It's ten in the morning and I sit here dozing off in the public library in downtown El Paso. I had woken up at 5:30 in my room at the Hotel Gardner to prepare for the seven o'clock bus to Los Angeles. I shed my hobo outfit I had adorned for nine months and finally put on some decent clothes. As I wearily shuffled through the cold, dark predawn dragging my wheeled luggage clakclakclak on gray sidewalks, I still had second thoughts about simply heading to Calexico. Anywhere but this beat town was preferable. But, fate it seems has other plans.
After a light breakfast of coffee and some nasty ass burrito at Burger King, I headed to the Tres Estrellas de Oro bus terminal. It sat cold and dark and silent. Not a soul around. No worries, I'll smoke and wait. Wait I did. And wait. And wait.
Seven o'clock rolled around and no bus. No passengers. Eventually, a Hispanic family arrived and inquired when the terminal would open. I stated I hadn't a clue. Well, the cholo who had sold me the ticket yesterday arrived and was yelling in broken English that I had missed the bus. What bus? No bus arrived. I was informed that the departure was at 7pm, not 7am, and then he hit me up for a cigarette. I was upset, but kept my cool. No need to agitate these inbred morons. I checked on my iphone if the 10:40 to Calexico was available through Greyhound. Nope. Sold out.
So, I sit in this library, dozing off, attempting to still get the hang of Windows 8 on my laptop - I hate it - and bide my time until I fling myself into that steel and concrete madhouse of LA.