Out of the Woods - a journal

[strat-0]

The Bared Souls thread at RS was always a place where you would find journal entries. Here is a journal I wrote many moons ago.

[strat-0]

Out of the Woods
A Journal
by Strat-0

In every young man’s life there is a time of transition, a passing from one stage of life to the next. For some, the change is subtle or gradual; for others it is profound, rebellious, even violent. Some do not survive it. Mine was somewhere in between.

I began to consider myself a man at the age of nineteen, after Brenda died. Brenda and I shared an apartment, and though we fought some, we talked of marriage. She died alone in an auto accident. Coming to grips with that shocking loss took many years, and started me on the road to manhood. This road would carry my life to four different states, to many towns and cities over the following three years: different people, different homes, different cars, different lives. Many of the memories have become hazy and dim with the passage of time; some seem as fresh as if they’d happened yesterday.

One such memory is of the year I spent in St. Louis. I underwent the transition there, undertook a self-imposed emancipation. My memory has been aided by a little journal which I kept during the latter part of my stay. Written on scraps of paper, paper plates and napkins, it documents some of the experiences of my initiation. I came upon it recently and decided to fill in some of the gaps, and give it a more readable form, before the details were lost. It is not a larger-than-life tale of heroism, nor does it deal with extraordinary events or people. It is simply one man’s story of manumission.



September 7, 1981

The Beginning

The first night I camped out was the night before last. Earlier this week I bought a secondhand canvas tent, a big, old, olive-drab army surplus umbrella tent. I had picked out a place to set it up, but it was too dark when I got there, since I’d gone to a nearby truckstop after work for a shower (which can be a pretty creepy experience). I’d been hanging-out the past few nights at a disused roadside fruit stand with my dog, playing guitar, quaffing a few beers and sleeping in my truck, but that night I decided to go down the hill into the woods to my chosen site, and build a fire. The “fruit stand” where I park my truck is on a pull-off shaped lot by the roadside, on Lindbergh Boulevard near Baptist Church Road, southeast of St. Louis. It’s an open stand of plywood and two-by-fours, with a few roof panels still remaining. On one side of the lot there is a thinly wooded area; on the other, a few trees and then a service station. Directly across the street stands a Burger King. Behind the lot is row of trees, then a rather steep drop-off to a wooded area below, with a few small knolls. This will be “my” area, about four acres, densely foliated in places, and kind of hidden. It’s sort of a little piece of no-man’s land. Whether it’s owned by the county, a corporation or an individual, I don’t know, but it is rather oddly placed in this suburban business district, just about a mile from where I work. Beyond the little wooded area are pastures.

I had scouted the area the day before and noticed sinkholes, gullies, mud holes, a couple of refuse dumps and various other hazards. This was lower land than I would have preferred for a campsite. Anyway, I hadn’t thought about collecting fire wood then, so I ended up stumbling around for it in the dark. After I got the fire started I could see better, and I discovered a nice dead tree, which I wrestled for a couple of good sized logs. I had brought my sleeping bag down with me, just to sit on, but the fire was so nice and tranquil and I was so tired that I curled up and went to sleep. The fire burned all night.

The next day I went to the store and laid-in supplies: “Off!” hot dogs, candles, beer, ice, etc. I cleared some brush from a little opening in the trees and pitched the tent. It went up nice and taught. Then I gathered up some firewood (in daylight this time). My furnishings consist of a foam pad for my bed, and a “Playmate” cooler, which doubles as a stool. Other luxuries include an alarm clock, a water jug, and toiletries. When night came I made a big fire and roasted weenies. Then I drank a few beers, smoked a joint, played guitar, looked at the stars - I’ve never felt so free.

* * *

Today I awoke to see Gretchen looking through the open flap of my tent at about 11:30. She only stayed a few minutes; just came by to see how I was doing. My dog led her down to the campsite. Rhiannon loves it here; she chases birds and squirrels and generally runs all around the place. She was Brenda’s dog; now she’s mine.

I went to the Burger King across the street and got some french fries and a couple of handfuls of various condiment and jelly packs, along with some salt and pepper and a cup of ice for the cooler. Then I went home and gathered firewood. I put some in the tent; it looks like rain. Sure enough, about 1:30 it started - a light rain, and the tent is holding up fine.

4:00 - Raining hard now. The water is beginning to rise and this clearing is in a low spot. I may have to abandon the tent and wade out of here. This is not a happy prospect.

So, just how do I find myself in this position? When I came to St. Louis a year ago, my plan was to go a technical school to learn auto mechanics. I’ve worked in the field and it’s just about the only thing I can see myself doing. I dropped out of college when Brenda died, and I guess I’ve decided college isn’t for me, but one quickly learns what a drudgery unskilled or semiskilled labor can be, and how meager the rewards are. I lived with Brenda in Terre Haute, Indiana, while I went to Indiana State and worked as a tire-buster at Sears. From that I went to living with my mother, unemployed, and out of school after Brenda’s death. After a few drunken months of grief and shock I got myself together and moved to Tulsa. Tulsa is a nice town, but that’s not the story I’m telling now. While I was there, I bought an old pickup truck from my roommate, a 1960 model Ford step-side, with a straight six cylinder and old farmers’ co-op bias ply retreads. After a year or so I went back to Terre Haute; when the time came, I loaded up my truck, and Rhiannon and I hit the road. I got a job in Terre Haute, delivering and setting up waterbeds and bedroom furniture, until I screwed it up. Pretty soon my stepfather took a job in Birmingham, so he and my mother and sister prepared to move there. The house they bought was small, and they really couldn’t afford to help me much. My father lives in Florida with his new wife, where they are struggling to make a go of it in real estate. He has agreed to pay my tuition. So it was decided that I would go to St. Louis and live with my elderly grandmother while I went to school; she has a huge old house and really shouldn’t be alone at her age. I was happy to help out, and she was agreeable to it. I loaded up the truck once again, and Rhiannon and I headed for St. Louis, looking something like the “Okies” from The Grapes Of Wrath. So, everybody’s happy, right?

Dementia can be an ugly thing, and in my grandmother it became insufferable for me. Things were all right at first, but it soon became unbearable. The time my brother and his wife came through town comes to mind. We were having dinner and I started to pour myself a glass of milk, when suddenly she almost knocked the carton out of my hand; I didn’t rate a glass of milk. John and Diane were mortified, but I was used to it. Once, she agreed to loan me the money to rebuild the engine in my truck (she’s loaded) only to change her mind after the work was completed, leaving me to beg a loan from my father (I repaid him with my tax refund). Her cruel, vindictive, hateful behavior eventually drove me out - but I’m getting ahead of myself. There was one nice thing that happened while I was there: I met Gretchen.

Twenty-eight, blond hair, brown eyes, buxom and beautiful, I fell for her right away. I met her one night when I was out trolling for tush at a club where I had done all right before, and we hit it off right from the start. It was as if we were old friends - more than friends. I took her home with me (Grandma takes a handful of sleeping pills before bed, probably to ward off bad dreams or insomnia caused by pangs from her shriveled conscience, so she sleeps like the dead). The next day she took me to meet her husband. Yes, I was more than a little apprehensive, but she insisted. Now, I’m not one to get involved with a married woman, but the way she told it, their divorce was a fait accompli. She can be a very compelling woman. That night I didn’t care that she was married; after that, she didn’t.

Bob is a nice fellow. He’s a part time musician, plays piano in lounges, so we have music in common. He’s pretty professional about it; he gets some good paying gigs (I’ve played a few acoustic solo gigs here, but it hasn’t gotten me much more than laid - I guess that’s worth something). I sincerely like the guy. Don’t ask me to explain their marriage; I can’t. I’m sure he knew what was going on, but I can’t understand his behavior. It’s like they have an “open” marriage, but not really. I didn’t try too hard to figure it out; I had what I wanted, and that was all I could see. So the three of us had a great, if slightly twisted friendship. I keep wondering if they were grooming me for something else; I know they had some kinky experiences that Bob liked to bring up. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. When things got really bad at Grandma’s, they invited me to move in with them.

It was real cozy for about six months, then things started getting weird. It was just about the time I changed jobs from the waterbed store to the shop where I’m working now. One night, after Bob had gone to bed, Gretchen and I were going at it on the couch, and it seems we woke him up. After we had finished, he came into the living room and sat down, all stone-faced. Not much was said. The next morning he shaved off his beard and moustache; he wasn’t talking. Gretchen was upset. She still kept telling me that she didn’t love him “that way” and wasn’t happy with their marriage, but I knew something else was wrong. When he came home from work that evening, all bare-faced, he was the same morose cuckold as before, so I decided it was time to dust my broom. My truck wasn’t running, so I packed a bag and started walking. I had no idea where I was going. Pretty soon I looked up, and way off yonder a van was coming down the road... their van, with only a driver: Bob. He pulled up, stopped, and said, “Do you want to come home?” I got in and we went back to their house. We all talked about it - a little, not much. He said he didn’t know what to do last night, whether to come join us or what. I looked at the floor; said nothing. I wanted to say, “No way, pal.” That was the beginning of the end. Soon after that, she invited me to leave, and she didn’t have to ask twice. I can’t go back to Grandma’s, and I didn’t have a lot of money in my pocket, so I answered an add in the paper and bought this tent for twenty-five dollars, then found an inconspicuous place to set it up. She says she loves me, but she’s going to “try to make it work” with Bob. I can respect that, but I’m still in love with her. Maybe that’s why I’m sitting in this tent wondering if I’ll get washed away. Mom has gotten a bigger house and told me I should come to Alabama, and I well might, but I’ve got to get some money ahead; I still have a modicum of dignity, or pride, if you prefer. I want to get there under my own steam, and when I’m damn-good-and-ready. I need to get my truck road-worthy - and, let’s face it, I haven’t given up hoping for Gretchen. I can’t describe how good it is with her, how we connect. I’ll miss the talking and laughing for hours, or driving out into the middle of a cornfield under the full moon, climbing into the back of my truck and... Ah, Gretchen....

[strat-0]

[There is a gap in the journal at this point. I became occupied with more immediate concerns, and made no entries for some time. My site flooded that day and I had to abandon the tent. As the water rose higher, the tent began to float, turning the floor into something like a water bed. I was impressed with the water-shedding ability of the tent, but wisely decided to bail out. When the water receded I went back to find that my gear was still there, no worse for the wear. I borrowed a hatchet from Gretchen and cleared some small trees from a hill, and moved the tent to this higher ground. I cut up the trees for firewood. From that time on, during periods of heavy or prolonged rain, I was on an island.]

The Squatter

I feel like jotting down a few items. Living in a tent in a swamp for over a month makes you look at things kind of differently. What a bizarre endeavor it’s been. I’ve known fear and I’ve been feared, although I certainly don’t present a very fearsome spectacle: a scruffy, long-haired man in a faded denim hat, with a guitar and a scraggly-looking grey dog. My fears, however, have been a very real and different matter. It’s very vulnerable, living in a canvas house in south St. Louis on God-knows-whose land.

Last Sunday morning I had a disturbing experience. I woke up, stepped out of my tent, and took a nice stretch. Looking up through the trees toward my truck, I could see some men rifling through it. I grabbed the blue-jean hat I’m in the habit of wearing, and hurried along the path and up the hill. I had to pick my footing carefully near the top, where it gets really steep, so the visor of my hat blocked my vision of the crest of the hill, until suddenly there was a nightstick three inches from my nose.

“Where you runnin’ to, boy!”

I looked up, startled, and saw six county sheriff’s deputies surrounding me, with their hands on their guns.

“I’m running up here to see you - I don’t want you to tow my truck away!” Rhiannon heard the angry voice and charged out in front of me, barking menacingly and bearing her teeth. They all pulled their nightsticks and drew them back, threatening her. They all shouted at her and at me, while I tried to get her calmed down. I pleaded with them, “Don’t hit her! Please don’t hurt my dog!” I finally got her under control; she started wagging her tail and sniffing them. A few of them patted her head; a dog can be a disarming influence in more ways than one. I asked them what this was all about, but they were asking the questions. I looked around and it seemed there were police cars everywhere; I think there were four. I started to feel kind of sick.

“What are you doin’ down there?”
“You got any guns or knives?”
“What have you been doin’?”
“You got a knife?”

“No, sir... but I’ve got a hatchet,” I said, as if they might want to borrow it. They led me down to the campsite and started rooting through everything, kicking stuff around. They searched my tent thoroughly and came out with the aforementioned hatchet and an old pair of hemostats.

“You been smoking dope down here, boy?”

“Oh, no, sir - I can’t afford any. I’m trying to save up my money so I can go home.” I lied.

“Well, if you have any, you better tell us now; it’ll go much easier on you if you do. If we have to find it, it’ll go hard on you.” My mind flashed on my pipe and my stash, hidden under the floor of the tent.

“No, sir.”

Then I told them my story (some of it, anyway), and told them where I worked, while I scrunched up my hat in my hands, looking down subserviently. I was sure I was going to jail. I asked them if there had been any complaints, and what this was all about. They poked around some more, looking at each other and shaking their heads gravely. It seemed like a lot of fuss over a vagrant and his dog, to me. Finally, one of them admitted that there were no complaints on my account. They seemed satisfied with my story, but a little disappointed. Then one of them told me that a newspaper stand a few blocks away had been robbed at knife-point that morning, and the suspect was still at large. Then they went up the hill, got in their cars and took off, in search of their man. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, a bit shaken. Then I thought about the armed robber. I found my big fire-poking staff (every camper needs a big staff) and set it next to me, then I called Rhiannon over and gave her some well-deserved affection. I decided, better yet, we’d drive off somewhere for lunch, somewhere with people. I had restless dreams that night.

* * *

Gretchen came down for a visit today. I was glad to see her. I showed her around my new and improved campsite and we talked for a while. Then we retired to the boudoir... Ah, Gretchen... We were just finishing up, when she suddenly stopped:

“What was that?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”

Then I heard it too: branches snapping, just outside the tent. Before I could move, I felt an iron grip on my arm. In one motion I was jerked out of the tent and thrown to the ground, pinned at the elbows. In the lengthening shadows I saw the silhouette of a man sitting on me, straddling my stomach. Completely surprised, stark naked and helplessly pinned, I guess you could say I was at a disadvantage. I was terrified. Then I recognized that face; it was Bob! After all this time, he had finally decided to be a man. Congratulations, Bob! I was quite relieved, until he reached over and picked up a big rock from my fireplace. He held it up with both hands, over my head.

“Bob!” I yelled. This was to let Gretchen know that our guest was not some bugger-man, and that a little help would be appreciated. She flew out of the tent, knocked the rock out of his hands and started screaming at him. He let me up, and I feverishly started throwing on my clothes; if he wanted to go “man to man,” I wanted to have my damn clothes on, at least. She went on yelling at him, saying something about the way that she was handling “this thing,” or something along those lines. I let them hash it out; I stood there quietly, feeling ill-used and sheepish at the same time. Then, with nothing really settled, they left me there, alone in the darkening woods. Goodbye, Gretchen.

I built a fire.

Spinning ‘round, get your feet on the ground
Better hold on tight, ain’t no slowing down
Look at your map, find you’re on the right track
Better check it again - ain’t no turning back
And the pressure is mounting, patience getting thin
Knock you right down, and you take it on the chin
But your steam’s running low, nowhere you can go
When you’ve got to get away, before you let it show

Say goodbye to that twinkle in her eye
Say goodbye to that Cheshire grin
Thought I’d found love, but it passed my by
Catch it next time around again

Never thought you’d lose your heart,
Watch it get broke, and fall all apart
And you never thought you’d hit rock bottom again
Nights are getting cold, getting under your skin
So you write a few lines, you’d like to do a few lines
But nothing you find gives you peace of mind
In a napkin-written song, wond’ring where you went wrong
God knows you love her, but it didn’t last long

Say goodbye...

Thunderclap, your life fell in your lap
Thought you took a wrong turn, but you lost your map
Moving on, pretty soon you were gone
Down the road, that’s where you belong
You’re a troubadour, space-age folklore
Do you know what you’re looking for?
Dreams come true, you’re gonna find it, too
Hold on to yours - Nothing less will do

Say Hello, starting out slow
Pick up speed as you find your way
If your heart’s true, it will come to you
Look to yourself - and make time to stay

-Next Time Around

[strat-0]

Jefferson County paid me a visit this evening. I was sitting in my truck by the fruit stand, listening to the radio. I had just finished smoking a bowl, when a sheriff’s car pulled up. I wasn’t sure if I’d met this officer, but he wasn’t quite as friendly as the older fellow who did most of the talking during the armed robber ordeal. He greeted me and started in with the usual harassment, eyeing me and then my truck disdainfully.

“How long do you think you can stay here like this?”

I was cheerfully glib: “Has there been a complaint? I’m just trying to save up enough...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, I know you’ve got illegal drugs, so why don’t you just hand them over; -it’ll go much harder on you if I find them.” This is a recurring theme in law enforcement; don’t ever fall for this one. If they want to bust you, make them work for it. Most of them are too lazy to look very hard, unless they really want it bad. I thought about my bag, hidden in my little secret stash place, under the dashboard.

“No, sir; I can’t afford anything like that.” My temples were pounding, but I tried to appear nonchalant. He made me get out of the truck and he poked around a little, then gave up and left, disgusted.

“How do ya like that, Rhiannon - he didn’t even say goodbye!”

* * *

My site got ripped off while I was at work. When I discovered it I just had to shrug my shoulders and laugh. Here’s what they got: a cheap oil lamp with no flu, a worn out pair of hemostats, a Playmate cooler with a busted button that made the lid fall open all the time (it was my stool; I had my good one with me), and a silver fork. They left my rusty crescent wrench behind. I’ll miss that fork.

All the cops know me now. They should, as many times as they’ve run my license and tag. Some of them are OK. This one lady cop whom I’d never seen before stopped by when I was up in my truck, and asked me how I was doing. She knew all about me and the armed robber escapade. We talked for a while and she left. I thought I detected a glimmer of genuine compassion in her eyes.

* * *

As night falls, the chill sets in. Almost out of firewood, too - damn! A few words about fire... Basic necessity #1. After depending on it for heat, light, protection, cooking, bug repellent, and entertainment (more interesting to stare at than TV, with no commercial interruptions) I don’t look at fire quite the same anymore. A lot of things don’t look the same anymore, after this past year in St. Louis. Working a steady job, it seems like I should be able to do a little better than this. It’s a tough lot for the working poor. Excuse me if I wax philosophical here, but it drives the point home when you’re on the working end of a societal flaw. Granted, I’m not the most frugal person, nor the most adept at managing money, but I’m working hard; I should be able to dig my way out of this hole. I should be able to survive. It’s not so much for myself that I’m complaining; I have a way out, an opportunity of which I may soon take advantage. But there are many others in my position now, people who do the dirty jobs that nobody wants, but that somebody has to do, and for their labors they are paid a pittance. They are fleeced and raped. Anyway, I need to scrape enough money together to either get an apartment, or get out of town.

* * *

[Several days later]

One more night, maybe two. It’s been getting a little nippy at night here lately. These last few days have been the hardest. I’ve had to make a few adjustments. My truck had to go into the shop again, for some warranty work. The engine that was put in it this spring has some valve problems. I knew it had a dead miss in it, so I had a guy at work run a compression test on it. Bad news. He wrote the results in yellow crayon on the valve cover over each cylinder: number six, 90 pounds of compression - good; number five, 90 pounds; number four, 90 pounds; ...number one, zero. He wrote a big goose egg right on the oil cap. I was sick - I had to choke back tears. I was just about ready to blow town, and now this. I had already quit my job, too. So I took Rhiannon and my guitar to Grandma’s; I can’t look after them with no truck. Then I took the truck back to the guy that did the engine work. With no truck, no job, no dog and no guitar, the boredom and solitude is agonizing. Totally alone. And how can you meet anyone when you look like this? I haven’t shaved for a while, and bathing is a bit difficult now.

It’s creepy down here tonight. I miss my dog. I don’t know what’s rustling around out there, but I hope it’s an overweight raccoon. I think I’ll throw another board on the fire.

Looking back over the year, I feel a little bitter, disgusted, angry and sad. This town wasn’t ready for me, any more than I was ready for it. People say that when you’re young the world is your oyster. What they don’t tell you is that sometimes the oyster has been out of the refrigerator too long.

Well, my last candle is hardly more than a nub, my lamp is gone, I’m out of firewood, and my clock is broken. Something tells me it’s time to blow town.

* * *

It’s very pretty down here this morning. The birds and crickets are all singing, indifferent to the muffled sound of the passing cars, coming from the world above. I’m watching two squirrels play tag, over by the water hole. It may be a territorial dispute, but it looks more like play. One of them started playing too rough, and with a couple of sharp barks, the other one bounds off into the woods. The first one takes off after it. Wow! As I write this, not four feet away a curious squirrel walks up and pauses to look at me. He’s just sitting up on his hind legs, giving me a long look, as if he’s thinking, “Who is this interloper?” Apparently I’m no threat, and not very interesting, so he saunters over to a little sapling. He clambers up about halfway and sits for a perch in the sun. Sitting down here quietly for hours at a time, I’ve seen wildlife come out in abundance. It’s a veritable sanctuary here. Squirrels are everywhere, and I can’t name half the birds I’ve seen. I’ve seen possum and raccoon tracks, rabbits, a snake skin, toads and lizards (and a giant furry spider in my tent).

[strat-0]

The Turning Point

Yet another devastating blow of ill fate. It’s not just a valve problem with my truck; it’s a bad block. The whole engine has to be replaced (again). I have to hope that the remanufacturer will stand behind it; I sure don’t have money for another one. Getting a new one from the factory in Jasper, Indiana, could take a month. I don’t think I can take another week of this. I am despondent and desperate. Now I can’t even bathe when I want to. I am out of ideas and I just don’t care any more. People who I thought cared about me have withdrawn their moral support and left me on my own. I have never felt so alone. I’ve tried to roll with the punches; I have taken all the blows in stride, with my chin up. My stride is broken. My heart and spirit is broken. My clock is broken, and it’s getting downright fucking COLD! I am in a bleary-eyed daze. There’s got to be a way out, short of crime or suicide. “Nobody loves ya when you’re down and out.” How true.

Night falls again in the swamp. I laid-in a supply of candles, so I should have light for a few nights. It was a rainy, cold day, and everything is clammy. Thunder rumbles in the distance as I close the tent flap against the dark and drizzle. I light a can of Sterno, two candles and a cigarette, and stretch out on the foam pad. And so it goes.

I’ve been reading a lot lately; it helps stave off the boredom. I keep an eye out for cheap paperbacks. One of my favorite evening activities is to go to Denny’s for a Grand Slam breakfast, then I drink coffee over the Post-Dispatch for most of the night. I plan to kill some time in the library this week, depending on what news I get about my truck Monday. If I have to wait more than a few days, I’ll hitchhike to Terre Haute to wait it out; I have friends there. Or I could find a way to land in jail. “Three hots and a cot” with running water sounds pretty good right now. But I don’t think so.

Nothing to do, nothing left to say
Nobody seems to care anyway
Can’t concentrate - it’s the mortality rate
Getting closer every day and I’m running late.

My life has reached an all-time low. If I come out of this unscathed, I will never back myself into a corner again. Poor judgment. Nor will I get off the interstate when passing through this bastard town. I’ve been down and out before, but this town rubs your face in it. You just can’t get an even break. There’s no sense of fraternity. Where’s the rock and roll?

Looking over the first few entries I made in this journal, I guess the attitude of it has changed. But then, so has my situation. Luck runs out; naiveté leaves. Twice in my life I’ve lost love, and it’s devastating, even without death. Gretchen said she wanted to try to “make it work” with her husband; she said she wanted me to give her a little room. I hope five hundred miles is enough. She won’t see me again.

* * *

I made a friend today.

I went to this quaint little restaurant in the neighborhood for lunch a few days ago. An attractive, petite young lady waited on me. As I sat daydreaming after my meal, I began to write a little overview of my journal on my paper place mat:

Living in a tent in a swamp for over a month is quite an experience. A good setting for writing songs and prose, but the rode is calling and I am extremely impatient for my truck. It’s carried me from Tulsa to Terre Haute to St. Louis, and even badly crippled it still got me to work, until it threw a rod through the side of the block, producing a hole big enough to put your hand through. After all, it’s as old as I am, and can only take so much abuse. I didn’t have the heart to scrap it, so now I wait... and wait... and wait.

My notebook and clock were ruined by the rain, but my guitar and dog are cheerful company . I think a big fire is in order tonight, to ward off the clammy October chill, and thaw a broken heart.

I left it there, sort of accidentally-on-purpose. The next time I went to the café she wasn’t there, but the host recognized me. He was very friendly, and introduced himself as a writer. I asked him about my “place mat,” and he said she kept it. They had both read it and liked it. It’s been three days, and today I went back again, and she was there. It was a cold day, grey and windy. She immediately came up and started talking to me, as if she had known me a long time. I guess I’m a novelty: a traveling pack-rat, a troubadour, a vagabond (a homeless bum). She’s very pretty, with long auburn hair and blue eyes, a disarming nature and an easy laugh, a homespun girl. Just to show me St. Louis wasn’t totally unfriendly, she offered to smoke a joint with me after work. I accepted, of course. So, about six o’clock she came by and we drove her car to a grocery store parking lot and burned one. We talked for a long time. I was glad I had taken a bath earlier. She seemed very sweet and frail, and I was amazed that, of all the people I have encountered, she was not the least bit afraid of this furry-faced tramp. After a while, the conversation began to slow; we were pretty stoned. She took me back to my home, and we parted company. She was married, of course...

* * *

Last night I hitchhiked to Tulley’s Tavern, a few miles away, where I met some people and had a pretty good time. The bartender kept setting up these “Alabama Slammers” for me, on-the-house (a shot of Southern Comfort with a dash of 7-Up and Brandy). I think that’s what did me in. I can’t remember how I got from Tulley’s to Lindbergh Boulevard; somebody must have given me a ride. I vaguely remember talking to a cop who stopped me as I walked the last block home. I can’t believe he didn’t run me in, but he let me go; so far they always have. I’ve been stopped by plenty of them, too. Hoo-boy, was I drunk. I must have dropped my hat a few feet from the tent when I got home. I didn’t realize it was there - with no moon and no cloud cover it was pitch black, and I took one of those record-breaking, beer-drinking pisses all over it. I started to put it on my throbbing, clouded head this morning and it was all wet - “What the fuck?” Oh, ooooh... What a night. Rather contritely, I head off to the Laundromat.

* * *

Jesus, it’s cold. My fingers are numb. I’m out of firewood and everything is soaking wet. All it does is rain. I keep calling about my truck and I keep getting the run-around and more problems. I’ve got to hang on - can’t lose everything. I must not fail in this; I must persevere.

Who is this person? It’s not me - it’s not me. I’m just watching all this. I’ve got to get out of here. I need a change of scenery. I’m ready to hit that Birmingham town. I’ve heard it’s a pretty nice town; it has to be better than St. Louis. If I get out of this fix, I’ll make it my own. As to the present, I’ve had a headache for a week and I keep getting dizzy spells. I sweat under the arms while my extremities are numb and often go to sleep. I’d give anything for a fire, but there’s no wood here and I have no truck to go collecting in. I check on my truck: “Tomorrow,” “Tomorrow,” “...Maybe tomorrow.”

The Pill-bugs and Daddy-Long-Legs have taken over the tent. I don’t mind sharing with them - they’re better than roaches and flies, which fortunately have not shown much interest in my abode. There are some tiny bugs around here, which I believe to be mites, but they evidently don’t like people; they bite once and jump off (I hope they don’t carry some horrible disease - maybe that’s what the headaches etc. are from. Hmmm...) Nope, the Daddy-long-legs and Roly-polies are my friends. It’s too much trouble to unsnap, unbuckle and open the tent flap every time I see one, so when one comes over to my side of the tent, I flick him back over to their side. Soon they’ll be trained. Hey, this could be better than a Russian flea circus: “Step right up! See the eighth wonder of the world! Jeff’s trained Daddy-long-legs and Roly-polies!” I’m watching a D-L-L over in the corner. He’s interested in a tiny piece of wax, turning it over and over. He picks it up and tries to eat it, then throws it down with disdain (I swear!) Such agile little creatures. It’s the tiny bugs that I don’t like. They bite, and you just know that under a microscope they look like monsters. One good thing about the cold: the bastard mosquitoes are all but gone.

* * *

More weirdness last night. I decided to go to Tulley’s for a beer and some human contact, so after my evening meal I headed up to the road and started thumbing a ride. It wasn’t long until a car stopped for me, and I hurried to get in before he changed his mind. He was a black guy about thirty in a fairly late model Buick. As we drove along, he made conversation - innocuous at first, you know, the weather and such, then he asked me if I had a girlfriend. As the conversation got more and more graphic, I got more and more uncomfortable. He asked me if I liked oral sex, or something, and, “How big are you?” and he gave me this look that I did not like at all. Suddenly I felt all antsy. I knew where this was going; someplace I didn’t want to be. As we pulled into the shopping center parking lot in front of Tulley’s, he was telling me about this great party where he was going. There were all kinds of free drugs and women there, and wouldn’t I like to go? Yeah, right, and in a couple of years they’ll find my bleached bones in the woods somewhere around East St. Louis. At this point I made a quick judgment and decided not to piss him off - although this guy was definitely giving me the creeps, the car was moving too fast and I didn’t know what he might do. I told him I wanted to see what was going on at Tulley’s first, and that I was meeting some people there. We dragged through the parking lot; it was almost empty. I knew I’d better think of something pretty quick - he was headed back out to the street and wasn’t stopping.

“Let’s cruise through again,” I said, so he turned and we made another pass in front of Tulley’s.

“Oh, there’s my friend’s car!” I said, pointing to a car near the door. He didn’t slow down.

“Hey, man, that’s it - stop!” He just kept going. I opened the door and tumbled out onto the pavement. Quickly, I picked myself up and scrambled into Tulley’s. I walked right up to the bar, ordered a beer, and sat down. I was sitting there drinking my beer and picking gravel out of my hand, when the guy walks in! He came up to me and started angrily shouting something unintelligible. I tried to ignore him, but the more I did, the more agitated he got:

“I’m talking to you! I’m talking to YOU!”
“Fuck off.”
The bartender came over to see what was the matter.

“What’s the problem here?” he inquired.
“I don’t know this guy, and I don’t know what his problem is. I hitched a ride here with him and he wouldn’t stop the car - I had to jump out! I think he’s a fag.”

Well, that set the guy off pretty good, but I think it was a pretty good act. The bartender told him to leave; said he was calling the cops and picked up the phone. His other hand went under the bar. The guy didn’t waste any time then; he booked.

[strat-0]

The End

After this last bit of unpleasantness, and with the way things have generally been going lately (downhill), I knew I could not stay on this course much longer. I could feel disaster looming around the corner. But then, last night, something strange happened. I couldn’t sleep at all. I sat up all night, thinking. I sat in the flickering candlelight, gazing into the flame, writing and thinking. I thought about my family. I thought about Brenda. I though about a lot of things, but mostly I thought about Gretchen. As the night waned, I began to feel different. I felt alert; I could see things more clearly. It was as if I had awakened from a dream. I felt good. I knew I had to stand up and firmly take charge of my fate, and re-double my efforts, in order to stave off an uncaring and all-devouring oblivion. The birds began singing to the new day, singing their assent to my lucid realization. I went outside and watched as the grey gave way to yellow and blue. It’s time to get moving.

It took me most of the morning to hitchhike across town to the shop where my truck was being repaired. I wanted to see how it was going and talk to the guy in person; maybe I could speed him up. I thanked my last ride, closed the door, and crossed the street in front of the shop. I could see my truck in the lot; somebody was working on it. As I got closer, the noise from the street was subdued by the sound of air tools whizzing and wrenches tinkling on cement, from inside the shop. One particular sound came through, a joyous sound that made my heart soar; it was the sound of my truck’s engine being rev’d-up. My truck was running!

I drove back to the campsite and pulled up stakes joyfully. After I loaded the tent and my other belongings into the truck, I went back down to the site for a last look. I walked around the knoll, now so bare, that I had called home for so long. Adios muchachos. I went to Granny’s and organized my stuff and loaded up the truck once again. I’ll spend the night here; tomorrow morning I start out for Birmingham.

So, I guess there’s not much left to say. It’s been a bumpy year, with some profound losses and anxiety, but not without some good times, some treasured experiences, some good humor. I’ll never forget Gretchen, but all in all, I say, St. Louis be damned. The horizon is calling. Let’s see what the “Magic City” has to offer.

October 16, 1981


Whirring differential and the whistle of the wind
Music to my ears, my old and faithful friend
Endless winding ribbon and the pallid vapor lights
Safe behind my high-beams, stabbing through the night

Had to go a long way and it took a long time to find
You just caught up to yourself, leaving yourself behind

Sixty-five miles an hour, baby, setting my steady pace
I ain’t out to make no time, ain’t trying to run no race
Twenty-five thousand miles upon a thousandth of an inch
And when it got down to it, she pulled me through the pinch

Had to go a long way and it took a long time to find
You just caught up to yourself, leaving yourself behind

-Leaving Yourself Behind


* * *

We who live here in Birmingham may sometimes forget how beautiful a skyline it presents at night. Coming in from the north on Interstate 65, against the backdrop of Red Mountain, then southbound on U.S. 31, it looked to me like the Emerald City: “You’re out of the woods - you’re out of the dark -you’re out of the night/ Step into the sun - step into the light - march up to the gate and it is... open... open...”

At the risk of being tedious, I guess I should bring things up to date. I never saw Gretchen again. We wrote to each other a few times; she and Bob divorced, then a short time later she became pregnant and had a baby. She called me a couple of times too, which was rather awkward, as I was living with a woman. She intimated that I should come back to St. Louis. I probably don’t have to tell you that a team of wild elephants under the lash couldn’t have dragged me back there.

That engine in my truck never was quite right, and it failed shortly after I got to Birmingham. I bought a used one from a junk yard and installed it myself. It’s been running ever since.

Rhiannon gave me twelve more good years.

I had a job within a couple of weeks of my arrival. I was hired by the first place I walked into, almost on the spot: Sears, ironically enough. The next thing I did was to finally enter trade school. Two years later, I finished, and embarked on a successful career as a skilled mechanic. Eventually, I tired of that vocation and returned to college; I’m nearing completion of that task now. My band is enjoying some modest success and recognition of late, which is gratifying. Most importantly, I found love. We are now in our second year of wedded bliss. My darling wife is just about the age I was when I went to St. Louis, fifteen years ago. Sometimes I wonder how the world looks through her eyes. Of course, things are different for a young man. Even as we near the third millennium, a young man is still expected to undergo the metamorphosis of emancipation. He must face down his demons and fears to be truly free.

December 1995 (c) strat-0

[strat-0]

Well, that's it!

[maarts]

Wow. What a read.
Sounds dreadfully corny to say but thanks for sharing, man.

[Rit]

awesome. that was a good read indeed. great writing.

[strat-0]

Thanks a lot guys. It's pretty lengthy for message board fare, so I appreciate the indulgence. One of my former band mates teaches high school English and he used portions of it in his senior class. That kind of made me feel good.

[luke]

Finally found some time to read through that. Excellent stuff. Very Southern. And kinda cool how it ends nine days before I was born.

[strat-0]

...feeling rather decrepit now...