Southern Roadtrips- Part One The Road Trip By Kevin Myrick Prologue A Conversation with Jim "We all choose who we want to be, you know?" Jim stubbed out his cigarette at this comment, and continues. "If you think about it, we choose that before we even get to puberty. Everyone says that puberty makes you who you are. That "environment" and "the way you were raised" makes your personality. I disagree. I think by the time you are five or six, you are who you are. Whether it be a liar, a cheat, a thief, or even a good person. You are who you are by that time." "That's an interesting theory, Jim." I looked at him with solemn and sunk eyes, black from lack of sleep and too many cigarettes. "The question though is, can you change people? Or better yet, can people change?" Jim sat there for a few moments to think about it, and then decided to answer. He pulled another cigarette from his pack of Camel Lights and flipped open his Zippo. "I'm not exactly sure. I haven't seen anyone really change in all my 18 years." "Of course, you have to discount the first five or six, because you don't really remember much from them." Jim dragged on his cigarette, held in the smoke for a few moments, and then blew out the grimy blue fumes from his lungs. "Yeah, okay. In my 12 years that I can remember, I don't think I've ever seen anyone change. Not really change everything about themselves, mind you. Little things, like not eating Peanut Butter anymore. That sort of change. The change that doesn't really matter in the first place." "Well, I don't know man. I think I've changed. And I think I know when it happened too." "When was that, man?" "When I was 12. I think that is when I began to change. I used to be a good Christian, but now I don't even believe in god. It took me a long time to come to this conclusion of course, but I think I've changed gradually." "Gradual change is different. It's not radical. You have opportunities to read a lot in that many years. But you're not telling me the whole story." So I told him the whole story. I told him how I had mixed a bunch of household chemicals together and created Mustard Gas. I was naive at the time, and didn't realize that it would kill me until later, when I took chemistry. Or, as a matter of fact, when I watched the History Channel and saw what Mustard Gas did to people. Jim sat there and listened intently, and he knew that was probably a good reason to start changing yourself. "I figured it out though, Jim. Life is fucked up, and there isn't a god to help you out. There has never been. People pray and believe in something that doesn't exist. They do everything they need to do themselves. They manifest their hopes and dreams themselves, and instead of taking credit for them give it over to god. It's the one mind-numbing thing that I still haven't been able to shake yet." "Assuming of course," Jim replied, "that god doesn't exist." "In my opinion, there isn't a god." "Well, that's your opinion." We sat for a while, smoking cigarettes and drinking coca-cola, outside in the December night before we decided to head inside. "So, what are your plans for Christmas Jim?" "I dunno yet. I figured I'd go home and just lay around. The usual shit. Do laundry, eat, watch TV." "Yeah, that sounds good." "What about you man? What have you got going?" "I'm traveling all over the goddamned country. South Carolina to Tennessee, Alabama, then Illinois, back down to Alabama, back to Tennessee, and then back here to Auburn." "When are you heading out?" "Tomorrow, you?" "Thursday." We were both silent, as he compiled something else to say before we went back inside, finishing the last cigarette of the night. It was a ritual many performed, standing by the ashtray and the door inside, since smoking was not permitted indoors. Everyone who smoked had their specific times and areas. I was one of the regulars, Jim was too. "No real time to rest then, huh?" "No, but I figure it'll be hell. I'll get over it though. I'm gonna stay in Alabama for a few days, then go back to Chattanooga." "Ahhhh, Chattanooga. Doesn't your mom live there or something?" "Yeah, she does. Dad's in South Carolina." "That's cool man. Listen, you take it eay, and have a merry Christmas, okay?" "You too Jim. Be careful." I shook Jim's hand, and we headed inside. He went back to his room, I went back to mine. It was interesting conversation, and we had both enjoyed the company and the cigarettes. I'd be leaving for Beaufort, South Carolina in the morning, heading towards a place I'd long hoped to forget the good and bad memories of the seven years I spent there. My father still lived there, and I would be going back for a few days. Indeed, life was interesting. Chapter One Representations of Southern Roadside Dining Driving from Auburn the next day, I stopped in Jeffersonville, Georgia at a Huddle House. It was a truck stop really; a gas station with a small Huddle House attached to it. The Huddle House was an interesting mixture of smoke and stale coffee. I moseyed up to the counter, sat down with my cigarettes and lighter, and asked for a cup of coffee and looked at the menu. The waitress, interestingly enough, was in her early to mid twenties, around 5'6". She had brown hair and a tatoo around her wrist. While eating my meal, I kept paying attention to her wrist. Her tatoo was like a bracelet, encircling her wrist with a black line like a halo. On the top of her wrist sat a cross, also in black, that I had the idea protected her hands from doing evil. At least, that's the idea that I like to think it was. On the other side of her wrist was a small sun. A few minutes after I finished eating, I lit my cigarette and took another sip of my coffee, growing colder by the moment in the stale air. The blue smoke of my cigarette hung above me as a exhaled, and then I opened my mouth. "Excuse me, but do you mind if I ask a question?" The waitress looked over to my direction, and gave me a puzzled look. Then, she walked over and replied "okay, shoot." "What's the deal with the tatoo on your wrist? It's quite interesting." "It was a dumb mistake on my part when I was younger. I wish I had not gotten it." That's all she said. Nothing more than that, and in fact walked away from me without a goodbye or good luck. I paid for my meal and left. This, of course, is why I don't like to eat at Huddle House anywhere. The people there aren't as friendly as others, and it doesn't help that it was the only thing to eat before I got on I-16. * * * A few days later, the Monday before Christmas, I left Beaufort, SC and headed towards Chattanooga. On the way to Chattanooga, I stopped by Deb's. Deb was my father's newest fling, and over Thanksgiving had gone to San Fransisco to go see her. She had just moved to Kennesaw, Georgia over Christmas and my Dad had built her some adorndak chairs. Since I had my truck, even in it's condition, I decided that I would stop by her house with the chairs in the back of my truck. She is a nice lady, and I hope that my father doesn't screw things up with her. Afterwards, I stopped at a Waffle House for some food, seeing as I had driven so long. I sat at the counter at first, but then moved when I realized it was in the non-smoking section of the restaurant. My move, as it turned out, was a blessing in disguise because I was given the freedom not only to smoke, but to talk to the regualrs at this particular Waffle House, like I had done many times before. I began talking to a man who was a huge fan of everything Harley-Davidson, who worked at Kennesaw State. Apparently, he had worked at many jobs in many different fields, and so far this is the one he liked the most. We talked of football and colleges, of how crazy people are in Atlanta, and including the couple sitting directly behind me, of the traffic in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area of Texas. Seeing as I had never been to Dallas-Ft. Worth, I really had nothing to contribute to the conversation. My waffles came finally, and I ate heartily. The waitress informed me because my waffle had taken so long for me to get, I was given extra bacon to make up for the unfortunate burning of my first waffle. I didn't care, I was hungry. A few minutes later, after I had finished my meal and had started to smoke and drink coffee again, the cook came and sat down with one of the regulars, bumming a cigarette. She apologized immesely for not having my food done in time, but I took it with stride. "Don't worry about it," I said. "Well, I don't think you'd have want that one, I could have used it as a frisbee and it would have broke the window when it was done." I chuckled a bit, took a drag of my cigarette and wished them all well. Heading out for my car, I took a last weary look at the Waffle House in the cool Georgia night and sighed, knowing I still had an hour and a half to drive before I reached my destination. I lit my last cigarette out of the pack entering my truck, which on a previous trip had been damaged by a shredded truck tire bounced up off the road. I turned the ignition, fastened my seat belt, and drove away, not really thinking about the waffle incident until later on, when I had reached my destination and chuckled again with my sister about Deb. It struck me for a minute that I would walk into a Waffle House and associate myself with these people, not thinking twice about their background or culture, while my sister and her boyfriend would probably not talk to any of these people I had met tonight. I grew sad at this thought, and decided better of thinking about it. Even though my Christmas was just beginning, it was already looking dismal. Chapter Two Jack Daniels and Travelodge In the short course of my college career, I have only been drunk beyond comprehension of events once. I remembered everything about the night, but it was the only time I had ever been drunk and gotten sick. I at least waited until I got to the privacy of my own home to do so, and thus absolving myself from being sick in the first place. That night is another story for another time, however. The day after Christmas, I drove to Huntsville, Alabama. It had been my home for the last two years of High School, and a place that I despised yet loved for it's sense of stupidity and assumed grandeur. Huntsville, in comparison to other southern cities I have lived in, has little history before the 20th century. Madison county did not begin booming in development until the 1920's, because of industry finally making it's way to the south, and Huntsville's proximity to the Tennessee River's flood basin. TVA helped with that in the 1930's by building dams, but even today when it rains the river's banks rise. When I arrived, the first stop was at my home on Gladstone Drive, a dumpy brick split-level that was built in the 1950's. Prior to moving into this place, my Uncle and I were forced to restore the bathroom, the downstairs rooms, and the kitchen to a reasonable state. During the restoration process, I received my admissions letter to Auburn. A deliverance then from the opression of this house. I only come to Huntsville now when absolutely necessary, but I still consider it a "home". My aunt's husband was a good reason for this. My aunt's husband, Dave, who is technically my uncle, is an asshole. His life story is one of tragedy and mixed happiness, all of which was his own making. Some of his stories are hard to believe, others aren't. It was a mixture of episodes that caused me to not want to come back to Huntsville ever again, but the requried trips from time to time are something I cannot avoid entirely. The dinner at the grandparent's house was also a necessity, one which could not be avoided. But, living through that and the "talk of my latest wreck," which happened incidentally on Christmas Eve, gave way to the opening of Christmas presents and my father leaving again for Kennesaw. That night, before my father left, I joined them at a local sports bar called Wings, watched my dad and uncle drink, then wished my father well until I could see him again. Then, with precision, I told my father's brother of my smoking. I thought he would go crazy, but he took the news rather well. * * * My uncle and I left later that night at around 2 AM. I had never driven to Illinois with him before, and it would be a treat to do so. So much of a treat, I was looking forward to meeting all of the people he had lived with in Illinois. We plotted and schemed the whole trip to fool the waitresses at Denny's, his favorite hangout in Effingham, half of the trip up. I couldn't sleep. Illinois can only be described by a southerner in one way-vast farmland. A southerner as myself, I am familiar with the farmlands of the south. We grow acres and acres of cotton which depleat our soils. Winter Wheat, Hay, Soybeans, and other crops that work well in the mild winter and hot summer climates of the south. Tobacco in the northernmost southern states, like North Carolina, Kentucky and Virginia are common as well. But I'd never seen corn fields, or the winter remnants of cornfields, quite on this scale. Miles and miles of flattened corn stalks, not yet taken by the soil, stretched far beyond the interstate making for a dull ride. "Kevin, this isn't exactly a thrilling ride, you know." "Yeah, I know. So I need to order a grand slam breakfest, with an egg beaters cheese omelet, and ask politely that they not brown it, with bacon and sausage, pancakes on a seperate plate. And ask for Ginelle, correct?" My uncle chucled. "Kevin, you crack me up. That's good though." I sat for a while, still scheming in my head, when a brilliant idea came into my head. "You know, I could do something with this whole reverend Kevin thing." "Hey, that's a great idea." We were planning to take the Denny's by storm. * * * When we finally arrived at the Denny's, after making our hotel reservations at a Travelodge that had seen better days, he decided to stay in the truck for a few moments. A waitress with a nametag that 'Nelly' on it came up to me and asked for my order. I asked if she was Ginelle. She said, "yeah, I am." So I ordered. At least, I started to order, until she stopped me after the "egg beaters substitute cheese omelet". She asked, "Where is he? Where is that idiot?" "I don't know, out in my truck, I guess." She looked at me for a second, then my uncle came in. We did everything we had said we would, and it was an excellent breakfest, even though I couldn't eat all of it. "I'm full, Uncle Chuck." "Well, you know their are starving children in Ethopia..." "Oh, don't give me that shit. How is me eating this food that they can't eat because it would be too cold and too rotten by the time it got their going to help them." He remained quiet after that, and Ginelle walked back up to us, refilling our coffee. "He's trying to give the 'starving children in Africa' routine again." "Well, their are." I rolled my eyes. It couldn't be helped, and everyone laughed. I saw Sloane again, one of the older waitresses who was as dirty as a sailor, walk by. I shivered at a thought that my uncle had implanted in my brain. "I hate you sometimes, you know that Uncle Chuck?" My uncle laughed a little. We finished our coffee and headed for Champaign. * * * We went to dinner at a local steak house, apparently the best place in this small town in Illinois to eat. I don't recall the name, but the steak was good and the bar atmosphere was nice. Their were around ten Wisconsin fans in the place, and they were all heading south and had stopped to stay at a local hotel for the night. Ironically, we would be heading in the same direction the next morning. After the football rivalry talk, since Auburn and Wisconsin would be playing in a bowl game (a game that, coincidentally, Auburn won) my uncle took his last shot of tequila, and we moved on to the liquor store. My uncle's job for the evening, apparently was to get me drunk. A half pint of Jack Daniels in the hotel room later, and I was on my way there. After consuming my two shots, we then left the hotel room and bought liquor at another liquor store. Normally, I stay out of liquor stores because I'm not old enough, but this time I felt inclined (if not a little intoxicated and therefore unable to comprehend) to go in. My uncle bought another pint of Jack Daniels, and we walked to a gym where he liked to hang out. Apparently the owners of the gym had children, and the children lived in a loft above the archery store that was attached to the gym. It was also the nicest archery store in Illinois, or so I was told. They were having a Christmas party, even if it was after the fact. A keg was set up, and of course I was inclined to have a beer. I'm not a big beer drinker, more of a whiskey man. So this was odd for me to drink beer. I blame my condition on that though. After helping to drinkt the rest of the whiskey, and after a beer, I had lost most comprehension of the situation. I remember getting sick on the way out in a trash can, and remember going to the Denny's. I don't remember trying to sober myself up with coffee and water. Water, apparently, makes you more drunk, even though I had been told that drinking water would rehydrate you, and make you less drunk. I got sick in the Denny's bathroom twice, and finally we headed home after my uncle ate a plate of Biscuits and Gravy, something southern but would be found in a chain like Denny's. In a drunken state, my uncle and I talked and talked for an hour. I don't remember when I fell asleep, only that I had. I don't remember dreaming either, only that I know you always dream, but can't remember the dreams you had.
Copyright © 2004 Kevin Myrick |