Last month, Abby's cats (Zippy and Katie) Liz, Liz's dad (hereafter, The Colonel) and I piled into a van full of our hero, Abby's, furniture, clothes, etc. (read: crap) and drove from New York City to Texas. It was like a road-trip rendering of the baby-boomer political movement. Fresh and idealistic before decaying into Red State, deep-fried, syrupy greed topped with giant hats and giant-er Texas hair.
The Colonel, in order to be thrifty both in time and expense, said we should drive straight through - no stopping. This was fine with me as I don't drive. It also satisfied my sense of irony as the van we piloted slurped up roughly one gallon of petrol per mile. I think shipping the goods on the backs of black market Bengal tigers would have proven thriftier than $3-gallons of gas for 42 hours. But hey, it was on the Colonel's dime.
And so we drove. And drove and drove and drove.
I should point out that I don't like to drive, I'm not good at driving, and I avoid it all all costs. So it was just Liz and The Colonel operating the vehicle. And this vehicle is huge. I sat in the back and listened to Johnny Cash, ate beef jerky and chocolate bars, and nodded in and out of sleep. I did this for about 40 hours.
The. Only. Way. To. Travel.
Remember in Paradisio when Dante ascends to heaven and cannot represent its escalating glory save for describing the increasing light? That's what this was like.
With each passing hour, minute, mile, I did nothing but sit, eat beef jerky in a very comfortable seat, and look out the window, listening to Band of Horses and The Gourds and Sufjan Stevens, and that "Just Breathe" song from Grey's Anatomy (what? I like the song). More chocolate, more sleep, more beauty, more beef jerky, more everything.
Gloria in excelsis Deo
I, being someone who has read my share of Faulkner (rather, as someone who has read that I should read some Faulkner), was expecting to see my share of run-down southern depression. I was also, however, expecting to see some romance. You know, ladies on the front porch with juleps; damp, swaying pines; sycamores moist with dew; amber waves of something that could be ground and rendered into bread etc. Alas, the South is, as Cervantes would say, a total shit-hole.
It's like the entire region is made of molded plastic and tarp and Cracker Barrels and "ironic" black Sambo figurines. And you know what? Southerners aren't friendly. That's a bullshit myth. New Yorkers are way, WAY friendlier than Southerners.
This is how someone from the South says "go fuck yourself": "Ahm sarry buut ah can't halp uuu."
This is how someone from New York says "go fuck yourself": "Go fuck yourself."
Hey South, don't look at me like I have nine heads when I don't want sweet tea.
Ok, anyway... more Southern ire
I waited tables for a long time, and found through experience, that Southerners never tip; or do so, but poorly. I attributed this phenom to their presumed knowledge that I thought them a bunch of toothless rubes who would rather be fishing ants out of a stump, than eating actual human food.
This is not the case. Rather, it's not the whole story...
<--- Wait, before I forget, the Midtown Swap Meet is (FINALLY) under new management. (Those morons that used to run the place couldn't run a spit-swap, much less one for the fine-jewelery set.) We passed this place outside of Waco. You will notice that it's enjoying a "re-grand opening" (not a "grand re-opening").
ANYWAY, sorry - the reason Southerners don't tip:
It's because they all eat in cafeterias (or at least the ones that would bother coming to a phlegm-shack like the Hard Rock Cafe).
Cafeterias are fucking everywhere; wet trays and hairnets and those gross marigold-colored tumblers. Cafeterias! Do Southerners pine for high school? Or prison? Do they prefer to select their own Hungry Jack Insta-potatoes, not content to leave such a critical decision in gloved West African-hands? Does every cafeteria need 87 flavors of Jell-O? Raspberry and mixed berry? Why is fried food so delicious?
Mysteries all.
Most of the drive was at night, so aside from Liz and The Colonel driving like a couple of meth addicts, it was uneventful. We got some excitement when Zippy would decide that he wanted to hang-out beneath the brake pedal.
Liz said, "If we had to suddenly stop I wouldn't be able to because I'd hurt Zippy with the brake pedal!"
I'll let you reflect on that one for a sec.
North and South Carolina were blurs - though we did see this thing which I had previously seen on the Colbert Report. I thought South Carolina looked like Haiti with white people. The towns--that we stopped in for gas--all had a goat-explosion look; just a lot of shit lying around with the occasional human who was either stealing garbage or producing it. Not sure the difference really matters.
After South Carolina was Georgia, which looks pretty much like everywhere. With the notable exception of Atlanta, which looks from the outside, like a really nice, cosmopolitan city. Sherman was a jerk; I would have left it alone.
After Georgia, things got interesting. I felt like Shatner in Nightmare at 20,000 Feet. Creepy people just looking at me with their Hooters shirts, their hostile children, their illogical allegiance to the RNC.
Townies Are Scary
I have never seen as many freakish townies as I did in Mississippi and Alabama. Town after town of Kool Aid-stained human debris, chicken stands, fruit stands, t-shirt stands and flag after American Flag. If employment in Mississippi was 50%, I would be surprised, as I have no idea where any of the people worked. No industry, no commercial real-estate. Just stands and outdoor markets. I think there's a limited resevoir of goods that can be traded around the state. Sell a gourd to someone and wait, in time, someone else will surely sell your gourd back to you.
We stopped in a truck stop outside of Jackson to use the restroom. Smoking indoors in Jackson isn't just allowed, it's recommended. The truck stop had a lounge that looked like the inside of a Cadillac Eldorado and smelled like Rick James' hair. We stopped in this place at about 3:30 in the morning to find one gi-NOR-mous woman working behind the counter, and two guys having coffee and sharing a tooth. These fuckers were scary. I think they would have rather been bow-hunting.
Liz thought those toothless motherfuckers were scary.
"Those toothless motherfuckers are scary," she said. And we were off.
After Mississippi, we hit Louisiani, but that's a post for tomorrow. This damn post is Homeric and I can't imagine that many others than those involved will slog through it.
So, sweet dreams, readers. Part Two to follow soon.
I will leave you with some items that may be appearing in the second and final installment:
- We get to Texas.
- Liz, her mom and I get in trouble at a Bennigans.
- We put hats on cats.
- Liz has a premonition.
- I almost get beaten-up by a diner waitress.
Awesome.
.
