north toward the Hallandale/Hollywood area. But how was I going to get there? I'm cash-starved. I decide to thumb. In a few minutes, two black guys pick me up. I'm probably so oblivious that I don't realize that this could be a dangerous situation. Although I may mentally be on another planet, I'm aware enough to realize that the civil rights movement is beginning to take shape.
Fortunately, my ride to Hollywood was without incident. I thanked the two guys who took me and then proceeded to a nearby motel. I remember checking in. I recall that the room rate here was $5 per night, plus tax. The motel was located across the street from an Eckard's Drug Store. The motel was also just up thestreet from Hollywood Dog Track. I remember going across the street to the drug store and buying a couple cans of peanuts and two large bottles of Coke. I would have preferred a steak, well at least a hamburger, but... Hey, what did they say in "The Midnight Cowboy," "The two basic items you need to sustain life are sunshine and coconut milk." Well, I remember studying the dog form for a couple hours. I also remember taking a late-afternoon nap. I then walked over to the dog track.
Going where the weather suits my clothes.
That evening, I hit the first race (all that studying paid off). The dog paid $7. I remember buying a hamburger, fries and a soft drink. Hey, things are looking up. But, the rest of the evening was a downer. It's hard to call it a disaster when you don't have that much money to begin with. All I know was that when the night was over I had less money in my pocket than when I started. After theraces, I returned to the motel. I recall getting a good night's sleep. The next day, I took a bus back into Miami. I remember the bus left me off about a half-mile from Tropical Park. When I finally entered the track, I felt happy. I was in my element. I was confident that I could make a comeback. I remember betting a horse named Cooperstown; he finished third. Oh,I also remember something called the "Flight of the Flamingos". All these long-legged orange-colored birds, almost in unison, start flying around the track infield. If I had been an ornithologist I mighthave found the whole thing interesting, but frankly, at the time, I could have cared less. To make matters worse, as Simon and Garfunkel might have said: "I was slip-sliding away."
Backing Off the North East wind.
Well, I recall leaving the track. I remember there was a bus going directly to Hollywood Dog Track. I took it. I recall arriving at the dog track, buying a program, and then sittingdown with a burger and soft drink. That would be the last meal I'd have for well over eighteen hours. My efforts that evening at the dog track were an abject failure. I had a limited bank roll. I was playing scared. In hindsight, I shouldn't have even bothered. As I recall, I left the dog track around 11 p.m. I walked back to my motel. I tried to get some sleep, but I was now becoming nervous. I just couldn't sleep. So, I packed up my belonings and put them in my suitcase. I then walked to the main drag and started thumbing. One of the locals gave me a short ride to DelrayBeach. There, a cop stops and picks me up. He asks me some questions and then checks back with the station to see if there an APB out for me. The guy was actually friendly. I remember him telling me that he was originally from Providence, RI. I remember saying something cute like "that's only down the street from where I live." Yeh, thirtymiles down the street. After the cop left me off at the Delray Beach townline, I started thumbing again. This time I would hit the jackpot.
Sailing on summer breeze.
I remember I was thumbing at about 2 or 3 a.m. when this guy stops. I hustle up to his car. "Where ya going?" he asks. I say, "Boston." He says, "I can't take you to Boston, I'm only going as far as Jacksonville." I remember saying, "That'll be fine." So, off we went into the wee hours of the morning. As I recall the guy who picked me up was a big boxing fan. We must have spent two or three hours talking about boxing. Names like Willie Pep, Carmen Basilio, "Sugar Ray"Robinson, Jake LaMotta, Rocky Marciano. The list went on and on. The guy had an encyclopediac knowledge of boxing. I remember telling him that when I was a kid that my father and I would listen to the fight son the radio. Of course, then there were the Gillette "Friday Night Fights" ("Look sharp, feel sharp, be sharp...") I told the guy Carmen Basilio was one of my favorites. I remember the guy asking why. I told him that I was born in Syracuse, NY. I mentioned that Basilio was from Canastota, NY, not too far east of Syracuse. Big onion-growingcountry. In fact, they called Basilio, the "Upstate Onion Farmer."
And skipping over the ocean like a stone.
Well, it was now about 9 or 10 a.m. and we were fast approaching Jacksonville. I remember thanking the guy as he left me off in front of the bus terminal. Funny how you remember these things but it was cold in Jacksonville that morning. I remember looking up at a bank clock that gave time and temperature. Thirty-two degrees. Brr. I kept thinking that if it's freezing here in Jacksonville, what must the temperature be in Boston. As I walked into the bus terminal, I'm without resources. I may have, at most, a picture of Abraham Lincoln in my pocket. Maybe enough for a hot coffee and a sandwich but nowhere near enough for bus fare back to Beantown. As I stood there pondering my fate, this young kid about my age walks up to me. I remember him saying, "You Indian." I wasn't quite sure what he meant. Was he saying I was a Indian national, or was he thinking that I was a Native American? Anyway, he tells me he's Arab and that he has a bus ticke tfor San Antonio, TX, but that he wants to go to Detroit. I remember saying, "What can I do?" He says, "Can you put me in touch with an Arab person?" I start thinking. I look in the yellow pages. I decide to check out bakeries. There it was: Abdullah's Syrian Bakery. I remember calling. The person answered. I recall saying, "There's an Arab young man who wants to talk with you." I then hand the Arab kid the phone. That was the end of that. But what am I going to do aboutmy own predicament. Then, it dawns on me.
Everyone's talking at me.
The next thing I'm doing is calling my father (he has no clue I'm in Florida). "Dad," I say, "it's your son." "Walter, you sound distant." "I am distant, Dad. I'm in Jacksonville, Florida." "What are you doing there?" my father asks. I said, "Dad, it's a long story." I then said, "Doesn't Sue (my father's second wife) have a sister who lives in the Jacksonville area." "Yes," he says. "Let me get the number," he continues. He gives me her name and number. I write it down. That was that. Seconds later, I'm calling a woman nicknamed "Bunny". She picks up the phone. In a nutshell, I tell her that my father is her sister's second husband. I tell her I'm stranded here in Jacksonville. I tell her I'm at the bus terminal. I ask if she could pick me. She says, "Yes." She tells me she's driving a Ford station wagon. I tell her I'm about 6-feet tall and that I'll be wearinga green winter coat. I also mention that I'll have a suitcase. Well, about fifteen minutes later, "Bunny" arrives. She takes me to her house and gives me a glass of milk and a sandwich. We chat a bit and then I ask if I might take a nap. I recall as I take off my shoes (they were too tight to begin with) my feet are bleeding. In fact, the blood has come through my socks. I decide to shower.
I don't hear a word they're saying.
That evening, I meet "Bunny's" husband. They had a couple cute children. The next morning they loan me $45 for the bus fare back to Boston. About 9 a.m. "Bunny" takes me to the bus terminal. That wouldbe the last time I would ever see her or her family. The bus trip back to Boston was uneventful save for two things. One, this dude gets on somewhere in South Carolina and begins to tell me his life story. I mean everything: uncles, aunts, cousins, etc. I didn't want to be mean to the guy, but I just wasn't in the mood for all this. In fact, I got up to go the rest room at the back of the bus to get away from this guy. I take another seat. Wouldn't you know it, he finds me near the rear of the bus. "Oh, I thought you had gotten off," he says. No such luck. Finally, he gets off at Petersburg, VA. The other interesting development was that when we reached Maryland, I saw, for the first time, slot machines. Real-life slot machines that you might have seen in Vegas or Reno. The only problem I faced was that I wa sbasically down to spare change. In fact, when I reached Boston, I needed to have money to pay my public transportation fare. Yes, I eventually made it back to Boston. I was happy to be back in familiar surroundings. Oh, and I vowed one thing: Never again will I ride a bus from more than a half-hour.
Only the echoes of my mind.
As a postscript, after a few days I got my act together. I started working as a wallpaper delivery person. I also delivered samples of a detergent for an advertising agency. I began saving money. That January, I re-enrolled in college and went back evenings. That summer, as my class was graduating, I was taking summer-school courses. That fall, I took more courses and began my student-teaching. I would complete my degree requirements by January, 1965. I substitute-taught in Boston between January and June, 1965 before getting my first full-time job teaching math at a Boston high school in September,1965.
Oh, one final point, this may be the last time I'll tell this story of my youthful adventure. In a lighter moment, I told one of my classes an abridged version of my Florida adventure. Shortly after I related the story to the class, one of my students was absent for several days in arow. I asked one of the kids, "What's with Win? He's been out several days, is he sick?" "No, he's not sick. He heard your story; he took off for Florida!"