COLLECTION: Misery Loves Company

Immediately following the first of my 50DATESin50STATES I went to the bus station. The plan was simple, board a bus at 8:30PM in Birmingham get off at 9:25AM in Biloxi. It should’ve only been 40-something-dollars to get me from Alabama to Mississippi where I’d planned on lending a hand with this whole Katrina thing. Of course, as is always the case, nothing ever goes to plan. The following is a collection I took over the 36+ hours it took to get me to my final destination. Unfortunately, I missed a lot of steps (its hard to take pictures while a team of cops point loaded guns at you), so figured I’d give you the rough outline first.

STEP ONE: Birmingham to Montgomery by bus.
This bit went pretty well. I slept. Well, I slept and chatted up a girl. But mainly I slept. Then I had a three-hour layover. That was cool too. This is where I took the bulk of the pictures tying to entertain myself. Unfortunately, when the bus that I was meant to board came at 1AM, it was full. “You’ll have to wait for the next bus,” they said when I asked what I was supposed to do, “it should be here 24hours from now.” GET THE FUCK OUT. “Hey, don’t look at me,” the woman said as I scowled, “look at the back of your ticket, we don’t guarantee that you’ll get there, same as the airlines…” “Yeah, but they try really, really hard.”


STEP TWO: Cab to Montgomery Airport
I split the cab ride with a guy who’d missed the same bus. He was trying to get to New Orleans to see his house. He’d maxed out his credit cards. My driver’s license is expired. Together we hatched a scheme: He’d spend the night at his mom’s house in town; I’d go to the airport. At 6AM when the rental car companies opened, he’d call me. We’d rent a car with his license and my credit card and drive together.

STEP THREE: Montgomery Airport
Where I come from airports never close. The businesses inside do, but not the building itself. When I got there the lights were on. The automatic doors weren’t sliding on their own, but they weren’t locked either. I slid them open, walked in and, finding the place empty, curled up in my sleeping bag by the ticket counter. I actually got to sleep before the cops came. Four of them. I think they thought I was a bomb. They all had their guns pointed at me when they pulled back the sleeping bag covering my face and body. I yelled. I was lucky I didn’t get shot.
“Why’d you break into the airport?”
“What do mean break in? The doors were open.”
“Did you go past the security checkpoint? Did you hide something on the other side?”
It was all very In The Heat of The Night. Luckily they believed me. I wasn’t arrested. Instead I went to sleep in the grass outside.

STEP FOUR: 6AM Still No Call from My Cab Friend
I went to every counter in the airport, desperate to buy a ticket from Montgomery to Biloxi/Gulfport. No one flew there. It was one of those “you can’t get there from here”-type experiences. I was going crazy. One airline went, but they wouldn’t have a seat for two days and even then it was going to cost $1,200. Finally someone suggested I fly to Mobile by way of Atlanta. It’d only cost $200. And it was only 45 miles from where I was heading, surely someone from the organization I was going to would pick me up… at 8:45AM, having past the exhaustive “SSSS” security check (I always get those S’s on my ticket, it means you’re a security risk) I was sitting on the runway awaiting takeoff when my phone rang. “Jake, it’s me, your buddy from the cab. Good news, I borrowed a car. Tell me where to puck you up I’m driving you to Biloxi.” Fuck, fuck, fuck.

STEP FIVE: Mobile to Who Knows Where
After landing I called the organization. They told me I was way to far to pick up. Sure it was only 45 miles, but with all the roads and bridges out it could take all day. I asked a cabbie who told me he’d take me for $300. Ugh. With nothing left to do I harassed everyone at the baggage carousel. I know I was weirding people out, but what else could I do. Finally I found a guy who was heading my way, he was the logistics coordinator for a CB base (whatever that is) being run out of the local air force base. When I told him I was an EMT he agreed to give me a ride.

STEP SIX: Where am I?
They dropped me off at the address I’d requested on the road I’d asked for so where the hell was I. A few calls later I had the mystery solved. I was in Long Beach. It seems this one road runs through several towns, and in each town all the addresses reset. It would be a few hours before someone could pick me up. With nothing left to do I found the local food distribution being run out of the biggest church in town, put on a new shirt and helped distribute while I waited.

Crazy right?


























(this was where the police found me, but I was fully covered when they rushed in)


(this is me outside following the interrogation, only somewhat relieved to have not been arrested)

















The moral of the story? I don’t know that there is a moral. That’s the worst part—$300, 36 hours and I’m pretty sure I didn’t learn a thing. In fact, I know it. I nearly had the exact same experience trying to get home.

50DATESin50STATES: Alabama

Every journey begins with a single step. But in which direction? I decided to start at the beginning, with the letter A: Sweet Home Alabama.



Really, all I know about the state comes from the song. Well, that and my Afro-American studies class in high-school: It seems ‘Bama wasn’t always the most pro-black-person place to be.

That said, I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting when I went to the 50Dates Gmail account and did a search for Alabama. Certainly not a pretty smile. Or an open mind. That’s exactly what I found though. Well, that, and an awesome rack, a new breakfast spot, a pearl handled revolver and a life lesson. I’m getting ahead of myself though.



Turns out only one person from the whole state applied to be my date. According to the note she sent me, Ms. Alabama (I’ve decided to withhold her name and likeness, you’ll understand soon), is 24, lived 9 months in NYC and “loves film, photography and fun stuff.” So far so good. She had icy blue eyes. Fair skin. Dark hair. Oh and I almost forgot, her favorite things are earlobes. “They’re so squishy” she said in her letter.



You may or may or may not know this, but I’ve got earlobes. You see where I’m going right? She wants me. How could she not?

I flew in late in the afternoon, she met me curbside at the airport and we were off and running. Her house was two hours drive from the airport. Plenty of time for talk.



It was at this stage that I learned the following:

1) The picturesque suburban Birmingham home we were heading to, the one with the mailbox at the end of the drive and the perfectly manicured lawn, is also inhabited by her mother and grandmother. She stays in the basement.

2) Perhaps it’s grandma’s influence, or maybe it’s just the way she speaks—slowly, with a voice like a rocking chair—but her friends actually tease her about being the oldest 24-year-old they’ve ever met. Some even call her “Granny.” Speeding was out of the question.

3) Though you’d never guess it looking at her, she, er, how do you say, is “not very experienced.” This is a secret. Something not even her closest friends know, not even the ones who call her “Granny” know that. They all assume otherwise. So why’d she tell me? What can I say, I have that effect on people.



Great. I’d just embarked on the world’s strangest booty-call only to find a girl with so little experience I’m not sure I’d want to go there anyway. I mean, come on, I can’t work under this kind of pressure. All of which is fine really, I mean, I’ve gone on dates where nothing came of it… that’s what dating is, a process whereby we figure out if someone fits the bill. Plus we were getting along really well. I mean really well. By the time we reached her home, it was like were life-long friends. A make-out free date? Why not. Not every night out ends with a kiss and a cuddle.

Really, I was fine with it. I mean, she was fine, really fine, but I was going to Biloxi, Mississippi as soon as were done to help out the victims of Hurricane Katrina. With that looming in the distance, I wasn’t feeling sexy anyway.



We grabbed a bite, watched a movie, then I kicked back on the couch and went to sleep. The next day, Alabama woke me up early with a suggestion. It was drizzling; what if instead of going on a picnic by the waterfall like we’d planned, we went skydiving? Apparently it’s something she’s always wanted to do. Fuck yeah, if Granny-‘Bammy wants to jump from a plane, who am I to say no? Again, for better or worse, it’s not the first time a women I’m with has voiced this desire… I just have that effect on people.



Sadly, jumping in the rain is a no-no. We headed to the waterfall as planned.



Oh, and we ate at Waffle House. My first. Love it.

The water level was low, but where the waterfall normally lives was beautiful anyway. We had a great time. She’s a fantastic women and pretty much always up for an adventure. When we pulled into a pawn shop and found a pearl-handled revolver I was into, she offered to use her ID to get it for me (my out of state license wasn’t going to cut it for the background check) but at the last minute I opted against it. Nothing good would come of my owning a gun, I just know it.



But this was where the trip took an unexpected turn. You know how when someone first starts taking karate they think they’re ready to take on the world? In reality, they don’t know how to fight at all. They just know enough to get into trouble. Shoot off their mouth. Get punched in it. Well, that’s me and psychology. I’ve been reading some books lately. These books have me thinking I know things I don’t and have left me making assumptions I shouldn’t. It started to become clear when a little puppy dog ran across the road while we were driving.



‘Bama seemed to think we should pull over and rescue the pup. I was convinced the dog was fine. “It probably just got away from someone in that house over there… no sane person would let a dog like that go.”
“No. That’s how people get rid of dogs out here,” she pleaded, “they take the dog’s tags off and just let them go on the road. Eventually someone hits ‘em.”
“I call bullshit, but I tell you what, we’ll double back around; if the dog doesn’t have a collar we’ll take him with us. Otherwise, we’ll just put him back on that porch.”
“Deal.”

I couldn’t believe what we found. Forget one puppy, there were loads.



They were attention starved. And crawling with fleas.

Convinced something was up, we decided to have a look around the property.



Things were worse in the two kennels we found. The dogs were so hungry, so mangy, so filthy and uncared for, they bit at the pups when they got close. The little’uns we’d spotted from the road ran off yelping.



Time to call the ASPCA. We took down all the info and, as we headed back to ‘Bama’s house made some calls and were promised action. Turns out though, the welfare of our roadside friends wasn’t the only misassumption I’d made.


(this is the dog owner's actual name and adress—do with it as you please)

It was too late to act, I had a bus to catch to Biloxi, but Bama, inexperienced as she was, was certainly willing to try anything once. In fact, not only had she posed nude for Playboy (why didn’t she say that in her note?) she even planned something of a surprise for me; A little bit of ‘role play’ involving a strict math teacher and her insolent pupil in need of discipline. Unfortunately, I’d been so standoff-ish the night before, she figured I wasn’t down.

Hell, even the mailbox at the end of her drive was hiding a secret or two.



It seems grandma had filled the thing with cement a day or so before I got there, so that, whoever it was who’d been playing mail-box baseball would break their arms the next time they tried swinging a bat at it from the passenger side of a moving vehicle.

It seems if anyone wasn’t open-minded in the state of Alabama it was me. I’d made some assumptions, and in the process I’d made a… well you know the rest. Bottom line: One down, forty-nine more to go and mark my words, I won’t be making the same mistake twice.

The lines are still open. Anyone interested in taking part should send their name, age, working phone number and picture to 50DATESin50STATES@gmail.com. Please be sure to include your hometown, state, nearest airport, any strange or interesting points of interest, a suggestion or two for what we might do on our date and a compelling argument for why you should be the one. When planning our outing though, please keep in mind I’m damn near broke; the opera could be nice, but a picnic and a freak-show would be nicer. See you soon…