AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

I am Dharma's hitman today, doling out dividends on spiritual bank accounts. Charlotte, North Carolina. Just outside the Marriott hotel lies a super-modern ghost town , with a crisp cold breeze reminiscent of european winter. What is this strange familiarity? This comforting discomfort? Every so often a pull, a signal...go down this street, make a left here. Vacant brick buildings are the only culture left in this mostly clean-and-replaced downtown. Future wasteland. Their broken windows bring vague images of drunk youth, bottles & rocks, laughter and fights. What am i doing here? The only sound aside from whispering frigid wind is the clank-clank-clank of a loose sign banging on its metal post, and out of the faraway, the blast of a train horn. Go see the train, what it brings...Walk under the rail bridge and circle around under the grey sky, still no train, still off in the distance. But there it is, the greyhound station. A cultural oasis in an otherwise silent city sunday. Go in. This is what I've been looking for all along. Southerners and ex-cons and characters of all shapes and sizes, attitude...pimps and bums, mothers and children, along with a breed of humans you'd never run across west of the midwest: gangster cowboy ravers. Gods plan. Real america. This is stuff you'd never see anywhere but here, now. I fight off the urge to play "San Francisco Rush 2049", one of the best sit-down & drive video games to come out of the 20th century. I continue to absorb. Ride the whims of the great magnet.
But what am i supposed to be doing? What destiny? Every little tiny microbe of a decision one makes will change their world in its entirety, so it is all very important, especially on days like these. Do i ask a teller for a ticket price? Richmond? New York? Memphis? I stand in line to no avail and sit back down. A Gutter punk is scrawling in sharpie on the back of his vest "Hollister SUCKS".. An indian guy is staring at me. A tough white kid with a southern ghetto accent approaches me, "excuse me sir, you got like 2 or three dollars i could use? i lost mines..." I cant tell if he is farmer turned gangster, a street kid, a country boy. Leather jacket, silver chains, and a smile as bright as the sun. He reminds me of a young Ali Maggio, but even tougher, if thats humanly possible. This kid has a heart of gold. I pull a dollar and hand it over, "i hope thats allright", i say, and still smiling through crooked dirty teeth he says "better than nothing", and walks off. This place is packed with spirit. Human funk. A soulful cesspool. A lot of them look tired as hell and tired of waiting. Hard Luck. There are kids in here that makes me look at the ground when we pass eachother, people i wouldn't dare mess with. Slowly the fear creeps in, the self- questioning, why are people glancing at me? Am i sticking out like a sore thumb in my "70s sports" garb and mirrored aviator glasses hanging off my shirt? Why is that indian guy still staring at me from the other side of the room? Id be fine on this mission if it wasn't for the 800 dollars stuffed down my sock. Get out of here, move quickly, muggings are real. Out the door, down the street, face the crisp breeze, and there goes the train!!! Barreling down the tracks blowing its horn, Norfolk Southern, steel on steel. Is that it? I feel incomplete. something is missing. There's that kid again, on the corner now, bumming a dollar from a well dressed black man and still smiling. Reminds me of a Blind Willie McTell song that goes:

"Black Man, hell give you a dollar,
he wont think nothin strange -
Yellow man, hell give you a dollar,
and want 99 cents back change"

"whaddup brotha!" i holler and he throws me a grin. I've got a gut feeling about this kid. Something special. I am Dharma's hitman today. Doling out dividends on spiritual bank accounts. He's disappeared down the street towards the station, around the corner. I have to find him. The station is daunting me now, will people know I'm a fake if i go back in? I tell myself to remember that people are mostly in their own worlds and because of that, one can pretty much do whatever they want in theirs. I fold up a $20 in my hand. Brave the darkness. Go back in.
I pretend to stand in line again, scanning the room. Cute little black kids. The indian. Cowboy gangster ravers with sequined baggy pants...and a hundred other colors of human life. This place isn't scary at all, its just a place! what the hell is wrong with me. Love is letting go of fear. But my client, the kid I'm looking for, is gone, my services looking shoddy. Head back outside, there he is!!! running across the street to hit up a passing couple. They ignore him. White man's indifference. "Hey Brother!" i yell, but there are cars whizzing between us and he cant hear. He's walking fast. I cant lose him. "Yo! Mang!"...nothing. Fast Paced walking "Hey Brother!!!" and zang, I've got him. Signal come here. I am in his bubble now, he is in mine. Choose words carefully in moments like these, they might hang around the universe forever. "Something told me to help you out today man. You've got a good soul", and i hand him the money. He looks at for a sec and his face goes blank, no more smile. But why? Disbelief? Was it the wrong thing to do? This instant lasts an eternity. Without a word he turns and starts back to the station, then turns around again and shouts "Damn Brother Thank You!!!!!" This time his smile bigger than ever. He pumps his fist and point at me before disappearing back into the bus station. This is why i came here, to North Carolina, to help this man. These little things change life in its entirety. Instead of walking into downtown, he went back into the station. My life is complete today, for i have operated on fate. Or maybe just helped a brother out. The stinging cold wind feels good on my face. Time to go home...