Travelogue #15
Logan in the Morning
In the backseat of a car, at 7am, I began my career as a teacher. The student was Logan, a young boy with a construction paper crown-hat, green-crayon'd leaves attached with Elmer's Glue. After answering jovial questions from the mother (driver) and grandmother, I began our lessons.
Logan was a precocious sort, connecting animals to their offspring via a well-worn red pen. "He just turned three, and we put him in Head Start," chirped his mother. Logan even understood to began the idea of catagories and classifications, citing emu's as flightless birds, but birds nonetheless (go to farm-country Massachussets, and you'll see where Trader Joe's gets those Emu sausages from...). "So what makes him a birdy?" said Logan. I drew a smiling cat.
The questions Logan asked were purely logical; no doubt that he'd be a genius. His mother, however, was salt-of-the-earth working class; the grandmother worked at the hospital and spoke Nicotine; the father was AWOL. Poor kid. "There's no solace for genius," says a character from Lawrence Durrell's Justine.
Cleaning a Church with Sarah-Beth
Of all the things the road brings, there can be no planning. Often, I tell people how I get into weird, extraordinary situations is that I simply say "yes" alot. That shouldn't come as sound advice (have you ever had all your belongings taken?), but "sound advice" for a normal life is not what I have to offer.
So, it comes as no oddity that when Sarah-Beth, a girl I had stayed in contact from my travels three years previous, asks me to help her clean a church, that I simply uttered "yeah, sure. Sounds like fun!"
But my God, the church! In Fayetteville, nestled in the boonies, open land surrounded by farmland and uninhibited vegetation, was this monstronsity of a church. To me, it resembled a red bean dropped into a parklot. Inside, more surreality. Instead of pews, there were chairs leading up to an immaculately-lit stage fit for a wealthy high school. From a balcony, there was a professional grade, 24-track mixing board/recording set-up.
Shaking hands with some of the pastors, I couldn't help notice blastbeats coming from my left. Blastbeats in church? Then again, there's a huge Christian metal underground, but in Fayetteville? A town reknowned for being called FayetteNam, due to its proximity to Fort Bragg? And a merchandise booth, selling T-shirts to promote Christianity with a semi-hip, on-purpose dorky sayings... Yes, I found myself vacuuming and sweeping, dusting this and that, distributing bibles underneath the chairs. Sarah-Beth told an anecdote about accidentally dropping a Bible near her Jewish friend, who was relieved to know that it fell on the New Testament side. Sure, Emu farms, bluetooth phone conversations, Twitter, blastbeat Christian metal to praise the Lord... Well, it all comes a simple "yes". Sure, why not?
Darren the Jamaican
Sure, Darren picked me up after almost dying of heat stroke in Ontario, CA with intentions of going towards Phoenix, AZ. But, the more I found out about him, the less the ride was enjoyable. For one, he interrupted our conversations to talk (more like, listen) to his friends about their relationship woes. Then, he contradicted himself about his belief system, about God and whatnot, citing that I would eventually want to have kids. "Its nature, and you'll find out," he mentioned in a self-satisfied way, as though I had been misguided and it was only a matter of time before I would submit to nature. He spoke in a thick Jamaican accent with strong Brooklyn overtones--It was like listening to a toaster on an overnight college radio program.
Worst of all, he was hungover, swerving from lane to lane as he pushed numbers into a machine that served to update his progress towards his next pickup in Phoenix.
Mixing all the aforementioned, the ride with Darren was interminable. We ran out of conversational material--he didn't seem to mind, or care, or... what exactly was his incentive for picking me up? Or, his intentions? Well, that was simple:
Salvation. He wanted to do good deeds for the scorekeeper in the sky.
Then again, the stars misaligned. By the time we got to Goodyear, AZ, nearly 19.9 miles from Phoenix, his pickup had been delayed until 9pm instead of 5pm. His friend would meet him at a bar to watch the Cowboys and Giants play. "Well, I'm sorry I can't drive you further, but... this is the lifestyle you chose." I couldn't help feeling angry, though he was right. All along, I was at his mercy. Perhaps it was his benevolence that held me as long as he had--in fact, he even admitted that I was his first hitchhiker. Well, I gave him a firm handshake, thanked him, and told him to root for the Giants.
Actually, that's a lie. I can't stand sports.
After getting lots of water from a P.F. Chang's in Goodyear (even a bottled water from the waitress--thanks, babe), hitchhiking it would have to be. As any experienced hitcher knows, its always the short distances that are the hardest. 40 miles is more challenging than 400 any day. The weather was in the upper hundreds. A sweatfest.
Right before I crossed the underpass, a sweaty bicyclist in blue came over to me. "My name's Jack, and it looks like you're traveling." I confirmed. "Well, you know the Lord died for our sins." Sure, why not. To this, he bowed his head, put his hand on my shoulder and began to say a quick prayer.
"Hey," I asked, "do you know which buslines run here. I don't have much money for a taxi." Jack shook his head. "I don't have any money. God Bless. Take care."
Jack didn't give me jack.
Logan in the Morning
In the backseat of a car, at 7am, I began my career as a teacher. The student was Logan, a young boy with a construction paper crown-hat, green-crayon'd leaves attached with Elmer's Glue. After answering jovial questions from the mother (driver) and grandmother, I began our lessons.
Logan was a precocious sort, connecting animals to their offspring via a well-worn red pen. "He just turned three, and we put him in Head Start," chirped his mother. Logan even understood to began the idea of catagories and classifications, citing emu's as flightless birds, but birds nonetheless (go to farm-country Massachussets, and you'll see where Trader Joe's gets those Emu sausages from...). "So what makes him a birdy?" said Logan. I drew a smiling cat.
The questions Logan asked were purely logical; no doubt that he'd be a genius. His mother, however, was salt-of-the-earth working class; the grandmother worked at the hospital and spoke Nicotine; the father was AWOL. Poor kid. "There's no solace for genius," says a character from Lawrence Durrell's Justine.
Cleaning a Church with Sarah-Beth
Of all the things the road brings, there can be no planning. Often, I tell people how I get into weird, extraordinary situations is that I simply say "yes" alot. That shouldn't come as sound advice (have you ever had all your belongings taken?), but "sound advice" for a normal life is not what I have to offer.
So, it comes as no oddity that when Sarah-Beth, a girl I had stayed in contact from my travels three years previous, asks me to help her clean a church, that I simply uttered "yeah, sure. Sounds like fun!"
But my God, the church! In Fayetteville, nestled in the boonies, open land surrounded by farmland and uninhibited vegetation, was this monstronsity of a church. To me, it resembled a red bean dropped into a parklot. Inside, more surreality. Instead of pews, there were chairs leading up to an immaculately-lit stage fit for a wealthy high school. From a balcony, there was a professional grade, 24-track mixing board/recording set-up.
Shaking hands with some of the pastors, I couldn't help notice blastbeats coming from my left. Blastbeats in church? Then again, there's a huge Christian metal underground, but in Fayetteville? A town reknowned for being called FayetteNam, due to its proximity to Fort Bragg? And a merchandise booth, selling T-shirts to promote Christianity with a semi-hip, on-purpose dorky sayings... Yes, I found myself vacuuming and sweeping, dusting this and that, distributing bibles underneath the chairs. Sarah-Beth told an anecdote about accidentally dropping a Bible near her Jewish friend, who was relieved to know that it fell on the New Testament side. Sure, Emu farms, bluetooth phone conversations, Twitter, blastbeat Christian metal to praise the Lord... Well, it all comes a simple "yes". Sure, why not?
Darren the Jamaican
Sure, Darren picked me up after almost dying of heat stroke in Ontario, CA with intentions of going towards Phoenix, AZ. But, the more I found out about him, the less the ride was enjoyable. For one, he interrupted our conversations to talk (more like, listen) to his friends about their relationship woes. Then, he contradicted himself about his belief system, about God and whatnot, citing that I would eventually want to have kids. "Its nature, and you'll find out," he mentioned in a self-satisfied way, as though I had been misguided and it was only a matter of time before I would submit to nature. He spoke in a thick Jamaican accent with strong Brooklyn overtones--It was like listening to a toaster on an overnight college radio program.
Worst of all, he was hungover, swerving from lane to lane as he pushed numbers into a machine that served to update his progress towards his next pickup in Phoenix.
Mixing all the aforementioned, the ride with Darren was interminable. We ran out of conversational material--he didn't seem to mind, or care, or... what exactly was his incentive for picking me up? Or, his intentions? Well, that was simple:
Salvation. He wanted to do good deeds for the scorekeeper in the sky.
Then again, the stars misaligned. By the time we got to Goodyear, AZ, nearly 19.9 miles from Phoenix, his pickup had been delayed until 9pm instead of 5pm. His friend would meet him at a bar to watch the Cowboys and Giants play. "Well, I'm sorry I can't drive you further, but... this is the lifestyle you chose." I couldn't help feeling angry, though he was right. All along, I was at his mercy. Perhaps it was his benevolence that held me as long as he had--in fact, he even admitted that I was his first hitchhiker. Well, I gave him a firm handshake, thanked him, and told him to root for the Giants.
Actually, that's a lie. I can't stand sports.
After getting lots of water from a P.F. Chang's in Goodyear (even a bottled water from the waitress--thanks, babe), hitchhiking it would have to be. As any experienced hitcher knows, its always the short distances that are the hardest. 40 miles is more challenging than 400 any day. The weather was in the upper hundreds. A sweatfest.
Right before I crossed the underpass, a sweaty bicyclist in blue came over to me. "My name's Jack, and it looks like you're traveling." I confirmed. "Well, you know the Lord died for our sins." Sure, why not. To this, he bowed his head, put his hand on my shoulder and began to say a quick prayer.
"Hey," I asked, "do you know which buslines run here. I don't have much money for a taxi." Jack shook his head. "I don't have any money. God Bless. Take care."
Jack didn't give me jack.
