(Continued from last chapter.)
I did find an open mic that I could attend as the Baltimore Slam Poetry group had meetings at a restaurant on Saint Paul's Street off of 33rd. Because of the poetry convention, I was not a Slam Poetry enthusiast, but wanted to check them out, so one Sunday morning; I took the bus towards the city, and got off at Harford and 32nd Street.

From there it was a 2 mile walk in 100 degree weather, from 32nd Street to the end of 33rd, and I found the restaurant and was informed there is no slam poetry group performance, but not before being sent to a side door that I was told lead upstairs to the meeting, but was locked.

But I had the City Paper in hand and it was there address that was listed. There were a few more attempts before the manager saw and informed me that they stopped their meetings six months prior.

I started heading back to the bus on Harford Road but partway there the tropical heat got to me and seeing the number on the bus sign, knew that it would drop me off where I needed to pick up the 19 that took me home. I was happy to see the bus coming, but it blew right past me, though I had my pass in hand.

I figured because of the trees, the bus didn't see the sign, so I picked up and walked a few more blocks to an obvious bus stop on the other side of Greenmount Avenue, the one place my father told me never to loiter.

I asked around and found out another bus will be by in about 45 minutes, and was quickly joined by a fairly young black man. He was joined by another young black man that was a friend and they started to converse:

"Nigger, nigger, nigger ... nigger, nigger, nigger. Nigger!"

"Nigger! Nigger, nigger, nigger ... Nigger, nigger ... Nigger, nigger, nigger. Nigger?"

"Nigger, Nigger?"

"Nigger!"

A bit shocked, I minded my time by counting the number of times they said that word, and after 150 times, I stopped counting and looked at my watch ... Ten minutes had elapsed. They apparently left room for me to join the conversation, but I thought it best to make facial gestures and grunt. One thing's for sure to me, I knew the one word not to say!"

I could see if Richard Pryor was standing there with me, and point blank say to them, "Come on man! Don't you think you are using, 'nigger,' a bit excessively?"

This conversation reminded me that dad worked, a few blocks down Greenmount Avenue for Juvenile Services for most of his career, and one time spent several days trying to track down a boy he was supervising, who never made it to his probation appointment.

Dad was at home and yelled, "I want to know why you aren't coming in to see me like you are supposed to ... What do you mean you can't find it? You just compare the address number I gave you to what is on the side of the building ... I never heard of anyone not being able to read numbers."

Dad looked in the living room and said to mom and me, "Jesus Christ!" Back on the phone Dad continued, "I'm going to make it easy for you. Tomorrow, get your ass to Greenmount and 33rd, walk on the right side of Greenmount towards the city, and look for the only building with all of the God damned bullet holes in it!" Upon returning home from work that day, Dad said the kid found it.

Back at the bus stop, the conversation slowed a bit, and though more people gathered around, the word usage remained the same. They talked about, the dumb nigger, the sports nigger, the nigger with the gun, the nigger with the knife, a bitch nigger, a real bad bitch nigger and the dead nigger. They also talked about how they plan not to end up dead niggers.

Overheated, and with ringing ears, I was happy when the bus finally pulled up. Though I was there first, three people ran and got in front of me. The person just before me, didn't swipe a pass, but started putting a handful of change in. I always let people swipe first and patiently waited to put the money in to get the pass. All of a sudden just seconds later, a crotchety old black man just behind me yelled, "You God damned cracker, swipe your ass around that motherfucker!"

I did but the meter, wouldn't allow that so I showed the pass to the bus driver, and she yelled, "Ok, now sit down and shut your mouth!"

The dissention the bus showed to me turned into outright racial hatred, "Yea, someone ought to beat you up, you fucking crackerhead!

"Yea, put a foot up his cracker ass!"

"Dumb white motherfucker!"

The bus started and the old black man, just wouldn't shut up. After about a half mile, I thought, This treatment isn't acceptable for a black person. Fuck them, I'll walk to the 19.

I pulled the stop, and got off at Loch Raven and 33rd, walking another three quarters of a mile to Harford Road to pick up the bus. The funny thing was once there, I realized the bus made a loop and was now once again before me. I looked at everyone on the bus and busted out laughing at them all. I couldn't resist folding my hands and putting my nose up in the air, aktin' all smart ass and shit!

Finally the bus to take me home arrived; I wasn't looking for trouble, but desiring it. As the black woman would put it, "I have my tude on! An I dare anybody to mess with me!"

I came on board and the bus driver, who was a middle aged black man, instantly disarmed me. "How are you doing mam? Welcome aboard!" He looked at me and said, "Hey captain! Welcome aboard!" It was an introspective ride as I realized just how important the bus driver really is at providing a good riding experience.

The closer the bus got to Parkville, the happier I was. The bus driver wished me a great day, and I told him, "It will definitely be better!"

I didn't make it halfway across the parking lot, before a young woman walked up to me, possibly Katie's friend who always threatened my life, and bummed a cigarette. I gave her one and she replied, "I've been a bad girl today." I tried to ignore the fact I knew she was high as a kite, a felt it a shame so many people were now like that in Parkville.

I made it to a fairly new restaurant I used a few times as a treat when I had the money, Buffalo Wings & Beer. The experience was usually spotty, depending on the help, but overall OK. After the heat and the bus ride, I ordered a very tall Coca-Cola to rehydrate, before the customary Manhattan and beer, also choosing a nice steak and salad.

The barmaid wasn't much of a person to enjoy, but I considered the air conditioning, the spirits and the food to be my little slice of Heaven for the day. While I wasn't happy with the service, or that I ordered this over cooked medium-rare steak, I was enjoying the break from life and still tipped her 20 percent, though the price seemed a little higher than I expected.

I then saw the bill and the fact that she had already decided to help herself and added a 25 percent gratuity in the first place; this was a definite insult to injury day! I went home and locked myself in; fearing my karma, or the karma being put upon me by the world, as some undeserved injustice.

I was very mad at the event on the bus and had thoughts about lodging a complaint with the MTA (Mass Transit Administration), but decided against it until I realized that in today's world, if I was black, it would be totally unacceptable and very public. I wasn't mad at the bus driver as I didn't view her as a racist, but a person who just didn't know how to handle the situation and misacted.

I finally decided to file a complaint with the MTA, I stated that I didn't want punishment for the bus driver, but her response to the situation definitely contributed to the problem. Most of the people that I told laughed at me and said I was wasting my time. I never received a response back from the MTA, not even an apology, but I knew I did the right thing for the right reasons.



Little did I know the role Karma would be playing in my life regarding poetry, bus transportation and food... Facebook was yielding me invitations and found there was an open mic being held at the Parkside Restaurant just down Harford Road in Hamilton. The drawback was, it was held on Friday nights, so I would have to take off of work.

I enquired with the person hosting it, William, and he sent me a friend request on Facebook, and he assured me that poetry is welcome for the open mic. I promised to attend and took the Friday night off, so I could participate.

I wanted to match the poetry to venue as William informed me, the Parkside was a bar, so I planned for some of my poems that had a more spicy in nature and possessing variety of adult humor with them. I took the bus and when I arrived, he was setting up and I signed in. He told me that he was planning for each participant to keep things to three or four numbers.

The other performers were all music oriented, and on the left side there was a bar, while the right had a floor level stage with a piano in the back. There were also an open dining area, and the place was more expansive as it had a play area for children? There were more or less family's dining there, and I regretted not having other material to present. I also had another bad vibe, since this was William's first time at hosting an open mic event.

I ordered a drink, and was surprised at the cost for such a local bar, and not having enough money left, ordered a bowl of Jambalaya. What put me off about the bartender and owner was his seeming lack of interest in serving me, or even taking my order. I know he saw me sitting there, but it struck me he wasn't exactly interested on making sales.

I finally signed in with William, and accepted his desired pecking order. I could see that sound was going to be a definite problem, as he was constantly trying to work it out better. There was going to be a total of five groups playing as well.

I went through the first one, with my Manhattan, and got my Jambalaya and was a bit put off as it was basically a lot of mushy rice in tomato water. There was sausage and chicken, but getting hold of a piece was more like finding that toy reward in a Cracker Jack box. Considering I cook Cajun myself, I was far from impressed and now put off at the cost of the dish.

For the fourth band, my friend John came in as well another friend of his, Rick who John introduced me to at the Coach House in for the Theremin performance. Rick was an interesting person, as he was also a ghost investigator. Then the last music group before me, went up and did what I thought was the best job. It didn't go unnoticed the problem others were having problems with the main microphone.

At this point, the place was pretty crowded and the children were fairly loud in the play area, but people were also getting their food. I had also moved to a table with John and Rick, as it was appearing the last group was about over, but then a member of it remained on stage and announced that he was going to do another three songs.

Then it turned into four, then five as he was singing while playing the piano. William did come and apologize to me and said he was thinking of a way to get him to stop playing. I said, "William, it's easy, walk up there and tell him it is his last, then he has to get off of the stage."

I am not sure if William did that, but the guy announced it was his last song, and he was going to do a special rendition of a song from a famous rocker. Well he started and it was about penises and they more he played, the more perverse it seemed to get. I watched six families pick up and leave, which made it more comfortable for me, I now had a more appropriate audience for my material, which was far less perverse then what he was singing.

Finally it was my turn and the first problem was, there wasn't a music stand available to put my poetry on. Then it was the microphone as it was adjusted such, I had to speak from sixteen inches away, which definitely affected the voice qualities and characteristics. But yet, I enjoyed my chance to perform.

I could only imagine how I felt I was perceived, as with holding the papers so I could read them, make eye contact and interact with the audience, while trying to get the voice into the microphone, because it was so directional, the sweet spot seemed to be dancing around.

I got three done, and all were received with applause, and was working on my forth, titled, "Manscaping," which was about a man summoning up the courage to groom himself down there and face the fear of a razor on such revered jewels. I did get a couple people leaving, but it was because they finished eating and were ready to go home; one person even shook my hand.

I was reading my last, which was, "Open Letter for Uninvited Emails!" I just started in it and while reading, William walked up to me, interrupted the reading, saying he would like this to be my last because he wanted to go home. I was a bit pissed off, but continued with my rant against all those Emails selling Viagra, by a man who desperately needed a drug with the opposite effects.

There was a lot of disbelief with people shaking their heads, spasms of awkwardness, as well guarded laughter and amusement. It seemed to be the end of the evening as William announced it and I got a little applause, but people were now more interested in picking up and leaving. What pleased me was that a few stayed around to shake my hand and talk, giving me kudos for presenting my material.

I asked Rick how I did and he felt it was hard to say as we lost a large part of the crowd before I went up, and it was obvious I was distracted by fighting with the equipment. He felt I did pretty good, but noted the lack of experience with William in hosting an open mic.

A couple of weeks later, William wanted me to check out his band, which also played at the Parkside, and he wasn't half bad and very good at adapting to different instruments and if I developed another recording studio, would have definitely invited him to be a contributing player. I liked their selection of songs and was entertained.

But for the restaurant, the service and bartender's attitude was about the same sort of slow. I ordered a, "Pigwhich," made of ham, scrapple and bacon, which was also fairly expensive. Despite the fact I liked all the meats, the only thing I tasted was the absolute saltiness to the sandwich.

Because of financial considerations, I felt it best to work as hard as I could and decided not to participate in next month's open mic. The week after, I was invited to attend another band that William was friends of his, which was led by a woman.

I actually liked the band and its folksy version and twist on rock and roll. There seemed to be less of an attitude there, but I did note there were fewer people present. This time I opted for The Dagwood, a type of sandwich loaded with layered meats and cheeses. Though $12.50, it was well worth the price and tasted pretty good, and even had to take half home with me. The service still was sparse.

I was invited to participate in the next open mike and decided to take off and go for it. William seemed enthused I decided to come. The bus stop I enjoy for catching the bus going into Baltimore city is located at Harford and Taylor, just up the street from where I live.

It has a bench, trash can and a small garden as well a wall behind it to act as a wind break. The old corner gas station was is now a Chinese carryout food place and seafood shop. Next door was a building whichwas a former bank with a small cubby hole in the front that used to house an ATM machine.

I was there to pick up the bus, and it was an absolutely frigid night. I noticed a woman across Taylor Avenue, in front of the Hair Cuttery, talking to my hair cutter. The woman was attractively soft, but had a hairdo you would find on a much older woman. Since she was a friend of my hair cutter, when she walked past I said, "Hello."

She ignored me, but I had the reaction of, Jesus Christ, she's a soulless woman! While often ignored, I never had a thought like that, and found it curious enough to ponder within my mind. While I noted