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“Hey man, how’s it goin’?” a man standing by the stop asked with great enthusiasm. Assuming he was after the same thing as everyone else that had approached me, I replied, “Well. I’m doing well. Listen man, I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money.”

And then began his tirade.

“What the hell are you thinkin’ about muh’ fucka’? I din’t ask you fo’ no money! I said, ‘How’s it goin’?’ I din’t mention a damn thing about no money! Why you stereotypin’ and thinkin’ I want money?”

“Whoa, man. Chill out.” Our initial dialogue was so overwhelming that I thought he was kidding. “I promise you I’m not stereotyping. It’s just that—”

“It’s just that what muh’ fucka’?” He cut me off. “It’s just that what? You see me come up here and try to talk to you and you think I want money? Is that it?”

Some of his friends sitting across the street in front of the gas station were really excited about my appearance in their neighborhood. Country comes to town. They decided the time was right for them to chime in. “Get ’im, D! Get that muh’ fucka’! He ain’t got nuttin’ on you!”

Their words were still echoing in my head as I weighed my options. I could unleash my fury and start pounding him, which appeared to me at the time, and even more so now, both unintelligent and unlikely. My story very well could have ended on page six. Or, I could try to reason with him.

“Easy…D. Listen, buddy.” Realizing the seriousness of the situation, I was almost pleading. “I promise you I’m not stereotyping. Three guys have already asked me for money tonight, and I just wanted to let you know up front that I didn’t have any.”

He didn’t seem to care. He began to circle me like a lion preparing to pounce on his prey. His face was fuming, and his mouth was foaming. I stood up to take defense. He couldn’t wait for me to say the wrong thing, but I wasn’t going to.

“Check this out, D,” I said, trying to reason with him and quick. “My pockets are a little light right now, but the next time I come up this way, I can assure you that my wallet will be fat, and we’ll go get something to eat.”

My attempt at reasoning was simply fueling his fire.

“You don’t get it. I don’t want your friggin’ money, you—”

As if I was being dealt my lone get-out-of-jail-free card, I spotted the bus coming down the street. It was the most reassuring sight throughout the course of my experience in Charleston. Was I scared to fight D? No. Was I scared to fight D on that side of town? Damn right.

My impending battle with D ended just as swiftly as it had begun. The bus slowed to a stop in front of us as I was trying to prolong our encounter with small talk. Another thirty seconds and my night would have taken a very dramatic turn. I hopped on the bus as D hollered behind me, “Make sure you bring some money next time!”

I was the only person on the bus, which turned out to be the No. 10 route’s last run for the evening. My $1.25 bus ride was well invested. It rescued me from the streets and also allowed me an opportunity to reflect on the first short leg of my journey, two hours that I had all but prepared for. Was this really Charleston? Where were the million-dollar mansions and the bed-and-breakfasts and the horse-drawn carriages that I’d seen in photos? Where was the market? Gone With the Wind’s producer sure had embellished his portrayal of the southern bourgeoisie. What exactly had I gotten myself into?

The ride took fifteen minutes and the driver dropped me off right in front of the shelter.

Though dimly lit, the shelter was much more pleasant looking than the surrounding buildings. To the left of the shelter stood a convenience store barred shut to protect against late-night intruders, while a series of abandoned warehouses stretched to the right. The trash littered throughout the rest of the neighborhood was noticeably absent in and around the shelter’s common area. Two large trees greeted guests to the shelter and they were surrounded by a yard abounding with bushes and monkey grass. I thought I might have spotted