Chapter Five

The following is chapter five from the as-of-now unpublished novel Chasing Sunsets by Matthew Osgood

V.

“Takes away the coffee flavor”

“When we enter a new situation in life and are confronted by a new person, we bring with us the prejudices of the past and our previous experiences of people. These prejudices we project upon the new person. Indeed, getting to know a person is largely a matter of withdrawing projections; of dispelling the smoke screen of what we imagine he is like and replacing it with the reality of what he is actually like.” – Anthony Storr

I felt a combination of being a stranger and lonely for the first time on the trip. Driving these roads was isolating; I had never climbed these hills, may never climb them ever again, I thought, and I wanted to stop and marvel at the landscape. More so, I wanted to share these views with someone. Pictures taken from that trip do not do justice to the experience mainly because the shots were taken while driving and through a windshield. Looking back now, I wondered why I was in so much of a rush that I didn’t pull along the side of the road to take more pictures. I’d like to say that it’s because I was a lonesome traveler, but when I was joined later on the trip, the camera still went unused for the most part. I wanted to create a scrapbook of the places I would see, but we all have these grandiose ideas that go by the wayside for a variety of reasons.

Atop the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, looking south through the clouds hovering over majestic colored mountains, the sun setting opposite over the horizon is where I came up with the phrase, “The places I’ve met and the people I’ve experienced.” There were cars of strangers gazing out over the vista, cars with plates from Oklahoma, Kentucky, and Massachusetts all taking in the same experience. I decided no longer to go places as a stranger, not pretending to be a local, but trying to experience what the locals do. I would not just rush to touristy sites, gathering in all I can read in brochures, but I would try to become one with the land, ask questions of natives. I wanted to try my best to meet these places, to know what they are about.

The best way to look at a situation sometimes can be from a complete outsiders view. Without an affixed opinion, the questions asked and the first impressions are a little more genuine. To come into a scenario where you believe you understand all that there is to be understood, you tend to miss out on important facets of what is going on around you. I tried to approach my trip like this. The desire for learning about the places I visited and the people I saw was not artificial. If my host wanted to show me the sea, the city, the mountains, or the bars, I felt glad to go.

It was strange being part of a situation beyond my control. Looking at all these people who resided in these parts, knew these streets, knew these people, it’s fascinating how little I knew. There are the roads that people travel every day and know so well, and here I am, a wanderer struggling my way through roads and cities of the country, somehow navigating strange streets to find familiarity. I enjoyed when people came from different areas of the country to visit with me because I could show them the sights and sounds from my hometown. Here I was now at the mercy of others, living as an outsider trying to fit in.

Likewise, with people, I’ve found you need to experience them. Meeting someone consists solely of an introduction, small talk, maybe finding a common interest or two. The best way to experience someone is to ask questions, listen to the tone of their voice when they talk, and listen to how they say it. Look into their eyes and see their sincerity or insecurities. Pay attention to how they laugh and what they eat. Let them take you to a local restaurant, especially when traveling. There are Applebee’s and TGI Fridays on every corner in America. A local pub or restaurant elicits an image of who someone really is, an in-depth look at who the person surrounds themselves with, and where, and how they conduct themselves.

The trip to Kentucky was to see a friend Ashlee I had met in Florida. On Spring Break actually. Amazingly, during the trip to Daytona Beach, Florida during my senior year, we had only just hung out one night. I had approached her at a bar and hit it off immediately. We had some drinks, did some dancing, then exchanged numbers. After that, however, we didn’t talk for the rest of the trip. Upon returning home to school, I deleted her number from my cell phone and went on with my life. Returning from class one day approaching graduation in May, I had a voicemail on my phone from Ashlee, in her southern twang asking if I remembered who she was, that she had had a great time hanging out with me and to give her a call sometime. I actually distinctly remember blowing it off, citing that I would never see her again, why call her. I showed a roommate the voicemail, probably just to let him hear the cute accent she had. He implored me to call her. He knew the girl I was referring to, and because she was cute, seemed genuine, and possessed the sexiest accent we’ve ever heard, I called her back.

It turned out we had a tremendous amount of things in common despite our geography. A southern Baptist, she was a junior in college, and the stereotypical Southern belle: 5’0 tall, no more than 100 pounds, strikingly bright blonde hair, blue eyes and a vulnerable disposition. She was amazingly gorgeous and polite. She was extremely genuine on the phone.

We spoke on and off throughout the remainder of the school year, but lost contact as the summer began. I still hadn’t decided that I was going to embark across the country, so I figured her a passing acquaintance. It was fun while it lasted.

After I made the decision to move to San Diego, I began looking into places that I could stop along the way for visits. I knew that Springfield was definitely going to happen because I still had friends there, or friends that would be willing to travel and send me off. Visiting Elisha in New Jersey was also a given because I knew the drive from western Massachusetts to New Jersey had the distinct possibility of creating some traffic problems for me. The city driving would be terrible if that happened, and would take too much out of me. I had also already decided to stop in Chicago to visit my friends Eric and Marisa. They would then drive with me west. I toyed with St. Louis for a little while, but crossed it off the list. Even the decision for Wilmington came just two or three weeks before the trip even began.

Whose idea it was to go through Kentucky, I don’t know, but it definitely wasn’t mine. I suspect it was one of my friends, who, and I agreed, had intentions that bordered on me being a scumbag. I was, surprisingly, as a single 22-year old, very okay with that. So I called, she agreed, and I was headed to Williamsburg, Kentucky.

As the mountains evened out, my anxiety rose. I hardly knew this girl despite our long telephone conversations and drunk dancing on some Daytona Beach dance floor. However, I was committed to going. Alongside the highway I could see a giant cross signaling my entrance into the Bible Belt, but chuckled when directly below the cross was a XXX Porn Superstore.

The town of Williamsburg was everything I imagined a Kentucky town to be. It had a very intimate feel, a small main street snuggled between the only signs of civilization, a small Baptist college and a McDonald’s. Ashlee and I reunited then I followed her to her one bedroom apartment atop the foothills. She was everything I remembered her to be, except she was a lot prettier than I had envisioned. I just hoped that my appearance had the same effect on her. I called a friend to tell him about the goldmine I had just discovered as I followed her home. There was no absence or awkwardness of conversation during those crucial first moments. In typical southern fashion, it was a necessity that I meet her grandmother and aunts before they consented I stay the night. I trusted that I’d be sleeping somewhere else should I make a bad first impression. We spent the night meeting her family, where I exaggerated the Boston accent and charm. Later that night we laughed over drinks at dinner, making plans to make our way to the Fried Chicken Festival the next day. Only in Kentucky.

The World’s Largest Skillet was a disappointment, but we had fun roaming the streets at the festival. She ran into many friends, and, ignorantly, I felt like the smartest person in town because I was the only one without an accent. Or, more factually, the only person with an accent. On the guys, I thought, the accent makes them sound outrageously dumb. On the women, however, vulnerably attractive. The two of us became surprisingly attracted to one another despite our legitimately short time being acquainted. Somehow, and I believe she feels the same way still, the two of us worked. We were complete strangers, and almost complete opposites. We were from different worlds, held different beliefs, and were headed in different directions yet neither of us wanted this short, three-day visit to end. Back on the Smokey Mountains, we took photos of the two of us, figuratively and literally in the clouds on top of the world. Ashlee and I held hands, the conversation never stopped, and we spent all three nights in the same bed.

We kissed goodbye and the finality lurked ominously. We’d probably never be in the same place again. She had found a notebook in which I was writing, and scribbled in a hidden back page instructions to “never forget those who can’t join” me. I found the note only after I arrived in California. Ironically, leaving Ashlee in Kentucky wasn’t as hard as I would have imagined in the previous days. With every mile west I felt like I was cleansing my soul from a previous life and starting new, like erasing a full chalkboard piece by piece until there is nothing but blank space remaining. I would cherish the memories we made, but not dwell on the misfortune of the prospect of never seeing one another again.

As a matter of fact, we did keep in close contact in the months following the trip to Kentucky. We spoke on the phone a number of times a week and arranged a trip for another visit which actually happened. One drunken night, we had talked, and apparently I decided it would be a good idea to book a flight when drunk. Upon my arrival, we were very happy to see one another. However, the next day, she received word that her grandfather had passed away and she needed to leave for Florida that day. She dropped me off at a hotel near the airport, where I stayed alone. I flew back to California the next morning on my dime. After about a week of unreturned phone calls, I heard back from Ashlee. She had driven down to Florida to her grandfathers’ funeral, whereupon she met up with an old ex-boyfriend. They wed on a nice ceremony by the beach at the end of that week. I never talked to Ashlee again.

The stomach rumblings started about four hours into my drive away from my initial trip to Kentucky. Not a breakfast person by nature, I can survive on coffee, cigarettes, and desire to get to a certain destination. As the scenery driving north changed from the rolling Appalachians to the plain lands of Indiana, I could see for miles. Although I still traveled well above the speed limit, life seemed to slow down just a bit as, through the landscape, I could stare into the lives of farmers from generations passed, envying them for roaming these same farms, not knowing a thing about the fast life we’re all so accustomed to living.

I deciphered a bit in my head where I was, how much longer I had to travel until I reached Chicago. Maybe now would be a good time for a lunch break and regrouping. I was about halfway to Chicago, and just a few hours from finally having some companionship on the trip. Staying a few days with some friends would be good for my psyche. They would then join me for the second half of my trek.

Doubling my need to fill my stomach, I also was looking to fill my gas tank and empty my personal tank. The next exit in Crawfordsville, about 20 miles north of Indianapolis, offered both food and gas, so I pulled off the road and into the parking lot of a small diner.

Upon entering, I could see that the place wasn’t exactly a hub for healthy eating, but I sat down anyway. The place reeked of stale coffee and overnighters. Actually, my initial reaction was to turn out the door and look down the road for any sign of a chain restaurant. My conflict was interrupted by the blonde tending the mock-50’s café style bar.

“Just you, sweetie?” she inquired from her post, stroking just one menu.

I nodded wearily. She smiled, and I forced one myself and offered to take a seat at the bar. After taking care of a bill for a young couple, she came over and handed me a menu saturated in grease, ripped at the edges on the one page selection sheet, one side with the choices, the other with a brief family history behind the place, which I read was erected and established in 1957 by local farmers looking to raise a few extra bucks after a flood wiped out their crops earlier that summer. It was still town owned to this day.

“I’m actually ready to order,” I told her. “Just some white toast, some scrabbled eggs, and some sausage. And a coffee please.”

As she filled my cup, she offered sugar and cream, and cringed while I declined both options. “Takes away the coffee flavor,” I smiled.

“And makes your breath smell wonderful,” she winked. She had a charm about her I couldn’t place. The accent made her appeal raise a couple notches, as she leaned about three feet away, looking over her tip money. She smiled a lot, I thought, for someone stuck in a place where another house couldn’t be seen for a few miles. She turned to me, and positioned her elbows in my direction on the counter, palms to her chin, and we chatted seamlessly in between the few customers coming and going.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” She asked, as the cook placed my order on the window connecting the kitchen from the bar.

I laughed, and told her I wasn’t. I told her that I had just graduated college, and I was driving across the country for no reason whatsoever, just to “see what I can.”

“You’d be amazed (making the word three syllables) that I could probably tell you the names of all the regulars,” she laughed. She was probably about 20, pretty, too, with pigtails accentuated with tiny blue ribbons at the end. I was impressed, and charmed when she lit a match to counter my increasing propensity for a smoke with my coffee.

“Oh, I’m Jenny,” she said rolling her eyes, mocking. “And I’ll be your server today.”

Her nametag said “Alice” but she mentioned that it was her mother’s name. She had forgotten her name tag this morning.

“I was trying to refrain from the Brady Bunch jokes,” I said, quickly realizing the corniness of my joke, and my eagerness to keep the conversation going.

“I’ve been here since 6am and I’ve heard that twice, and of course people have made the ‘wow, Alice, you look a lot younger today’ jokes too,” she countered without a beat, secretly stealing a drag from my cigarette, since the last of the customers had walked out.

I told her where I was coming from, and that for a while there, I thought I was lost. I had stopped seeing signs for Chicago about an hour ago. “I was getting worried,” I said. “and on top of that I was hungry.”

“Sometimes being lost can be a blessing.” It seemed like she was flirting. “It helps you make sense of why you’re going exactly where you are.

“Sorry, I’m taking a philosophy class at the junior college around here,” she added quickly, sensing my raised eyebrows at her sudden disposition of psychologist.

The cook leaned over the open hole in the wall with my eggs and sausage, which my new friend handed to me. I laughed because there is nothing funnier, in an immature way, than making fun of someone for ordering sausages because of their phallic appearance. Today, however, I had no one but myself to make fun of my order.

She disappeared for a few minutes and I ate alone, contemplating how this casual experience with someone would agree with my theory that these solemn encounters are what life is made of: meeting people you will never see again in places you may never return to. There are so many different people with their own interesting stories and backgrounds, who enjoy life just as much as anyone else, regardless of where they live or what they do. I knew Jenny and I would never meet or talk ever again, but in our time as “single-serving” friends, I hoped that she would at least smile at the end of the day, as I would, at good company early that Indiana afternoon.

She came pouncing through the kitchen door.

“It’s on the house,” she confidently whispered as I started to pull my wallet out of my pocket. I tried to argue, but she was pretty adamant about not letting me pay the $4.62 I owed.

“You’re a stranger; you’ll never be back here. Besides, your eggs were watery anyway,” she sincerely smiled. “Please, good luck with everything.”

As I reached into my pocket for tip money, I told her that I was a writer, and that perhaps should she look for her name in the acknowledgement section in my first book. “You know, for that ‘lost’ quote that I might steal one day.”

I casually put a $10 bill on the table out of her sight then started for the door.

“Hey,” she sounded. “Don’t think about the tip before you even look at the menu.”

“Good advice,” I said, turning back to her, understanding the analogy.

“Philosophy,” she shrugged.