Pages Torn From a Travel Journal

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ISBN: 1-62105-093-9

Pages Torn from a Travel Jounral copyright 2010, 2013 by Edward Lee

Cover art copyright © 2013 Glenn Chadbourne

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Printed in the USA.

[
The following handwritten manuscript was found in the trash bin on Burlington Superior Bus Lines Coach No. 610 by Operator A. Linden, and promptly turned into the Pulaski County Sheriff’s Office; investigation is pending. The author appears to be some manner of professional writer, yet identifies himself herein only as “Howard.”
]

1 May, 19—

c. 6 p.m.

Somewhere in southeastern Virginia (?)

May Day now, & I feel a cliched & foreboding “prickling of my thumbs,” to quote Shakespeare. The irony strikes me with potency–yes, the 1
^st
of May, the Beltane, & the immemorial eve of which so often reflects in my tales: the Druidic and pre-Druidic night of otherworldly phantasmata, the worship of fertility goddesses & celebration of winter’s death & the coming spring via orgiastic revel, a time of joyous, lust-ripe fecundity . . .

I’d selected this newer northern-based bus line simply for reduced rates in spite of the more circuitous routes necessitating an extra travel-day. But even with the unexpected $ from Wright, I now fear the delay will prevent my continuing on to New Orleans & its antique granite architecture; its ponderous mausolea & risen burying grounds; its ghost-shrouded swamps; its primal Santerian obsequies; &–most significant–its Vodou-soused atmosphere. Hence, in all probability, my connecting train in Chattanooga would be missed, forcing me to wing a make-shift itinerary. Perhaps next year financial happenstance will license a proper New Orleans tour.

It was through hilly woodland that our course took us since the rail junction in D.C. this morning. The deeper our penetrations, the more degraded the road-paving seemed; but certainly this less-direct route provided the reversal of metropolitan scenery that I preferred. These Virginian hills, however, loomed like immense sentient entities whose various orifi seemed to swallow our coach & plunge us into overgrown darkness. Indeed, the woodland of the U.S. south brings an ambience all its own, differing much from that of my beloved New England. Greens were deeper, the foliage more diverse yet abnormal from overgrowth, & the wooded byways more forebodingly
dark.
Signs of poverty lurked everywhere, tucked away behind flanks of centuried trees & vine-encumbered groves: plank-board houses half-collapsed yet still occupied, pre-‘20s motor-vehicles & farm equipment reduced to rusting hulks, primitive shacks & lean-to’s populated by families in rotting clothing & malnourished bodies. Twice we spotted Negro corpses hanging from stout limbs, proof that the lynching scourges were ended only by the mouths of prevaricating authorities. Before a sheet-metal shed pocked by cut-out holes for windows, a wax-pallid & filthy-haired adolescent stood cringingly pregnant in mere sackcloth. She appeared to be sucking the innards from the slit belly of a squirrel, her mouth encrimsoned & face flinty. Sunken eyes like those of an octogenarian followed the bus as we passed. I know it was but my imagination, yet those eyes seemed locked on my own. On similar trips I’d seen New England’s version of the same despair many times,
nothing
so devastating as this. Whereas New England’s woods may well have been ghost-haunted, these of the south stood haunted by the living.

Just as poverty’s scars & the over-dense forests grew too oppressive, the bus rumbled out onto a road of better & newer repair, possibly a result of the recent Federal Highway Initiative where workers were paid $1 per day to improve interstate commerce by building more effective roadways. But I sighed as my gaze showed me a sign: RTE. 6, the imperfect number. The vibrations of my karma were already atwitch, even with the refreshing new scenery beyond my window: fields & meadows constellated by all manner of colourful flora. It was at this point, then, there came a suspicious rattling from the rear of the coach where I can only suppose the engine compartment is located. & after that, our dutiful bus driver–did I mention in a previous entry that his eyes seemed watery & unhealthily over-protuberant; while his head appeared more narrow than it should? There was also a peculiarly thick
layering
about the neck that was impossible not to notice. I’ll need to use his likeness in an upcoming tale . . .

At any rate, it was this same less-than-gainly driver who made an announcement to the passengers. “Wal haow yew like thet?” rang his dark New England accent. “Engine problems, folks. Saounds like the manifold.” (I hadn’t a clue as to what a manifold—as a noun–could be. Note: look up.) There were 11 other passengers, & we all moaned in audible unison; yet, wouldn’t I know it? 11 plus myself plus the seemingly viced-headed driver equaled 13, the # of ill-omen.

In the name of Nyarlathotep! Though I’m not typically superstitious—a bombast of illogic—the 13 coupled with the 6 & my thumbs’ unpleasant tingling did not bode well in my psyche.

But at least better fortune would come in concert w/ the gruelling & likely trip-destroying news. “Thar’s a Gawd off-tuh all, ee-yuh!” the driver muttered an exclamation, & was able to wheel the bunglesome coach into a filling station/garage; indeed, when the vehicle stopped, a loud
bang!
erupted from the muffler & the engine sputtered & died.

The garage was a plank-board hovel called, simply, NATE’S GAS & REPAIRS, & boasted a price of 5 cents per gallon for petrol which I believe was 2 cents lower than my northern homestead. My small valise in hand, I stepped out into ambrosial heat after the others debarked (my beloved Providence still possessed an evil chill when I left just days ago, yet even this modest distance more southerly brought a lovely swelter to the air.) The long narrow ribbon of asphalt we’d arrived on seemed to bisect a great field gone wild and heavy, ascending woodland. While the driver conversed w/a grease-smudged mechanic, I & the others straggled into the establishment’s poor facsimile for an office; but before entering myself I saw that in either direction, rayed by intense sunlight, nary another building could be seen. I would’ve liked to know the region’s name, yet I hadn’t a guess.

Distancing myself from the others (as I am wont to do more times than not) I analyzed my map & deduced that the mechanical mishap had stranded us somewhere in proximity to towns I’d barely heard of, in particular Pulaski & the dubiously named Christiansburg. Very close we must be to the West Virginia as well as the Kentucky border–& a cryptic region notoriously steeped in “white trash” cliches of inbredism & genetically inherited idiocy, for these same regions were, centuries ago, repositories for England’s expelled criminal element. It seems unfair to so negatively brand a region for societal misadventure when in fact the history of
all
regions suffer from it. Grumbling sundry misfortunes, my fellow passengers sat sweat-badged while I remained in leisurely comfort. They were mostly plebeians, I’m sorry to say, & only one man other than myself had retained the dignity to wear a light suit. A pregnant woman, more than likely unwed, sat holding her gravid belly like a bushel basket. She wore Flapperish black bangs, & appeared quite lithe & shapely save, of course, for the grievously swollen stomach; while high & no doubt milk-laden breasts made a visual curio of her. When she asked the time, a surprising cockney accent revealed her British heritage. A gentlewoman she was not, however: her remarkable breasts jutted obviously un-brassiered w/in the threadbare cotton sundress–& when she listlessly parted her legs–gads!!!–the fact that she wore no under-linens disclosed itself. Via her appearance, I believe she was what vulgarians would call a “sauce-box.” Several scruffy roughs in their 20’s seemed to know each other; their lean, weaselish faces made me think of fugitives; or was that just my naturalistic cynicism bubbling through? The rest were so un-unique in appearance & personality there is no need to distinguish them via words.

Momentarily, the driver came inside w/the proprietor. Nate, the garage’s namesake, proved as much by the patch on his begrimed shirt: a short, wiry type, chisel-chinned, w/biceps like apples. His physical form, facial features, & attire very much bespoke his station in life: a “red-neck” mechanic.

“Ain’t the best news for yawl,” spake Nate, “and ain’t the worst. Yer bus blew the intake manner-fold, and I’se can fix it in a jiff.”

“This would be the
good
news, then?” I prompted.

“Yeee-ip. Bad news’s that I cain’t
get
the blammed gasket till tomorrow mornin’. They’ll be drivin’ one over from Pulaski.”

Another chorus of moans, then someone remarked of the obvious, “So we’re stranded here till it’s fixed.”

“Yeee-ip,” replied Nate, hands on hips. The pose displayed the darkened armpits of his work-tunic. “So’s yawl can decide fer yerselfs. Ya can spend the night on the bus or”–he shot a thumb in the fashion of a hitchhiker toward road behind him–“hoof it ‘bout a mile to Luntville’n flop at the motel. Gilman House, it’s called.”

Immediately I was enthralled by the divergency of the man’s accent. Accents, in fact, has always baited some queer interest in me, with regard to how they mirrored the legacy of the speaker–a societal parallelism; the cruder the accent, i.e., the cruder the man, & the greater the deficit of civility. Our driver, for instance (a Vermonter) carried on his tongue the dialect of a New England jerkwater, a style of speech I was all too familiar with &, I hope, had accurately demonstrated in several tales (“Picture,” “Sleep,” to name a few). Yet Nate the wiry mechanic cracked in something altogether more unique, what I think of as the accent of the unrefined, poorly educated, low-economic-status Caucasian southerner. All regions had their cultural tongues, & here was a new one on me.