As I neglected to mention before, I was not pursuing this bold venture by my lonesome. An old friend and coworker, Brent Knepper, signed on to pack up and leave what we believed to be a wasteland in favor of, well, Baltimore.

Let me tell you a little about Brent, because he’s not your average Joe, no sir. See, Brent grew up in the small town of Nokesville, very similar to myself. His mother was psychotic and, fearing the overwhelming nothingness that is Northern Virginia, he was easily swayed into joining my Baltimore expedition. For one reason or another, Brent became the exact opposite of what was expected of him in this community we’d grown up in. He didn’t carry a pitchfork, guzzle beer or focus his career options “somewhere in D.C.” as the majority of our area’s inhabitants can attest for. No, Brent was a dedicated vegan who possessed a staunch liberal mind. I always saw Brent as a friend, there’s no doubt about that – but I suspect I was naïve to think living with him would fair out.

Before we were ever at each other’s throats, Brent and I maintained our jobs at Olive Garden; we tucked away hundreds of dollars in tips on the last month of our employment with all eyes turned towards Charm City itself. As I mentioned in my previous installment, we spent the majority of our time at the train station after work, seeing as how there is little else to do in Northern Virginia, and we fancied ourselves connoisseurs of adventure. We would walk up and down the tracks, climb up the small light towers and watch the trains roll in – kiddie shit, basically.

On one of our last nights in Virginia, we got a little carried away. See, this particular train station happens to be right next to an airport for some reason. Basically, it’s just a big open field filled with transportation opportunities. We knew there was a train that would be rolling past any second, right on time, just as usual. What we didn’t know, however, is that walking on the train tracks and fucking around near an airport in the dark in a post-9/11 world renders unexpected consequences.

As the midnight ghost train lumbered down the tracks, Brent and I hopped down out of the light tower and proceeded to dance. And not just a waltz or anything of that sort, I’m talking full-on obnoxious, look-at-me dancing; we were right next to the tracks, no less – a dangerous feat, I imagine. Just as the hulking train passed by us at a speed I felt was unnecessary, considering it was about to stop at the station, I locked eyes with the engineer. In a fit of explosive shimmying and two stepping, I stared at that man straight in eyes. Perhaps he figured tonight would be like any other night – a lazy round at the ol’ station before heading home. Not if Ryan and Brent have anything to do with it, I thought. Contrary to the look of amazement and childlike bliss I assumed would no doubt grace this weathered old man’s face, he looked quite the opposite. He actually looked really horrified. And here I thought giving the old man a knee-slapper of a spectacle to giggle at would warm his heart; in all likeliness we probably scared the shit out of him and gave him a heart attack. So much for the creative ingenuity of trying to brighten someone’s mundane job, I guess. Bewildered, I told Brent that we should probably head out. No sooner had we crossed the tracks and trudged through the woods next to the airport, five goddamned police cars skidded, shrieked and roared into the vacant parking lot. Five. Talk about prompt police response. Brent suggested we try to get to our cars without them seeing us, but they were already on foot and headed our way. Although we were shielded in the darkness of the forest, the only way out was through the barrage of armed police officers running at us with pistols drawn.

“Uhhhh… Brent…”
“It’s alright, Ryan. Maybe they’re looking for someone else.”

”FREEEEZE MOTHERFUCKERS!”

We stepped into the light of the train station and, as per the officer’s request, froze. Maybe they were expecting four big black guys with chains and attitudes. Maybe they were expecting international terrorists. Whatever it was that these five men had envisioned on the thirty fucking second car ride over was not what they saw before them. In fact, they started laughing at us. Two little white boys in dress shirts and ties (our work uniform), who were doing their damndest to come off as calm and collected.

Immediately, two of the officers had us with our hands behind our heads while the three remaining officers pointed and laughed. As the dorky redheaded cop felt up my dick and asked me if I was storing any knives in my urethra, Brent was getting his not but three feet away.

“A horrified train engineer phoned in about a gang of well-dressed men doing their thing on one of the railroad tracks. You do realize that walking on the tracks is a felony, don’t you?”

Clearly we didn’t.

The other officer continued to search Brent’s tight-as-all-hell pants until he discovered a questionable trinket in the right front pocket. Earlier that evening, at work, I had taken a small baby rattle off the table of a baby shower that Brent and I had waited on, and somehow managed to slip it into his tight-ass pockets without him noticing. This wasn’t a real baby rattle; it was just table decoration – a novelty item, really. The curious officer did his best to dig his hands in Brent’s pocket to reveal said rattle. He held it up for the other officers to examine and, like everything else we’d done in the five or so minutes they’d had us in custody, pointed and laughed. These guys might as well have pulled up in a damn clown car for all I was concerned – all they did was giggle and make jokes.

They informed us that, rather than issuing citations, we would be let go and effectively banned from the railroad station at night since, well, it’s illegal anyway. I didn’t really care either way anyhow since fuck Virginia, I’m moving to Maryland. Unfortunately, it didn’t really register at the time that I probably shouldn’t have burned as many bridges as I did in my fucking home state.

Over the next week, I stopped going to work because, fuck those guys, right? That was my mentality at the time; that was my answer to everything. Fuck it, I’m moving to Maryland! Brent, however, remained at Olive Garden for at least two or three days longer. Supposedly on his last day there, a hostess informed him that one of his tables would be seated with a party of nine or something to that extent. Rather than get upset or pissed off, he grabbed a few crayons from a small basket next to the hostess podium – the ones they give to little kids so they can do crossword puzzles on their menus or some shit. Well, the dude ate a handful of crayons right in front of the hostess and patrons waiting to be seated and left. Brent ate crayons.

The night before we were to move in to our brand new digs, Brent suggested I pack all of my earthly possessions up since he would be coming to my house with a truck the following morning. I guess I didn’t really consider the fact that I have a shitload of things, so I put if off until 5 am. When I did wake up and begin packing all my beloved knickknacks into apple boxes, it became quite clear that there was no way in hell I’d be able to fill the 20 or so boxes I had in nearly enough time for them to be put on this gigantic truck that, for some reason, Brent was able to commandeer.

(Side note: I had to drive from my mom’s house (where I’d been staying) to my dad’s house (where all of my things were) at 5 am to be able to pack in time. Upon entering the house, my step-mom jumped out of the master bedroom in an attack stance with a Glock .45 in her trembling hands, pointing it straight at my head. She didn’t even say, “Oh my goodness! It’s you, Ryan. I had no idea. Let me put this gigantic handgun away since I have no idea how to use it and furthermore, why would criminals be breaking into our house at 5 am and have a key to the front door.” No, she just kind of stood there until I walked downstairs, hoping she wasn’t going to shoot me. To this day I have no idea why that happened. It was never discussed.)

Brent’s mom and step-dad accompanied us with the move since apparently it’s illegal for two teenage boys to pilot a massive vehicle to which they had no prior knowledge of how to operate, or a proper trucking license. Now, we’re not big guys, not by any means, but somehow we were able to carry couches, TVs, large wooden boxes and entertainment centers out of a small basement door. Strangely enough, even when it did seem like we were going to drop something expensive, or worse, drop something on top of one of us, Brent’s step-dad (a robust, muscular chap) never stepped in to assist us. I’m talking like “OH MY GOD I’M GOING TO DROP THIS FUCKING CRATE DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAAAIIRRRSSS AAGGGHGHHH” moments, too. He just stood there, expressionless. At one point, when my muscles and life force were giving way, and I cried out in terror to the heavens for all and any that would listen, he walked away and sat in the air conditioned cab of the truck and watched. I’m pretty sure I was borderline hernia, too.

After the truck was filled to the brim, I began loading my valuables and delicates in my own car: lamps, DVDs, EarthBound, etc. Fueled on three hours of sleep and a strong will and dedication to start again in some shitty harbor town an hour away, I cleared my trip meter, loaded my cup holders with bottled water and set out under the July sun with no air conditioning; my only companion, an enormous fish-shaped pillow, buckled in securely in my passenger seat.

I arrived in Baltimore an hour and a half later (due to Saturday traffic) and parked in a muddy alley behind my apartment building.

A polite, portly construction worker told me that I would have to “move [my] motherfucking car” soon, but I started unloading my most valuable possessions on perhaps one of the dirtiest sidewalks I had ever witnessed up until that point in my life. I would be seeing numerous sidewalks on par or severely below this sidewalk in the weeks and months to come as I explored a city that hasn’t been renovated or cleaned since the turn of the last century.

Construction practices in Baltimore being what they are, the majority of the businesses and living complexes are renovated factories. Our building in particular was formally an underwear plant, as our landlord so proudly boasted. Most of the apartment buildings on the ground floor were “open architecture” which, in theory, sounds really awesome – that is, if you live alone or with your girlfriend or boyfriend, but we didn’t figure that out until later. Basically, there were no doors, none of the walls reached the ceiling and, from the loft Brent had chosen as his room, you could look into my room by simply peeking over the side of the wall, which was little more than two feet of drywall. Anyway, the back entrance of the building had a small walkway next to a pool that hadn’t been serviced since the 80s or something. In other words, it looked like a gigantic concrete hole filled with sewage. The walkway, though, was pretty nice – the problem being, however, that it had a glass ceiling and it was in the middle of the scorching summer. On top of that, I had to carry a truckload of heavy furniture with my equally small friend with no help from his step-dad since, man, it was hot, and that cab had A/C.

Once Brent arrived, we began the arduous task of unloading furniture, carrying it under the glass ceiling, up a small flight of stairs and to the opposite end of the hall from whence we’d come. I won’t get into all the boring details, but suffice it to say that I basically hated my life and collapsed afterwards.

After a brief nap, I hopped back in my Cherokee on route to Virginia to pick up my lady who would be staying with us for the first week at our new apartment.

Upon our return, a bunch of people from Virginia started to show up, since I guess having an apartment is pretty awesome or something. With the little food we had, Brent and I prepared some pasta and spinach salad (which is all the rage in Baltimore for whatever reason) for our guests and we dined on the floor. After eating the fuck out of the fusilli pasta, we headed to the roof deck to examine our new home. Eventually we found ourselves near the edge, glancing over to the streets nine stories below where pedestrians dodged traffic, walked around defiantly while listening to rap music and POP POP POP – damn gunshots were ringing out between the buildings two blocks away. The group jumped back away from the edge and we returned to the relatively safe confines of the apartment building. I say relatively safe because the ground floor windows didn’t lock and the obnoxious doorwoman let anyone in at all hours of the night.

As our friends and acquaintances said their goodbyes and dissipated from our new home, I took to my bed in a room I wasn’t so familiar with. Tomorrow would be my first day of work at Shuckers THE FAMILY SEAFOOD EATERY AND BAR, so I entered the sheets with heavy eyelids and a heavy heart. Madeleine by my side, we soon fell asleep in an unfamiliar city in an unfamiliar part of town – the sounds of the city an unfamiliar lullaby. Somewhere in the distance, perhaps a mere block or two away, I heard a gun go off.

To be continued in “The Block”.