Brian and I had planned to stay awake, pack and get over to the exit early to catch the first bus out. Of course, we both fell asleep. We woke around 5 a.m. to a terrible turn of events. The crushing heat had finally broken in favor of storm of unbelievable fury, and we would have to pack and leave in the middle of it. All that dust had turned to rivers of mud overnight; the prospect of walking out was not pleasant to consider. After all our belongings were packed, we ran outside, unstaked the tent and carried it under the information booth's carport to break down. We were informed that the golf cart taxis had stopped running the previous night in anticipation of today's storm. In short, we were up shit creek. We donned ponchos (thank goodness we brought those) and made an abortive attempt to start carrying our things by foot, but it went poorly. Luckily, I had a brainwave and threw everything on a couple of tarps, and we dragged the stuff across the site to the exit. Of course, this makes it sound easy. It was a 45 minute trek during which we and our belongings were completely soaked, no one offered any help (including people cruising around in empty pickups) and the rain never let up. This would not have been complete without our shitty travel luck kicking into overdrive as usual, and just as the end was in sight -- we had maybe five minutes left to walk before we reached the taxi pickup area -- a guy emerged to offer us a hand.
He flanked us on the left and looked, spoke and acted like a drug addict. He was disheveled and shirtless, his teeth were terrible, and he had some really strange scarring on his chest and shoulder. His voice dripped with that kind of tangible idiocy and couldn't be bothered to enunciate its words, he had a mildly crazy look in his eye, and a thin line of snot tenuously bridged the gap between his nostril and his lip. At first we hardly noticed any of this, because the first words out of his mouth were an offer of a ride in a motor cart. Then he told us that it would be a short wait and invited us to smoke with him. We exchanged a glance and decided to chance going along with this guy if it would save us some labor. First, he told us that he couldn't let us walk through the eatery he worked in because he would be a bastard to do that, then apparently changed his mind. "Go grab my liquor. Go grab my liquor." I had to go pick up his tequila and rum, which we carried to his tent. Long story short, he abandoned us for five minutes, came back and forced Brian to mix him a drink, accused Brian of stealing his weed (it was on his cot), wordlessly took a chillum out of my hand which I'd just picked up off the ground, and then told us it would be a half-hour wait for the ride. At this point we practically ran out of there, and not a moment too soon. We got on the next shuttle to the bus station -- they only charged us $5 each! -- and breathed a sigh of relief. We had made it this far.
Or so I thought. When we got to the bus station my wallet was gone, and it's probably in that crazy guy's tent too. A goodbye kick in the pants from the Fates of Bonnaroo, if you will. At the station, we joined an enormous line of travelers, but the next bus was on our itinerary -- Manchester to Atlanta (...) instead of to Nashville like normal people -- and we boarded first, along with six or seven others. Then we waited, and waited, and right when I thought we were about to leave, the driver made an announcement. We were being "sacrificed" (his words) so that the majority of people waiting to go to Nashville could get there quicker. We were to ride there, where we could "just hop on the next bus" to Atlanta. Everyone going to Nashville cheered and thanked us, as if we had any say in the decision. So, there we were in Nashville, waiting another four hours for a bus. I discovered that some of my books had gotten wet and warped in my backpack, which enraged me even further. The ticket lady reissued Brian's ticket but not mine, saying that I should just do it down the line. She also gave me attitude when I asked which gate to line up at and misheard her the first time. An emphatic "B for Board," accompanied by the stankiest of stink eyes.
We rode the bus to Knoxville, Tennessee. Highlight: Spotting a gym called Graves Fitness; Alanna's take on this: "fit 2 the bone". Knoxville would be a lengthy layover as well, and it came to pass that after ten hours of travel, we were still in fucking Tennessee. Or, as Macklemore put it (admittedly in a more positive tone), "Tenne-fucking-ssee." We got in a completely unnecessary argument with the driver of the bus that left us there, who initially refused to let us take our bags off of the bus. Like, what? Instead of the 8 p.m. to Richmond -- we were on a new itinerary at this point -- it would be the 12:55, so we had plenty of time to settle. Brian and I made friends with a girl named Nora from New Jersey, then walked into the charming Old City in Knoxville for pizza and soda. A Myspace commercial in the pizza parlor I made conversation with a nice man from Texas, who exclaimed, "thank God there's still honest people!" after I offered to watch his things while he got pizza himself. We spent the rest of the wait reminiscing about Bonnaroo with Nora and telling concert stories.
Quotes of the day:
"The boss in back. He good people. He countin' stacks. He countin' stacks." - the crazy man
"Pour. Pour. Pour. Pour. Pour. Pour. Pour. Pour. ... What, you tryin' to kill me?!" - the crazy man
"Oh, you pour like a white boy. You pour like a white boy." - the crazy man
"You're supposed to be agreeing at all times." - Brian
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