If you stay ready...

When I lived in the Woodner Apartments, just off Rock Creek Park in Washington, D.C., there was a bus that took residents to the nearest Metro (subway) stop, which in our case was the Van Ness/UDC Station. The bus was actually an old, 15 passenger Ford Econoline Van that ran from 6-9am in the morning and 3-6pm in the afternoon on the return trip. My roommates and I would take this ride to school everyday. It seemed like we were on this trek for more than an hour each day, but in actuality it was only about a 2 mile ride. The driver, Mr. D always had the radio tuned to WTEM (The Team) where Kiley and The Coach would give us the latest from the Sports world as seen through their very "objective" eyes. Their banter along with hustle and bustle on the streets of Northwest Washington, D.C. was plenty to keep the mind occupied and make the time fly by.

The best days, however, were the ones when we got in the van toward the end of rush hour, when there weren't too many passengers because that's when Mr. D held court. Mr. D was a tall brown-skinned, older gentleman that had been in D.C. for years, but was a country boy from North Carolina. He always wore a light jacket, never zipped up, and a Washington Redskins cap that covered the bald spot in the midst of his silver hair. He was usually in pretty good spirits and always had some conversation for you. When we did happen to catch him in one of his rather pensive moods, we could usually get him started by asking,

"Hey Mr. D...What's the good word?"
"Thunderbird!" he would reply, with a sly smile and proceed to "shoot the gift" for the rest of the ride. He had a million stories, and they'd usually have you in stitches by the time you got to the end of the ride. Surely they were embellished quite a bit over the years, but Mr. D was clearly "The Dude" back in his day.

On more than a few occasions, people have asked me if I were from the South. This always makes me laugh, because I have lived on the West Coast for just about all of my life. I suspect that's because of my relaxed demeanor, and the sometimes long and drawn out way that I tell a story. (I know, you would've never guessed.) I also think it has to do with the sayings that I have picked up from folks over the years. I know that Mr. D has contributed plenty to my collection. One of my favorites was always something along the lines of "As soon as you step off the porch in the morning, you're already 2 steps behind." Perhaps its a generational thing as I've heard some version of this uttered by many an older black man over the years, but the sentiment still rings true.

That's how I felt this morning. I was awakened by the sounds of some woman screaming bloody murder in the parking lot across the street from my place as what was first one police car and quickly became four pairs of officers, hemmed her up. Of course, this was about 10 minutes before my 530am alarm was set to go off. Nothing worse than being deprived of your last 10 minutes of sleep. I'd have rather been awakened at 2 or 3am, than moments before my alarm went off. As I got up and got dressed, I was reminded by what seemed to be every one of the 600 muscles and 206 bones in my body that pick up basketball doesn't agree with me nearly as much as it once did. I proceeded to struggle through a workout and came back home to down a protein shake and a bowl of oatmeal. Since today was one of those rare days that I actually had to make the pilgrimage down to the office, I flipped on the TV to hear the weather report. Instead of weather, I heard about some poor guy's remains that were holding up traffic on the freeway, causing a backup for miles and miles.

I'm allergic to traffic. I break out in hives and suffer from severe bouts of depression. Well, not really, but I still try to avoid it like the plague. The motivation to go to the Ghost Town formerly known as the corporate office was fading fast. I was already skeptical that I wouldn't be a terribly integral part of the meeting that was causing me to take this ride in the first place. I had talked to this client on the phone several times, but had never met him face to face. I ended up being thoroughly entertained by the fact that he looked like Frank Drebin (Leslie Nielsen) from the Police Academy movies. I was able to laugh inwardly for the whole 90 minutes that Frank was running his mouth. He was rather chatty. It was as if he were a one-man crusade to see to it that I would not be able to leave earlier enough to beat the traffic on the way home. We probably could've finished this meeting in 15 minutes, but he just wouldn't let up. To make matters worse, at the very end of his turn with the conch, he mustered up an action item for me. I would have to upgrade the firmware of some equipment before I left. Traffic was a certainty now. Well, at least it won't kill me, and what won't kill me can only make me stronger. (Yet another saying....).

On the brighter side, I did get home in time to catch the advanced yoga class at the gym. Mark, the instructor, humored us with his Seinfeldian wit while putting us through the yoga poses with the intensity of the drill sargeant in Full Metal Jacket. Furthermore, my writing streak continues...a whole 2 days in a row.

I must confess that I did have an idea that things would be okay this morning on that walk back from the gym through the cool morning air. I passed a homeless gentleman sitting on the steps of the Federal Building across the street from my house, reading the first book of Exodus aloud. I smiled to myself when I thought about the sermon I heard on this book a few Sundays ago. "Let the boys live!" exclaimed the preacher. To the world, this man may have looked beaten down and tossed aside, but clearly he was ready. I can only imagine that he was calling upon his faith to get him through another day, as he had probably done many days before. It's like another saying that I'm fond of: If you stay ready, you ain't got to get ready.