Tallahassee marked the first unfamiliar city of the trip.
Made of knots,
I hit the Florida line realizing I was alone and would be for quite some time-
which had to be okay.
which had to be okay.
At least the drive was mellow and the radio played quick jazz.
In town, I circled the neighborhood and finally found Jorge Gamba's unlit front yard.
Rang their bell and future PhD Jorge answered the side-door.
"Hey, you're here!"
Jorge waved his hands toward the yard until a light clicked on outside.
"They're motion-sensored and I think you're too short," he chuckled.
In a few exchanges of formalities, the tangles in my stomach eased.
The only knot remaining was the noose I saw upon entering.
"What's that gator hanging from the ceiling for?" I asked, pointing.
"Beats me," he said, "it was up there when we got the place."
It was FSU after all- the rivals of the UF Gators. It wasn't entirely surprising.
I assumed the place was once home to some serious football fans.
We moved on, talked dinner.
"Momo's Pizza," he beamed, "has pizza the size of your head."
And we went - and it did - and we tried the kung fu something or other.
If you find yourself hungry for pizza the size of your face in Tallahassee, try it.
The pies prove drool-worthy.
Anyhow.
Night one was pizza, beer and bonfires between Pink Floyd songs, "Don't Hug Me I'm Scared" videos and talks about bananandas- bananas in bandannas.
I fell asleep wondering why Kelsey Blue wanted to visit this place.
I kept pondering if she would've couch surfed or if insisted on a hotel.
She probably would've voted for security,
but it was my constant job to knead her from her comfort zone.
It was my obligation to remind Blue of her bravery.
Day Two:
I woke up before everyone else.
Walked outside and the sun was nothing but toasty on my winter-drenched skin.
I think Blue would've liked Tallahassee.
She mentioned it in passing, saying her class went on a trip there once but she couldn't go.
Well, there she was, with me.
"Made it," I thought before reaching the co-op.
This was my service project of choice:
Bread and Roses Food Cooperative, founded in 2009.
It was a member-owned grocer with a healthy, dainty restaurant attached.
The store was run by mutual aid volunteers running 3-hour shifts a week.
The Tuesday I walked in, Henry Meeker, the bicycle-touring aficionado/key holder of the day manned the counter.
Robert Foe, the gent with the face-tattoo of Florida, stationed the self-made dance floor between the free-market and the grocery isles. There was no music but he made his own.
The free-market stayed loaded with clothes, old VHS tapes, dime novels and random house appliances.
It was all for grabs but was a better-kept secret than the store hoped it would be.
New trash bags of donations piled the wall with questionable new entries to fold or toss and I manned the station for a while, placing tops with tops, bottoms with bottoms.
The bathrooms had Sharpie jottings along the walls. A shelf held a composition book labeled "Bread & Roses Sketchpad: Leave a thought, poem, drawing, idea, story, etc"
and inside, pages blasted with outbursts of anonymous brainwaves.
Along the isles, signs were posted for The Rotten Collective, a project for musicians which randomly-assigned band members to a project then gave them 30 days to write original music before playing it for a show in town.
I saw the poster and wondered how Asheville hadn't adopted something similar.
It was a cool concept - and upon meeting to a member of the collective, Matthew Mesler, I learned a show was coming up just after I scheduled to leave.
Bum.
Bum.
Bummer.
We got to talking and Matt granted me an Expo-marker drawn list of Tallahassee places:
4. St. Andrews
Then Robert chimed in with stories of his tattoos.
"Wanna hear a story?" he'd begin.
He furiously tapped his temple where his Florida tattoo rested, said the tattoo was from a girl.
"It was really dry that year and I went to a concert on mushrooms and wine. This girl said she was into painting serial killers and it was her idea. She did it wrong, put Tampa Bay on the wrong side."
Robert pointed at another design, explaining it.
Some ink tales later, the store was fully cleaned and the day hit 4 o'clock.
Henry and I were through for the day, and he readied his touring bike.
The plan thereafter was to check by the Bicycle House, a cycling non-profit founded in 2010.
We were going to make sure my ride was up to par.
It was.
While inside, I saw their mission statement- it centered on bridging different social groups in order to build community trust. It offered a safe, practical transportation method which advocated healthy living.
Sounded wonderful to me.
The community needed less 2-ton vehicles and more transportation mingled with exercise.
If I were staying in town longer, I would've been completely game to learn the in and outs of bike maintenance.
Day Four:
I was overdue for an All Saints Cafe session.
I needed their tall, star-filled ceilings and quiet places drenched in caffeinated graffiti and seclusion.
On one table, the wood etching read, "Peace or an expensive car?"
They had a hand-written board game titled "Coffee House"- much like the lovechild of Monopoly and Truth-or-Dare.
On the wall, concrete blocks displayed Emerson's "Earth laughs in flowers".
Before I set to work, I sipped my boiling Joe, noticing the green-haired goddess Kayla Owens pushing through the door. She changed my plans for the better.
There was no need for solitude when a story was better shared.
Kayla and I talked about her brother and my Blue,
his alcoholism and Blue's silent depression,
his death and hers.
We were both missing a heart-string, a best friend.
We shared and shared- communicating on that level only loss could bring.
She made me look at the whole ordeal with different lenses.
She said it was a strong thing, to drop everything and heal, in order to keep a promise.
We started to understand something greater about death- remembrance.
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