THE CHANGE - CHAPTER FIVE

PART TWO - HOW MARTHA MET CHARLIE / GUNNAR ON THE BUS

PART TWO

HOW MARTHA MET CHARLIE

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 18TH

PORTLAND, OR - LOS ANGELES, CA

FIVE

Of course, it all started with Santa Claus. And no, I’m not talkin’ about my dumbass childhood, the day I found out about poor Jolly Old Saint Nick. Although, come to think of it, it was in fact the first line of bullshit my mama ever sold me that I actually puzzled out on my own. Long after my daddy had dumped us both, on account of me being mixed-race, and the two of them white as cream.

But no. I’m thinking back on last Thursday morning, on the TriMet bus out to Jefferson Square. It was an hour-anna-half from Gresham to Tigard, on Portland, Oregon’s public transit. Half-an-hour in a car. But, of course, Toby had my wheels. Again. These days, Toby almost always had my wheels.

Ninety minutes is a whole lotta time on a bus, just about every day, both ways. Fifteen hours a week of just staring out of windows, trying not to be seen. But the last ten days of riding in with Gunnar had been great, both of us traveling incognito, our respective corporate uniforms stashed in Dollar Store bags.

Fact is, I couldn’t walk my ugly, hungry neighborhood streets all dressed to impress at the Boardstrom makeup counter. I wouldn’t make it past the crumbling liquor store gargoyles and their sidewalk tents, much less the ICE motherfuckers who could drop by at any time, or the SWAT teams making bi-monthly raids on the drug house right off SE 206th. And Gunnar’s aging, arthritic, expatriate Texan cracker ass didn’t need to take any more seasonal white-bearded weight-shaming “Ho Ho Ho!” shit off of nooooobody.

“Y’all don’t wanna be wearing no Santa suit past a homeless encampment at the tail end of December,” he told me, the first time we spoke, once we realized we were both commuting to and from the same circles of Hell. “And God help me if somebody takes a swing, or lobs a turd they just crapped in their hand. Know what I mean?”

I laughed. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be good.”

“I’m just sayin’, the big bosses ain’t hirin’ me. They’re just hirin’ the suit. I show up with a stain, I’m back out in the rain with the rest of those miserable sons of bitches.”

So it was nothing but baggy sweats, hoodies, and sneakers for us. Well, that and a seemingly-endless stream of hilarious, wide-ranging and curlicued conversations. Cuz the fact is, that old peckerwood was smart, and extremely well-read. I didn’t have a lot of friends who would talk books with me. Turns out that we didn’t just frequent the same library; half the time, we were even checking out the same titles.

That’s where I found out about Liam Pathe, and his Live It Like You Mean It series. These were the books that were changing my life, and the reason why I was blowing off work – a mere six days before Christmas, God help me – to attend his weekend-long “Cozmic Convergence” event in Los Angeles. With a store-bought copy of his fifth book, Don’t You F’ing Lie To Me, sitting proudly in my lap, awaiting the great man’s autograph.

Gunnar sighed and shook his head as he checked out the title, remembering this was my big day. As fate would have it, Gunnar had studied Liam Pathe’s books, too. He was just a whole lot less impressed. Especially with the new stuff.

“So you’re really gonna give this guy $180 bucks you can’t afford…” he began.