Mister Bud had an interesting history in East Baltimore and on the Baltimore County waterfront communities of Dundalk, East Point, Colgate, North Point, Essex and Middle River. He made deliveries for men who offered no explanation as to what was in the bag or the box, only where and when. His curiosity never god the best of him. But, that gnawing curiosity about what he was being paid to deliver, seemed to calm his nerves.

“Then again, maybe it was being young that made me brave. I needed a new appliance for my apartment-never you mind what it was… maybe my clothes needed washing,” he smiled with comically wrinkled brows. Well, I knew this fella, head of security at Wal-Mart, Carol Island. I told him, while I was shopping what I was lookin’ for. But the sticker price was something else. Things have gotten so steep. It’s a pretty big piece mind you. This fella had been locked up—a black fella’ a sort sort of fella.

“I ask, ‘Are you sure?’

“He says, “I’m head of security—just you follow me and don’t stop for nobody.”

I was sweatin’ it, let me tell you. Ninety years and looking down the barrel at doin’ hard time—on a fixed income to boot!

[laughter]

“Sure enough, he was right—I was the proud owner of a brand knew overpriced appliance—maybe it was stereo…” he winks.

“Point is, that’s young man’s work. That fella eventually got caught doing this and went away. Now I see him working security at Target!”

…

I sit in a San Jose motel after calling Megan, who is in te hospital with astronomical blood pressure and no insurance, a medical ping pong ball. She said, “Have you written Mister Bud yet? You know he really looks forward to seeing you and he loves getting stuff in the mail.”

Even from her medical orphan basket at the steps of the Church of We Don’t Care, this cool dame is ever the mother, the daughter, the sister, looking out for others.

I have found at the free table at the Portland Dive Bar nice, “Kindly Deliver To” brown paper envelopes. Neatly addressed wit this unsteady hand, one elans with stamo afixed under the desktop mirror, upon Alan Gardiner’s The Egyptians, the hefty red & gold subject of five days’ reading.

Upon the cover of said book, are two leafs from a hotel memo pad: “Sleep,” with golden moon crescent, “By Choice Hotels,” with cursive “jot down your dreams,” at top. At bottom Dream Better Here / sleepin.com.

In all caps, with this drippy tactical pen:

“Mister Bud,

“I hope this finds you well on a pleasant day.”

[He likes sitting on the covered porch.]

“Weather across the country has been crazy—except here in the SF Bay Area..

“It now takes 5 days to cross country. Rails are beat up. The locomotive hit a wild turkey, never cleaned off the grill, in N. Carolina. Train was 30 hours late to Chicago—must have been a bird with pull…

“Sir, I spoke to Megan, in hospital. That poor girl has a hard way to go.

“Did the Mexicans ever get the refrigerator off the walk?

“Has their pool turned green yet?”

“Look forward to seeing you in October.

“-Best, Jim [signed] James, W, Jul, 29

…

I am worried for my friends back east.

In Portland, Dove has gotten the news that her heart is back up to 55% from 20%.

I walked six miles yesterday in this blissful weather.

I reinjured my intercostals/upper abs coughing u this tacky green stuff. Winter will be rough. I have a trip to make from mid January through March 1, including trying not to let down a young couple in their marriage ceremony.

Some friends back east, who sent 6 years out here, want to come back—Baltimore is just too nasty. People are so nice in California. Walking to the 7-1 in the morning, the bums are industrious, working for recyclable cans, not asking pedestrians for hands out, polite to motorists, asking once, from behind. An obviosuly well-to-do scholarly sort, a tall, well-nit elegant man of 70 in a neat beard, walks along towards me, on his way home from the 7-11, in a beige bathrobe, a clean plush one, and matching slippers, hands in pockets, looking like an ancient Babylonian official. Making polite eye contact, eh intones, “Good morning,” despite my lower status, and seems genuine.

“Good morning, sir,” I answer, still not used to being treated like a fellow human being by others after 9 years on the lam from the terrible city that hatched me, feeling like the one little sea turtle hatchling who made it down to the sea under the wing shadows of the sinister gulls.