And so here I am flat on my rusty dusty in the teeming oasis of Tucson, Arizona.
I had left El Paso with high hopes and stirrings of esoteric nostalgia, but as the old bard says "You can never truly go back to where ya been." Ain't that old fuck telling the truth.
Departed El Paso in a sandstorm and spent the next six hours listening to this bloated tweeker from San Diego spin horrid tales loudly for all to hear. He sat two seats back and the old tramp who was relocating from Florida to Washington kept mumbling "Shut the fuck up, wyoncha?" In which said tweeker continued his tirade using fuck after every other word. "I hid my fuckin' dope in the fuckin' fender of my fuckin' car when the fuckin' cops rolled up on me and fuckin' nailed me for a fuckin' shotgun I kept in the fuckin' back trunk." Ugh.
So, made it to fuckin' Tucson late, around fuckin' 12:30 in the fuckin' morning...ahem, sorry...and was saddened that not only they moved the station from downtown to the edges of the city, but there was nary taxi one waiting around. No big woop, I am used to this. I huffed it downtown dragging my little suitcase on wheels to the center of Tucson clack-clacking on the sidewalk. My intention was to get to the city bus terminal and make my way up to Oracle. It is widely known that there are a string of cheap hotels to stay in. Once at said terminal, and it being late, I missed the last bus by ten minutes. Okay. Off I went into the hot, muggy night. Found a reasonable hotel once I made it to Oracle Ave. (only sixteen short blocks, really) and after being checked in by the sleepy Hindi owner, I made my way to a convenience store for water and snacks.
One thing about Tucson: All the whites and Hispanics are spun out tweekers and all the blacks are on the hustle. And I thought Mexican hookers were ghastly, they do not compare with the flobby boobied beasts clomping up and down the Miracle Mile. Everyone wanted to fuck with the white guy. I guess living that pampered life the last four years had taken my street edge off. Need to get that back.
The following morning, I called Primavera men's shelter at nine o'clock as specified to attempt to get a bunk. For fifteen minutes that phone rang. Nothing. I tried three other times. At least answer the phone to tell me no beds!
Giving up, I set out to check out the downtown area. Great. Everything was closed on Saturday. Boo! I hung out in front of the public library to smoke and ask the general hobo population on the Primavera thing. Hell, what a knot of snooty, uninformative asses. Or maybe the fact that I looked like an undercover cop? I walked around downtown, mostly hipster bistros, art stores, and fusion restaurants. Returning to the hotel, I decided to nap before checking out this Folk Festival the barista at the cafe I had breakfast in told me about.
The Folk Festival was interesting, catering to the Sante Fe Art fetishes and mostly kids. I left to look for a drink, sure as shit needed one. I found a bar and had a ten dollar martini. The smug hipsters and short wearing college types gave me the jitters so I made my way to IBT's, Tucson's gay bar.
Typical American fag set up: crowded with screeching, gesticulating queens who sized everyone up on material gain. I really needed to find my ass a dive bar. But, Tucson went through some kind of renaissance, so all dive establishments have been wiped off the face of the planet or taken over by e-smoking hipsters. I simply returned to the hotel and watched Will Smith in I am Legend.
Next morning, I tried calling Primavera again. No answer. Went online and checked that I had the right number. Six websites all had the same digits I did. Maybe they think hobos don't need help on the weekend? Will go to their main offices this Monday morning. Need to act fast, this hotel is eating away my funds...