grown up stuff

Oxford was fine. I had a different idea of what it would be, I think, but this is also true of most things in my life. The motel was a little shady and in the morning a man with a shopping cart in the parking lot asked me if I had a good night's sleep. Later I learned he was the cleaning man. Okay.

Oxford has a nice independent bookshop, and I bought there the new Mary Robison book. I asked/told the cashier, "She taught here, didn't she?" though I knew the answer. It was my attempt at small talk. She seemed to see through it, and she did not help me out. Being in a car is a bit isolating. When I told Wylie I was worried about getting lonely in the car, he said something about travellers attracting other travellers. I don't know; it sounded good at the time. But as I am already 1.5 weeks into my trip, I'll tell you, I think it's a little different. I have noticed that Wylie is one of those people that strangers like to start conversations with. I know this from when we would go to the grocery store late at night and crazy people would talk to him about, whatever, Hotwheels or ice cream. They never talk to me. Which is fine, about 98% of the time.

Then when I talk to the cashier at the bookstore she looks over me, not at me, like over my shoulder, like she was looking for a hidden camera, like maybe she was on a prank tv show, or maybe like she was looking for someone like Wylie to talk to. Well, a drunk Scotsman once told me I had a pleasing face, and I believe that. (For Rebecca: "My friends say I have intriguing eyes").

And so, the cleaning man with the shopping cart says hello, but those are niceties. Tonight I hope to stay at a hostel in Santa Fe, so I will make a concerted effort to talk to people in a natural fashion.

I don't remember what I was thinking when I set off, or what I had in mind. I got on some road that started big and then became small. It was an extraordinarily windy day and when I filled up for gas I imagined I looked cool and windswept, but I probably did not.

I stopped at Clarksdale, Mississippi, to get a picture of the crossroads.



The crossroads is where a young man sold his soul to the devil for the ability to shred guitar. The restaurant recommended to me by hipster guidebook was closed; a nearby place was also closed but they said they could give me food. It went like this.

I walked into the restaurant and everyone looked at me. There are some places where you will always stand out, either because it's a small town, or because you are wearing a miniskirt in Mississippi, or because you walked into a restaurant at 2:30 pm when everyone knows that's no time for a meal. "Are you still serving food? Or is there a place around here that is?" I asked. I tried to be casual, not smarmy or touristy or cutesy, but I probably was all three. "Grill's closed," a skinny man in a hunting hat said. "But he can fix you up something. Can't you?" This he directed to a tall black man who looked really scared to see me. I repeated myself and added, "I've been driving all day and I'm starving."

Hunting hat said, "We can't have anyone starving." Scared man said he could get me something and he disappeared into the kitchen. I was to follow. Is this against some sort of code? In the fridge room he shows me a shelf. I have never been in the fridge room, but isn't this where they murder people? No bodies, just tubs of things on the shelf. "Where are you from?" I said, "I'm from Baltimore." "Oh, okay. I'm Terrell." "I'm Liz." "Hi Liz, this is chicken salad, and this is egg olive, or, something else, what do you think?" I got a drink from the fountain while he made my chicken something. This time, unsweetened plus fruit punch. I was proud of myself. But it was actually grosser than sweet tea, if you can imagine.

While I waited another man said to Hunting Hat, "So I heard you were on tv last night?" He laughed and nodded. And did not elaborate. I paid and left such a big tip that a woman working there yelled after me that I forgot my change. Outside another man said goodbye. He asked if there was anything else I needed help with. "No, just passing through. Wanted to see the crossroads." "That ain't the real crossroads!" "What?" "The real crossroads is by old 49. Did you go under the train on the bridge?" "Yeah." "It's around there." "What does it look like?" "Oh nothing. It's just grown-up stuff now."

Whatever that means. I thought about it for the next 40 minutes.

The chicken salad had egg in it. And they gave me pickle slices which delighted me to no end. So happy that pickles still exist in the south.

For good measure, here's a possible contender for Most Frightening Thing on the Road:



It wouldn't have been so scary if it hadn't been creeping along at 5 mph and making a sound like a trash compactor filled with wolves.