Just over a year ago, my buddy Milos (pronounced ME-losh not MY-los, fuckers) came over to the States from Serbia for the first time. He came with an iternary of things to see, and Freak Magnet and I were fortunate enough to be on that list.
While he was in Maryland, Freak took him to a Baltimore Orioles game, I met up with them one night for a Baysox (the minor league team in our area) game, and I also told him I’d go to Baltimore with him one day.
I can’t remember if we went to the Baysox game before or after B’more (I think it was before, but it’s pretty damn irrelevant). But, obviously, the guy running the strike board was making a statement. (I, of course, was oblivious to the sign until Milos pointed it out. Oh how I laughed.)
I just realized that this next pic, especially with my expression, makes it look as if I’m giving Milos a handy. I assure you I’m not. If I were, we would have been thrown out of the park. And we weren’t. Because I got my picture with Seargent Slaughter after the game. THAT IS PROOF.
The day we went to Baltimore, my friends Zig and Ann offered to tote us around since I avoid driving around within the confines of that blasted town. This was a good deal, as I don’t know my way around the city nearly as much as they do, and they could show Milos the real Baltimore.
One of the things Milos wanted to see in B’more for sure was the baseball museum and the Babe Ruth museum, both down by Ravens stadium, but anything other than that, he was open to. So Zig decided to drive him by Poe’s grave and the Poe house.
So, we’re driving around the city, windows down, checking out the scenery, breeze flowing through our hair when I thought I heard Milos whisper to me.
I wasn’t quite sure, at first, that I heard anything, so I didn’t reply. But, sure enough, I hear it again.
I turned to him, wondering why the hell he’s whispering. “What?” I probably sounded slightly annoyed, as I had no idea why he was whispering.
He nodded to my window. “Your window.”
I looked at my window. “Yeah? What about it?”
“Roll it up.”
I looked at his window. It was up. It was warm that day. And Zig seemingly never uses the AC.
“Your window. Roll it up.”
“What? Are you high? What? Why?”
He looked around at the city passing by him.
“You see where we are at? Roll up your window. And lock your door.”
I busted out laughing. Not at Milos, but at the situation. This motherfucker grew up during the Balkan Wars, bombs going off nightly, and here he is asking me to roll up my window while driving through Baltimore. Damn if that doesn’t take all, and, considering the area we were in, I could see his point.
“No, man,” I said, laughing. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have worry about your window being down. Just roll your window up when I roll up mine.”
He looked at me uncertain, but he did crack his window halfway.
Two blocks later, we took the turn to Poe’s house and, as one, we all rolled up our windows and locked the doors. I don’t give a shit if it was broad daylight, that area is rough. Needless to say, we didn’t stop to enter the house, we just drove slowly by (which in itself was probably dangerous, as that could have been construed as a drive-by).
Fortunately for Milos, we didn’t get him shot or stabbed that day, and he made it to his museums and it turned out to be a funfilled day.
(Interestingly, he pointed out at Poe’s graveyard that the fence pointed inward, to keep the dead in, something I had never noticed — we didn’t stop to get out of the car there, either, but that was more of a timing thing.)
Oh, and we couldn’t leave Baltimore without showing him the infamous George Washington’s Big Cock statue.
Milos is planning another trip here, and I can’t wait. Hopefully I’ll be able to swing some more time (at the time, I couldn’t take any days off) so we can catch a Nats game. Yeah, they suck hard, but the stadium is nice (although it seems real small).