Uncle Bubba has finished working on a project that was located in a major American city. When he wasn't working, he boarded at a hotel room on the 14th floor in the downtown area of the city. I know, it sounds glamorous, and he admits that it wasn't bad. But the hotel was located within a few feet of the railroad tracks and 6 to 8 times a night a coal train rumbled heavily by and Bubbie could feel the entire building subtly wobble. On more than a few occasions he sleepily awoke from Johnny Cash dreams with the train whistle wailing over and over and over... "I hear the train a-comin', it's rollin' round the bend..." Since the train rambled along the steel rails that split the center of the city it had to blow the whiney whistling warning incessantly at every approaching intersection. He would often count the number of times he heard it before getting bored, drifting up into the upper teens and his feeble mind would meander off to other thoughts, too often of home.
Bubbie drove through the city every morning to get to work and travelled a long stretch of road that was 7 lanes wide, 3 on each side and a center turn lane down the middle. It was riddled with traffic that jockeyed crazily for position like when they drop the green flag at a NASCAR race. They raced from traffic light to traffic light, switching lanes and dispassionately dodging the occasional jaywalking, wild-eyed pedestrians. Along each stretch of road between the congested intersections were a series of bus stops so if one were trapped riding in the far right lane, the trip was stuttered with multiple stops as the bus shuttled its passengers. Watching the eccentric ne'er-do-wells with exasperated faces, sweating the humidity while waiting on the bus was as entertaining as going to the zoo. In the early morning the sidewalks were straggly traversed by staggering winos (and winettes), thugs and hookers. There were brown people, fluffy black women in tight clothes and stubby hispanics, maybe returning from work, maybe on their way. Skinny black men walking on toothpick ankles poking out beneath hugely oversized "shorts". They enthusiastically puffed slim tiparillo cigars while clutching their sagging waistband with one hand to keep their droopy draws from sliding completely off. Every morning Uncle Bubba would hit a McDonald's drive-thru for a piping hot, large black coffee. With traffic racing bumper to bumper at 45 mph, he'd signal as early as possible and try not to slow for fear of being rear-ended as he'd cut the wheel hard to the right and careen into the McDonald's parking lot. Quite often a scantily clad lady of the night would be standing, dangling precariously at the edge of the curb as Bubbie peeled off of the roadway. He feared that he'd nearly clip her with his passenger side mirror as he sped around the corner. She, like a female matador would lean forward to look in at his face through the passenger side window as he sped around the corner. Ole! It would make Bubbie's skin crawl. Fate had put them together for two harrowing seconds every odd morning and Bubbie was glad that fate had now sent him home, hopefully to never see her again. As he sat in the drive-thru line he would cautiously swivel his head around watching for any potential thieves as he felt like a sitting target; window down, money in hand. It was only two dollars but that doesn't matter to a crackhead, it's money you have and they want. Armed, he'd consider to what degree he'd defend himself over two dollars. If a beggar asked him for it he'd hand it over with a blessing; but try and steal it and you might get shot.
What a life some people live. He'd seen some mercurial mamas that he'd say were ladies but not necessarily a women. In the light of morning most of these brazen, animated characters along his route seemed oddly out of place, even in the city setting. Their circumstances have them trapped in a momentary existence. Maybe it's their race, or ethnicity, or choice; but they swim in their circumstances and drown in their cunning. In Bubbie's view, he's thankful for his circumstances; especially the ones that he has control over and chooses to rise above. "Well, if they freed me from this prison, if that railroad train was mine, I bet I'd move out over a little farther down the line. Far from Folsom Prison, that's where I want to stay. And I'd let that lonesome whistle, blow my blues away." - Johnny Cash
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