Life at 8 mph

by Peter Bowling Anderson

  One Saturday that spring semester, I took Bryan to school for a special conference, and while running errands I stopped by Richard’s house to see what he was doing. The kids were at friends’ houses, and he and Della had just popped in the movie Hachi and invited me to join them. So I did. Della deep-fried some French fries in peanut oil, easily the best I ever had. I asked her why she hadn’t cooked these before, and she said, “Because we’d all weigh twenty pounds more.”

  It felt different being in Richard’s home without punching the time clock, like I was cheating. I sat back on the couch halfway expecting him to start dictating an email. Yet he just settled in for the movie, content to have me along for the ride, and it was one emotional rollercoaster.

  Hachi starred Richard Gere, Joan Allen, and a dog, which wasn’t a shocker. Richard loved any movie or TV show with dogs. They were almost prerequisites. Except for Walker, Texas Ranger, his favorite show, but that had Chuck Norris, who was equal to a kennel of highly trained service dogs plus a year’s supply of treats. He was probably half-canine.

  Gere’s character, Professor Wilson, found an Akita puppy at the train station, took him home, and fell in love with the little guy. Ken, a Japanese professor friend, translated a symbol on the puppy’s collar for the number eight—“Hachi” in Japanese—that signified good fortune, so Wilson chose that for his name. The pup wouldn’t play traditional games like fetch or chase, but he did enjoy following Wilson to the train station each morning to see him off and then greeting him at the station when he returned from college. One day, Wilson died during a lecture and, obviously, didn’t come home, much to the confusion and disappointment of Hachi, who continued waiting until Wilson’s son-in-law collected him. Unsatisfied with this result, Hachi returned to the train station each day to wait for his beloved owner.

  Finally, Wilson’s wife, Cate, sold their house and moved away, giving Hachi to her daughter. Again, this didn’t work for Hachi, who escaped and found his way back to the train station where he’d last seen Wilson. He slept in a rail yard at night, while waiting at the station all day. Friends of Wilson’s who worked at the station remembered Hachi and fed him and tried to watch out for him the best they could. An article was written about Hachi in the local paper. Ken read the article and visited Hachi. Cate returned home to visit her husband’s grave on the tenth anniversary of his death and ran into Ken, who told her about Hachi. She went to the train station and was stunned to find an old Hachi still staring at the doors waiting patiently for his owner to walk out. Crying and distraught, she sat next to Hachi until the next train arrived.

  After she left, Hachi continued waiting, day after day, until he finally died in the snow, cold and alone.

  Della looked at Richard, who was sobbing his eyes out, and then she turned to me and joked, “Is he going to make it?” But I was falling apart, too. “Are you?”

  I shook my head and whimpered, “Thanks for the fun movie. I feel so much better.”

  Hanging out at Richard’s was more dangerous than I realized.

  It took us a few minutes to pull ourselves together. Between sniffles and sponging tears, Richard graciously offered me the hand towel hooked to his lanyard (alongside his cellphone) that he coughed into all day, yet I opted for a quick trip to the bathroom. It was especially tough for Richard with Troy being gone and no replacement found. He loved his pooches. I thought it was a sweet movie about unconditional loyalty and love, but it needed to come with a warning that an entire box of Kleenex would be used during viewing.

  A few weekends later, we tried animals in a different, happier setting: the zoo. Of course, when I told Leslie where I was headed, she launched into a tirade about the cruelty of dragging animals out of their natural habitats to cage them for entertainment. Just when I thought it was safe to return to the animal kingdom, more depression awaited.

  I accompanied Richard, Della, and their kids to the Fort Worth Zoo, secretly looking forward to seeing hippos, elephants, tigers, gorillas, and lions. I couldn’t afford to travel on safari to Africa, and just once I wanted to see them in person. I’d been to the zoo when I was a little kid, but I couldn’t recall anything other than my dad arguing with the ticket guy at the window (I later learned it was over a group discount no longer offered).

  Richard’s favorite animal was the lion, followed closely by the elephant. He liked the fact that humans could train them by establishing a bond. The connection between man and animal was the key aspect for him. It went back to his many years handling service dogs. He was interested in the other animals, taking time to stop and observe their routines and movements and to read each placard. He liked the penguins a lot, as did we all. Who didn’t love penguins? Yet when we reached the lions, Richard became almost entranced, staring at the two powerful beasts perched on their rocks overlooking the zoo like they, indeed, were in charge of the jungle, wherever relocated. Della and I sensed Richard wanted his space, so we drifted a ways off, while the kids took selfies and the passersby chatted, munched popcorn, or snapped their own keepsakes.

  It looked like Richard was trying to hypnotize the lions. He wouldn’t take his eyes off them. It reminded me of when he read a textbook as Computer Lady called out the highlighted words on the screen. I whispered to Della, “What’s he doing?”

  “Training them,” she said quietly.

  I quipped, “Doesn’t he need a whip and a chair?”

  I was being half-serious, yet she merely rolled her eyes and said, “Ha ha.” From the look on my perplexed face, she could tell I required further clarification, so she explained, “In his mind. He likes to watch them and train them in his mind. Same with elephants. It’s why he likes the circus so much. He goes in the back to meet the trainers, learn all he can.”

  “But…but how does he train them from this side of the fence thirty feet away? Telepathy?”

  “You played sports, right?” she said, sounding much like my mom. “What was the first thing your coach did?”

  “Called me the wrong name.”

  She giggled and said, “Before that. Did he try to get everyone’s attention so you and your teammates focused on him?”

  I nodded.

  “There you go. The first step in connecting with an animal, as I understand it, is to capture its attention. Get it to focus on you.”

  “Preferably without waving meat,” I suggested.

  “Definitely. If Richard can feel like he’s captured the lions’ attention just through eye contact, he’ll be happy. He’ll feel like he made a connection.”

  I watched Richard for a few moments, as Emilee asked her mom to take a picture of Evelyn and her with one of the lions in the background. Michael didn’t get to be in the photo, but little brothers rarely did. Besides, he seemed content eating the nachos left over from lunch. I studied both lions for any movement toward Richard. Right now, they were both looking away from him, more in the direction of Michael’s nachos, which was understandable. Richard kept staring at them, though the lions didn’t flinch. But as Della wrapped up the photo session with her girls, one of the lions turned slightly toward Richard, who was glaring so intently he looked like he was about to fire laser beams out of his eyes. The lion turned a little more, yet still not quite at Richard. I almost screamed, Keep going!

  Della rejoined me, and we watched in silence for almost a minute with no more progress. It seemed that was as far as the lion deigned to shift his gaze. The kids were growing antsy to move on. Della corralled them, while I went to retrieve Richard.

  But on my way over, it happened. The king of the jungle turned his head so he was looking straight at Richard, squarely into his eyes, and I froze. For the next twenty or thirty seconds, Richard and the lion refused to take their eyes off each other, introducing themselves the only way they could. I wanted to tell the crowd to be quiet, something important was happening over here, yet it didn’t seem to bother the two of them. Richard
and his lion were locked on each other like they were physically incapable of snapping the spell.

  Finally, a family nearby began laughing loudly, and the lion looked away. Richard turned his chair and approached me. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, but I couldn’t help myself and I asked him, “Did you make contact?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he answered, before catching up to Della and the girls. I looked back at the lion, yet he’d put his head down, presumably for a nap. He seemed tired from his connection with Richard. I completely understood. This emotional bonding stuff was hard work.

  R

  My first visit to Memphis had gone as well as I could’ve hoped, aside from my nervous blunders. I met Leslie’s family at El Chico, their favorite restaurant. Before we walked into the restaurant, Leslie introduced me to her mom in the parking lot. The first thing I (and most people) noticed was her white hair, though she was only in her mid-fifties. The second thing I noted was where Leslie got her thoughtfulness and kindness. Her mom greeted me like we were old friends, instantly knocking some of the weight off my shoulders.

  Leslie’s family had been coming to El Chico for over thirty years since her parents had dated. It was the only one in town. They told lots of hilarious tales of a three-year-old Leslie shocking the manager by asking for a bowl of jalapeños, a very young family friend hiding under the table because she was scared of the waiters singing “Happy Birthday” to her, Leslie’s mom terrified the kids would all get lice from wearing the same sombrero. I was in stitches.

  I took mental notes, trying to learn all I could about Leslie’s family (more cramming for my imaginary final exam). Her brother, Joey, reminded me of my oldest brother, Andy, in that he was naturally talented and seemed to know something about everything. He was also a great storyteller. Leslie’s sister, Emily, was down to earth and extremely easy to talk to, which helped me tremendously. I needed slow-pitch softballs, not fastballs, in conversations. Her youngest sister, Elisabeth, was a budding singer and just as friendly and considerate as Leslie and her mom. Joey and his wife, Dorothy, had an adorable baby girl, Julia. Dorothy was pleasant and quiet, which may have been the greatest aid to me because I wasn’t the only one at the table not saying much. They were all adept at speak-screaming over one another, undoubtedly from years of experience. In contrast, my family chose to avoid talking to each other to spare the effort.

  Leslie’s dad was the ringleader and by far the loudest. He was a skilled glazer who had installed much of the glass in the downtown buildings. He was smart, opinionated, curious, slightly deaf, and harmless. For a Vietnam veteran who built their new house out in Brighton (forty-five minutes from midtown) by himself over sixteen years of weekends, he was as tender and encouraging as they came. His thick, rough, tanned hands looked like they could snap my left leg in half, yet he made me feel welcomed and included. He asked plenty of questions about my family, job, band, and even Bryan, whom Leslie had told them about. By the end of lunch, I felt comfortable around them all, especially Leslie’s mom. Per my personal motto, I’d hoped for the best and expected the worst. I was relieved to be wrong again.

  When it was time to leave, Leslie’s family revealed another distinctive practice totally opposite of my family’s traditional exit. When the meal was done at our house, we fled in different directions as fast as possible like a homicide had just taken place. But Leslie’s family liked to hug it out. I got a warm embrace from every member present, minus Joey, who opted for a handshake, for which I was grateful. I’d just received more hugs in a two-minute span than during my entire upbringing; one more might’ve sent me into seizures.

  We made lots of stops that weekend. Leslie took me downtown for a personal sightseeing tour, all the while pointing out various buildings her dad had helped build. He’d gotten around. We went to the grand Peabody Memphis Hotel and saw the famous Peabody Ducks that lived on the hotel rooftop and made daily strolls through the lobby. When we went to the roof, I remembered the scene from The Firm in which Tom Cruise threatened to hurl himself over the edge because of his wife’s concerns about his peculiar new coworkers. He should’ve listened.

  We visited Beale Street where I (along with probably a hundred thousand tourists before me) sang the line, “Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale” from Cohn’s song. Leslie playfully placed her left thumb and index finger (she was a leftie) to her forehead in the shape of an “L” to indicate I’d stooped to cheesy tourist stunts only losers dared. Immediately, I sang Beck’s, “I’m a loser, baby, so why don’t you kill me?” She just rolled her eyes and dragged me into A. Schwab’s before I could make a bigger scene.

  She took me on a tour of Gibson’s guitar factory, which I wished Bryan could’ve seen. Though he would’ve undoubtedly drawn way too much attention to our group by yelling “COOL!” every five feet. It was Christmas morning whenever he saw something new he liked.

  We rode on a trolley through downtown Memphis, toured Sun Studios, where I relived the scene from U2’s Rattle and Hum rockumentary when they recorded “Angel of Harlem,” wrote our names on the wall outside Graceland (no Elvis sightings), played a round of putt-putt (this became a tradition), and ate dinner at Leslie’s personal favorite, The Beauty Shop. Long ago, it was called Atkins Beauty and Barber Shop, where Priscilla Presley got her hair done. The original cone-shaped hair dryers were still in place, along with the avocado green salon sinks behind the bar. The delicious dessert menu was written on a huge mirror, and tables were made from the old salon seats. It was simultaneously vintage, hip, and fun, with scrumptious-looking dishes like Pan-roasted Barramundi, Maple-glazed Benton’s Bacon-wrapped Steak Frites, and Shrimp a la Plancha and Grilled Avocado. I could see why it was so popular.

  After we were seated, it was time to put all my training and research to use. This was a special place to Leslie, and I felt the significance. Yet I was prepared. One dinner before I left, Bryan’s dad had politely suggested I consider adjusting my grip on my utensils. Apparently, I clutched them like a caveman trying to kill my food before it wiggled away. He demonstrated the proper underhanded grip, which seemed to offer much less control yet was the more refined, socially accepted technique. He said, “Trust me: You don’t want to hold your fork like a baseball bat in front of Leslie.” I thanked him for the advice, clearly in need of as much sound counsel as I could get.

  I’d also recalled a tip my old youth pastor at our church in D.C. had tossed out one lunch. He was telling me about his courtship of his wife and how on their first dinner he devoured all of his food before she was even a third finished. After roughly forty seconds of silence, it dawned on him that he now had to carry the conversation for the rest of the meal. There was nothing else to do—he’d eaten his other options. He warned me, “When you go on a date, do not eat fast, or else you’ll become the main attraction.” Plus, it undoubtedly made the girl feel self-conscious to be the only one eating.

  When our salads were served, I held my fork just as Bryan’s dad had modeled and paced my comments so I wouldn’t run out of things to say. I longed for the days when uncomfortable silence turned safe, but my insecurities weren’t quite there yet.

  I knew this was the perfect time to drop one of the historical nuggets about Memphis I’d learned from my books. I wanted to pick something Leslie wouldn’t know, though she seemed pretty knowledgeable about the town in which she’d grown up. After a last-second mental coin toss, I went with the following: “Did you know that grocery shoppers used to give their lists to clerks who filled the orders? They weren’t allowed to pick products by themselves. They had to wait in long lines at the counter while the clerks tracked down their items. Customers didn’t even know the exact prices a lot of times and were overcharged. But when Clarence Saunders opened his first Piggly Wiggly here in Memphis, he let customers shop for themselves. They were free to walk wherever they wanted, with price tags above every product. The way we shop today started right her
e in Memphis.”

  I sat back to let Leslie absorb the power of the pearl I’d just unveiled. I doubted she’d visit her local market the same way again. I’d rocked her world—her silence was confirmation. It was a lot to take in. I gave her a moment to process. Then she coughed and took a drink of water, before apologizing, “Sorry, something went down wrong…Okay, all better. I know, isn’t that neat?! That store was on Jefferson Avenue. There’s a replica of it in the Pink Palace Museum near my house. I want to take you there.”

  So much for rocking her world.

  I should’ve tried one of my other historical nuggets, though she probably knew those, too. She was one sharp cookie, much smarter than I. I returned to chewing my food slowly.

  After dinner, we sat on a huge log by the Mississippi River with a stunning view of the brilliantly lit Hernando de Soto Bridge, named for the sixteenth-century Spanish explorer who scouted this portion of the Mississippi River, another fact I’d picked up from my reading. I said, “The Hernando de Soto Bridge sure is pretty,” with heartfelt nods for emphasis.

  Leslie chuckled, and replied, “You mean the New Bridge?”

  “It’s new?”

  She shrugged and said, “Newer than the Memphis & Arkansas Bridge. Nobody here calls it that. Maybe the M Bridge because it’s shaped like an M. But usually just the New Bridge.”

  “Oh. Interesting.” More nodding.

  “It’s like Memphis State,” she continued. “They changed its name back in ’94 to the University of Memphis, but locals like my daddy still call it Memphis State. That’s what he grew up calling it, so that’s its name.”

  “Huh. I didn’t know that.” No more nuggets from my book. I was in over my head.

  I looked at the water imagining Huck and Jim floating by on their raft down the Mighty Miss. It was gigantic. I would’ve thought twice before hopping on a makeshift raft to traverse this river. Of course, they hadn’t much choice. I thought about mentioning to Leslie that it was the fourth-longest river in the world, passing through or bordering ten states. But I was sure she’d learned that long ago. She’d probably helped write my Memphis history books.