"Brandon Walsh or David Silver?""Hmm…definitely David Silver. I couldn’t get past Brandon’s wall of hair gel," Kris said, with one hand on the wheel and the other flailing around the back seat hoping to sit a snack.
"Yeah, I’d have to agree. And David Silver was hot in those later episodes." I reached back and grabbed the container of chocolate covered soy nuts, bit on the corner of the plastic packaging and ripped it open with my teeth.
And so it began. Another marathon session of "Who Would You Rather?" Pick any two people- friends, celebrities, former professors, cartoon characters, and choose who you’d rather sleep with. Endless amounts of fun and perfect for the long car trip.
“Oh…my…god…” Kris gasped. "The chocolate soy nuts. Delicious. Trader Joe’s has done it again. The guy at the gas station or that kid who used to play Neil Young songs at the Old Post in Missoula?"
We were off to a great start. A rousing car game in the works, a variety of healthy and not-so-healthy snacks within reach, and the Dixie Chicks girl power anthem, "Wide Open Spaces" on the radio. With six weeks of open calendar ahead and a car full of camping gear, maps, food and an official crapload of cds, we were ready for anything this country had to offer.
Kass and Jim were there to watch us depart from Philly just an hour before. Kass and Jim being Kris’ parents. Us being Kris, Ellen and me. Ellen being my beautiful, trustworthy, brimming with earthy character, shiny blue Subaru Outback Sport. Ellen was named by my friend Bob, who after one ride got the feeling that my car was of the lesbian persuasion. That feeling was most likely due to the fact that, at the time of his decision, Martina Navritolova was a spokeswoman for Subaru. Whatever the reason, the name Ellen immediately fit her like a pair of baggy Levis and army boots. I could practically smell the CK One cologne wafting from her air vents.
It only made sense that Kristen and I decided to spend a month and a half together. Since we first met, eight years earlier, she and I had been living parallel lives. It began with college at St. Joe’s, then a year of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps in Missoula, Montana, followed by a move back in with our parents. Now I had grad school behind me and Kris was two months away from its beginning. I was getting ready to pick up my life in Boston and magically create a new one in San Francisco. The time was right for us to follow one of our commandments- thou shall not transition from one phase of life to the next without a road trip in between.
Tired from about six hours of driving, we decided to make our first stop Hungry Mother State Park in Marian, Virginia. Although it was late, we saw lights on in the park office, so we thought it best to go check in. The jolly woman behind the counter giggled as she greeted us with a southern hello. After a few minutes of chatting, she said, “When you first pulled up, I was worried because I thought you may’ve been robbers.” Laughing, she reached into the depths of the front pocket of her baggy acid washed jeans and removed a huge wad of cash. We all shared a nice, "Ha, ha, isn’t this fun that we’re not all involved in a robbery" moment, and exchanged goodnight pleasantries.
After weaving Ellen through the maze of camping spots, we found our very own little space of dirt and set up the tent for the first of many tent setting up experiences. Kris insisted on having her sleeping bag near the door, perhaps so she could be the first to escape in the event of an approaching bear. Either that or because she gets up to pee somewhere in the vicinity of 32 times a night. After the kids screaming "cock-a-doodle-doo" finally shut up, the cool summer evening breeze helped sleep come quickly.
The next day we arrived in Nashville, and I, for one, was ready to see Tim McGraw dancing in the streets singing about the love that did him wrong. No such luck. The highlight of Nashville, if I may be so bold as to call it a highlight, was the Parthenon of the South. I am not certain who the mentally deranged fool was that decided to build a replica, to size, of the Parthenon in Nashville, Tennessee. But I do know that it is very humid there in July and I just wanted a smoothie. Kris and I parked the car, walked through the field of dead brown grass and stood in front of the southern Parthenon. We snapped the obligatory picture and wandered over to the swing set nearby. I’m sure it was much like the swing sets in Athens. It was at that swing set that we established our southern accents, which would take at least a week to lose. "I’ma blow up that pitchur and git me a noz frame from the Wallmart and put it on my mantelpiece." The heat was getting to us already.
The obvious follow up to Nashville is Memphis. Flipping through the pages of our trusty Let’s Go America 1998 we managed to locate Beale Street where all the coolness supposedly happens. Arriving a little too early for that bluesy nightlife that Memphis boasts, Kris and I settled on a generic pub and enjoyed a couple microbrews. On our way back to the car, we were suddenly paralyzed by the sounds of a woman screaming. Across the street, on the sidewalk, lay a woman, yelling, "Somebody help me! There’s so much blood!" With a closer look, I realized that the entire front of her white shirt was now crimson. Just as I took out my cell phone to call 911, a police car pulled up in front of the woman. We had no idea what happened, but from my experience as a regular viewer of E.R., I am guessing she was stabbed. We continued our walk back to the car, feeling disturbed and slightly nauseous.
That night’s sleep was less than pleasant. It sounded like there was a plague of cicadas surrounding our tent. Total cacophony to use an SAT word. Total freakish pain in the ass to use reality. Between the thought of zillions of cicadas eating away at my flesh and flashbacks to the bloody woman on Beale Street, I was having a difficult time getting to sleep. After lying amidst the deafening screams of the cicadas for what seemed like days, I finally dozed off, only to be awakened at 4am. The cicadas were now being accompanied by the sound of raindrops. Without much discussion, Kris and I got up and methodically put the rain fly on the tent. It was a good thing we did, because it began pouring a few minutes later.
When morning came, braving the elements, we put on our rain gear, fired up the camping stove, heated up some water and mixed in the little baggies of Quaker oatmeal. That, along with a banana shared between the two of us, became the daily breakfast. With full bellies and just a few hours of sleep between us, we were on our way. We got in the car and I put on the Paul Simon cd for inspiration. We were going to Graceland.
The line at Graceland was filled with a bevy of eager travelers from around the globe. Ah...America...an entire industry built on the memory of an overweight gyrating musician with a pompadour. While in line, Kris and I both managed to locate our student ID cards; both with the lamination peeling off and pictures of us with the same haircuts we were currently sporting. Thankfully there’s no date on those student ID cards, because I’m planning on using it for the next few decades or so. Students got a discount at Graceland, because learning about the king of rock and roll is clearly an educational experience. And apparently going to Graceland is somehow related to towing your car, because there’s also a discount for AAA members. The first rule of traveling is: Before spending so much as a penny, ask the cashier if you can get a triple A discount. This includes restaurants, strip clubs, coffee shops and gumball machines. Triple A encourages expenditures of any kind. We happily paid our $12 each, reduced from $25, and entered yet another line. This one was for the shuttle that would drive us to the actual mansion. It’s amazing what that place does to you. I had never in my life given so much as a crap about Elvis, but I couldn’t wait to step foot in his home. The chipper Graceland employees with their bright matching outfits snap mandatory pictures of each group in line for the shuttle. I know this because some poor old man did not want his picture taken, but the happy hound dogs insisted on it. "But I’m not going to buy it," the man pleaded.
"Well," said the cheerful employee with the caked on make-up and the curling iron curls, "at Graceland, we take pictures of everyone!" and snapped a photo as he was walking away, looking confused.
The shuttle ride included a litany of Elvis info oozing from the loudspeakers. The van pulled up to the mansion and, like good little fans, we trailed onto the sidewalk proclaiming the appropriate amount of oohs and ahs. However, mine were fake. This is a mansion? Please. Have these people never watched MTV Cribs? Stankamonia has a bigger house than this Elvis character. Our shuttle group obediently followed the directions to approach the front of the mansion. It was there that we were greeted by Jeremy. He was young, effeminate and less than enthused to meet us. Jeremy immediately began his memorized speech, which put Al Gore’s lack of charisma to shame. "Welcome to Graceland. The mansion is on 13.8 acres of property..." Jeremy said in a monotone while staring off into space. His speech droned on for a few minutes. Then, it happened. Jeremy paused for a second. He took his left hand and beginning at the top of his head, slowly, with the use of extreme pressure, ran it down his face, causing his eyelids to stretch out and his nose to come close to removal. This was not your everyday "There’s a bug on my face" or "I’ve got an itch" facial wipe. It was more of an "I am so entirely sick of this place and these idiotic people and dear Lord, release me from this surreal hell in which I am forced to live" self-imposed facial attack. Then his eyes resumed their gaze at the sun and he continued on, "Please do not take flash photography inside the mansion..."
We finally entered the mansion, and were permitted to wander through and, after swearing on the life of our grandparents that we would not, under any circumstance, take flash photography, we were allowed to stand in the hallway and stare into the roped off rooms. Each room was decorated with complete seventies flare. Lots of furry furniture in shades of orange, yellow and brown, carpeted walls and monkeys. I wasn’t aware of Elvis’ thing for monkeys but he had a variety of them in different mediums- ceramic, wood and glass. Thank God these precious relics were not being ruined with the flashes of death harboring within my disposable camera. After leaving the final room, which featured a variety of Elvis’ shimmery, glitzy, mostly one-piece outfits, we all gathered outside to stare at the grave of the King. I was disappointed that there were no sobbing Elvis impersonators in the mix. Next to Elvis’ grave lay the grave of his twin brother. Talk about being overshadowed by your sibling. I had no idea Elvis had a twin. And now that I knew, I really didn’t care. So we left Graceland.
Arkansas didn’t seem to have much that interested us. Neither did Texas, for that matter. So Texarkana, the town that blends Texas and Arkansas, was passed by without so much as a stop for gas. Texas did redeem itself with Possum Kingdom State Park, however. Summer in Texas is hot as shit. Shit on fire, that is. But the scenic lake that the campsites bordered created a breeze that made breathing an occasional option. We woke up before the humidity and, in an attempt to prevent severe car ass from settling in, went for a jog around the park. Then we geared up for our first National Monument of the trip, Carlsbad Caverns.
There was a lightning storm in Carlsbad earlier that day, causing the park safety nuts to close some of the paths, but; they let us in "the big room." They could’ve gone so far as to call it "the really really big" room. Stalactites and stalagmites filled the room, and after learning at least five times, I still can’t remember what the difference between them is. I felt like I was on the set of Goonies, creeping through a cavern with my little inquisitive pal by my side. Right after Kris and I finished mocking how what they called "The Cross" didn’t really look like a cross, we both spotted a rock that strongly resembled Jesus Christ. Who knew he’d been living in a cavern in New Mexico. Upon completion of our tour through the big room, we purchased the necessary postcards at the gift shop, griped about our mutual inability to take a crap and waited for the much publicized "Evening Bat Program." We didn’t want to wander too far from the bat cave so we cooked up dinner in the parking lot. On the menu for the night was our new invention called, "Teribroci" which includes teriyaki rice, chickpeas, carrots and broccoli. Sitting on the curb, we savored every tasty bite.
"Hey Kris, what kind of deodorant does a cactus use?"
"I don’t know, Mare. What kind?"
"Arid extra dry. I just made that up."
That was followed by the proper appreciation of my quick Ziggy-style wit and the decision to take a stroll through the park. After a few minutes of silence, Kris blurted out, as if following up on something I had just said, "And I didn’t even know my father’s feet would grow." My eyebrows rose in a "what the hell are you talking about” fashion, and Kristen immediately erupted in laughter. Then I joined her. First, because it’s just funny when a grown woman is having trouble standing up, and second, because I thought about what she had just said. After piecing together whatever I could catch through Kristen’s hardy guffaws, it was revealed to me that during the previous ten minutes in which I was reflecting on the beauty of the wildflowers and the meaning of life, Kristen was having a conversation with herself about a pair of sneakers that her father never wore.
The moment we had been waiting for was fast approaching. After finally recovering from the Jim Kennedy sneaker incident, we anxiously took our seats on one of the benches in the bat cave amphitheater. Out came Brian, the park ranger, dressed in his matching khaki canvas shirt and pants. We were immediately engrossed in Brian’s bat talk. This may have had something to do with the fact that since we left Philly, Brian, even with his Ranger Rick hat, was the first thing we laid eyes on that came close to an attractive man in our age range. Brian graciously fielded a host of ridiculous bat-related questions from overly eager children and loud talking elderly men. I had the pleasure of sitting next to one such loud-talker, who was duded up in a beige jumpsuit featuring an American flag on the chest. Brian described in his signature dreamy way how, very soon, over 300,000 bats would fly out of the bat cave as they do at dusk each night, in search of food and then return to their dark, dank home in the morning. Brian finished up his talk and we all stared at the opening of the cave with anticipation. And then, just as our main man had promised, the flight of the bats began. It started with a few black dots in the sky near the cave. People in the front rows began shuffling in their seats and murmuring. Then, within a minute, tons of bats were flooding out of the cave. The sky was a black cloud of bats. I was both disgusted and completely fascinated. Those hungry little buggers flew out in droves for what seemed like an hour. Brian, like our pal Jeremy, had instructed us not to take flash photography, but it made much more sense to me in this context. Besides, I’d do whatever Brian asked me to.
That night, huddled inside our portable home that we set up at the Brantley Lake "primitive site," Kristen and I laughed until our faces hurt. Thank God I found a friend who was as amused as I was when it came to topics like park employee facial assaults and parental footwear.
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