Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America

by John Waters

  Before I can stick up for my published reading recommendations, she suddenly brakes for a car that swerves around some tire rubble on the highway, and a huge pile of cheap paperbacks stacked pack-rat style in the backseat collapses on top of me. I pick off Saddle Shoe Sex Kitten, Some Like It Hard, and Freakout on Sunset Strip, with the amazing politically incorrect subtitle Fags, Freaks and the Famous Turn the Street into a Hippy Hell.

  “They’re not for me,” she explains as she pulls off I-70 onto a rural road; “they’re for my book club readers.” Before I can protest that I can’t go off the interstate, she tells me, “Don’t worry, I’ll take you back to the highway.” We cut back into an even less traveled country road, turn the corner, and see a Tobacco Road–style hut constructed entirely out of paperback books missing their front covers. The owner has shellacked the books to make them semi-weatherproof, but the elements have not been kind—the volumes, soaked through many times from rain, are swollen, tattered, and can’t offer much in the way of protection. “Publishers don’t want cheap paperbacks returned when they don’t sell,” Bernice explains. “The newsstand managers are supposed to rip off the covers and turn those in and they get their refund. The retail outlets are expected to then just throw away the books, but I rescue them from this biblioclasm and redistribute the volumes to alternative readers at the lowest end of the used-book market. I know it’s hard to imagine, but a few very dedicated collectors only want books with torn-off covers. It’s these specialized readers I serve. I am not alone. Flea-market vendors, paper-recycling workers, relatives of deceased dirty-book collectors, we are united in a mission to do what libraries cannot: bring the customer the lowest of the low in literature.

  “Ah, there’s Cash,” she says as a skinny, grubby fortyish-year-old white guy with a potbelly and a Prince Valiant haircut comes out of his self-styled reading room. I quickly realize by “Cash” she means her customer’s name, not actual money. Her books are, of course, free. “Cash is a very specific customer,” she explains. “His books must be soft-core and pre-porn, with a missing cover done by a collectible artist. He then actually reads these smutty volumes, writes endless critiques of the writer’s style, which he never allows anyone else to read, and then uses the ‘read’ book as a building block for another room in his shantytown abode.”

  “Hi, Bernice,” shouts Cash in some sort of regional accent too obscure for me to identify. “Hello, sir,” she says with a literary grin, “this is my friend John.” Cash completely ignores me, so Bernice just goes into her routine. “I got some good ones for you today,” she promises as Cash’s eyes light up and he licks his lips in anticipation. “Here you go,” she teases, “She’ll Get Hers by John Plunkett.” “With a missing cover by Rafael de Soto,” Cash yells back with postmodern literary enthusiasm. “I remember that one, Cash,” Bernice reminisces like the specialist she is; “that was great pulp art but it’s gone now!” “Who wants to go to an art gallery?! I want to read!” yells Cash as he grabs the volume and hugs it to his chest in literary fetishism. “How about this one?” tempts Bernice, holding up a yellowing paperback with both the front and the back binding ripped off. “Remember the pulp jacket with the sexy lady on the couch clutching the pillow like her lover?” she quizzes. “Restless by Greg Hamilton,” Cash shouts back like he’s on a quiz show, “with cover art by Paul Rader. And I’m glad the cover is gone. I read these books, Bernice, I don’t look at them! I read every word until I understand perfectly what the author was saying just to me; the last reader these volumes will ever have.” Bernice hands him the damaged volume and he grabs it with a scary gratitude. “See you next Thursday, Cash,” Bernice promises, and with that, we’re back in the car and off to the next outsider reader.

  “I’m no judge of what people read as long as they read,” explains Bernice once we’re on the road. “Are all your books dirty ones?” I ask with great curatorial respect. “No,” she answers proudly, “I’ve got true crime, too. A lot of libraries won’t carry the really gruesome ones. Just like bookstores, they discriminate—putting the true crime sections way in the back of the store. Hidden. Near the gay section.” Before I can agree she gives me a sudden look of traumatic desperation that stops me in my tracks. “Believe me,” she whispers sadly as we suddenly pull into the driveway of a suburban ranch house, “I know about censorship.”

  Out comes Mrs. Adderly, a most unlikely matronly true crime reader still dressed in her housecoat. “Hi, Bernice. I’m glad you’re here. I got in a fight down at the library just yesterday. They take my taxes, why can’t I have a say in what books the library buys?” “Hi, I’m John,” I butt in. “I thought the library had to get you a book if you ask for it.” “Oh, they say they do,” Mrs. Adderly answers without missing a beat, “but they lie! I happen to be obsessed with ‘womb raiders.’ Are you familiar with that genre?” she asks me point-blank. “You mean women who tell their husbands they’re pregnant when they’re not and then follow real pregnant ones, kill them, cut out their babies and take them home claiming they’ve just given birth?” I reply. “That’s the ones,” acknowledges Bernice, impressed I’m so well-informed in this specialized field. “Well, I read Lullaby and Goodnight by D. T. Hughes,” Mrs. Adderly continues, “but there’s another one I want. Hush Little Baby, by Jim Carrier, where the ‘raider’ cuts out the baby with the mother’s car keys and the baby actually lives! Well, this literary snob of a librarian says to me when I ask if she has the book, ‘There’s no need to know about somebody that ugly.’” “Yes, there is!” I yell in outrage, completely agreeing with Mrs. Adderly’s anger. “The public needs to know,” I rant, “that when you’re pregnant, strangers are following your every step, ready to jump out and cut out your baby with your car keys! Womb raiders are everywhere.” “Exactly!” agrees Mrs. Adderly, thrilled to have someone else in her corner. Bernice gets a sly grin on her face and whips out a mint-condition bound galley of this very title and hands it over. “Oh, Bernice,” Mrs. Adderly gushes, “you know how to make a true crime buff happy. Thank you from the bottom of my black little heart.”

  We’re off. I’m impressed. Bernice turns on the radio and we hear that delightful little country song “Swingin’ Down the Lane” by Jerry Wallace and merrily sing along, harmonizing over the instrumental bridge between verses. I continue picking through the books on the floor by my feet and laugh at One Hole Town, a hilariously titled soft-core vintage gay stroke book. “You want that one?” she asks with generosity. “Sure,” I say, mentally adding this rare title to my collection of cheesy gay-sex paperbacks. “It would go right along with my ‘chicken’ volumes,” I tell her. “You mean titles with the word chicken in them?” she asks immediately, understanding my oddball bibliophile specialty. “Yes, I’ve got Uncle’s Little Chicken, Trickin’ the Chicken, Chicken for the Hardhat, even Chain Gang Chicken.” “I know them well,” she announces with bibliographical respect.

  “And you, Bernice,” I gently pry, “what kind of terrible books do you collect?” She freezes, suddenly protective of her most private scholarly taste, but then seems eager to have someone in whom she can confide. “The novelization of porn parody movies,” she admits with great pride. “It’s a small genre, but one that is growing in importance,” she explains with deep knowledge of her field. “I tried to introduce these specialized volumes to the general public when I was head librarian in my hometown of Eagle. But Colorado is such a backward state! Trouble started as soon as I displayed Splendor in the Ass and Homo Alone with the covers out instead of spine in. Busybody little prudes noticed and made a big deal out of it, but I stood strong against censorship. Porn parody titles need to be discovered and celebrated. I was vilified in both the local and the national press, but I didn’t care! I fought back! I passed out valuable, extremely rare copies of Clitty Clitty Bang Bang to any high school reader in the library who asked for it. Satire needs to be taught! These youngsters loved Clitty but I was fired! I called the Kids’ Right to Read and the National Coaliti
on Against Censorship organizations, but they wouldn’t help me. I became a scapegoat for the humor-impaired.”

  Before I can offer my unbridled support, she pulls her car over to the I-70W entrance ramp and we are buried in sliding paperback books. With great concern and kindness she asks gently, “Do you have the Twelve Inches series?” “Yes,” I murmur in excitement, trying to stack Bernice’s volumes back up in some kind of order. “I’ve got Twelve Inches, Twelve Inches with a Vengeance, Twelve Inches Around the World.” “But do you have Twelve Inches in Peril?” she demands with excitement, whipping the title out from inside her glove compartment and holding it up like the Holy Grail. “No!” I shout with rabid delight, quivering in reverse literary excitement. We look at each other in our love of disreputable books and she hands it over, completing my collection. “Thank you, Bernice,” I say in heartfelt appreciation, caressing this title like a sexual partner. “You must go now, John,” she says with sudden concern. “I can’t be exposed. My readers will continue to hide me. They know. They know I’m the best damn alternative librarian in the country.” “You should be proud, Bernice,” I say as I get out, bow in respect, and blow her a kiss goodbye. “Run,” she says with urgency; “run to read!” But where do you run to in Parachute, Colorado?

  GOOD RIDE NUMBER TEN

  GUMDROP

  Up the hill, that’s where. And lo and behold, here comes a truck. Please, dear God, let him stop. Even though I don’t really believe in God (or at least any of the ones I’ve heard about), my prayers are answered. I run up to the idling Kenworth eighteen-wheeler, lugging my bag, and climb up into the cab. Behind the wheel is Gumdrop, a cross-country trucker driving for Farley’s & Sathers, a large candy company. He started his route in the Midwest and he’s on his way to a candy wholesaler in L.A. A little too far south for my journey but a good ride to Utah, where I’ll jump out and head north to Reno and then down on into San Francisco. Imagine my delight when Gumdrop starts talking about candy! Mexican Hats, Red Hot Dollars, Dots; he likes the same treats as I do! He’s cute, too, but I don’t get any sexual vibes, he’s just sweet … like Swedish Fish.

  “How about Jujyfruits?” he asks with a wink and a smile showing a chipped but beauteous front tooth. “You’re kidding,” I answer, “they’re my favorite candy of all!” “Filling-rippers,” he yells enthusiastically, agreeing with my candy-connoisseur opinion. “My dentist warns me off Jujyfruits, but I say fuck him,” I brag. “I love those chewy little pellets.” “But not Jujubes, right?” he asks with sudden concern. “No, they’re too hard,” I answer. “That’s because they use potato starch instead of cornstarch as their primary thickener,” he explains, “and Jujubes are cured longer, making them tough, hard as nails … inedible, if you ask me.” “I agree,” I answer in breathless candy brotherhood. “Nothing resists a bite more perfectly than a fresh Jujyfruit.”

  “Guess what,” Gumdrop says, leering. “I got a whole truckload full of them!” “Jujyfruits?” I ask in a sugar frenzy. “Yessiree,” he boasts, “they make them in Creston, Iowa, and that’s where I’m coming from. You should see the plant! Huge tubs of Jujyfruits! Thousands and thousands of those sweet little nuggets popping out of the sugar machines every minute. They don’t make the small boxes anymore, damn them, but I got twenty thousand movie-theater-sized boxes in the back of this truck … and”—he pauses with drama—“can you keep a secret?” “Sure!” I pant, just imagining the orgy of flavor in the rear. “I got mint ones,” he whispers conspiratorially, “the flavor those confectionary fascists discontinued in 1999.” “Good heavens,” I moan, “I haven’t had a mint Jujyfruits since then! I thought they were totally unavailable!” “They are,” he answers with penny-candy vigor, “unless you’re in the distinguished company of yours truly. I didn’t get the name Gumdrop for being a candy dabbler. I’ve been saving ’em.” “Look,” he whispers with pride as he pulls out a small trash bag filled with mint-flavored forbidden treats. “Can I have one?” I ask, shaking in candy awe. “You sure can, John,” he answers, and my mouth is watering so much I don’t even realize he has recognized me. “Here…,” he offers, picking a few mint-green Jujyfruits from the bag. I nibble some out of his callused hands the way a horse would go for a lump of sugar and he doesn’t seem to mind. I savor the tangy flavor that may once have been the most unpopular shade, but what does the public know? I’ve been thinking outside the Jujyfruits box for years and I’m honored to report that this discredited chewy little fella retains its original flavor with gusto.

  “Look, I gotta be honest,” Gumdrop announces as we finally turn back onto Route 70 West. “I loved Pink Flamingos but I hated that Hairspray shit.” “You hated my Hairspray?” I ask, nibbling our highly collectible treats on my own. “The one with Divine and Ricki Lake?” “Yeah,” he says with a shrug, “I like crazy shit, man. Ever been to a pirate truck stop?” he asks with newfound friendliness. “I don’t think so,” I respond, already intrigued. “What are they?” “The illegal ones with strippers and gambling,” he explains with obvious excitement, “and free liquor!” “Sounds good to me,” I cheer. “I hate that NATSO organization,” he seethes, “all these goddamn safety rules, weight restrictions. I don’t want no ‘truck plaza,’ I want a fucking truck stop! No fenced parking lot! No security cameras. Just some kick-ass trucker fun!”

  “Let’s go!” I scream, realizing we’ve been on the road for hours, it’s getting dark, and I’ll need a place to sleep. “I know a great one and it’s just outside Fillmore, Utah,” he enthuses. “It’s not on any Triple A map. It is an outlaw truck stop, all right—the Gas and Go-Go!” “Yay!” I yell, probably too enthusiastically. “I’ll pay for the rooms.” “Now, John,” he suddenly counsels, “I gotta get one thing straight. I’m not a fag. Nothin’ against ’em, but a hairy ass crack just don’t do it for me.” “That’s okay,” I mumble, oddly touched by his total unawareness of politically correct gayspeak. “Not everybody is queer. It’s no big deal.” “But I’ll watch over you,” he offers almost tenderly. “I’ll make sure nobody fucks with you. Deal?” “Deal,” I say as we pull into the scary-looking Gas and Go-Go truck stop parking lot.

  Lot lizards patrol the corridors between trucks and I can see full-tilt female-male blow jobs going on right out in the open. Truckers are walking around openly guzzling from liquor bottles and laughing and slapping each other on the back in off-work revelry. I get out of the truck and I see Gumdrop swallow, without water, two pills that look like black beauties. “God, do they still make them?!” I ask. “Want one?” Gumdrop offers kindly, but I decline, trying to imagine flying on speed at my age. Gumdrop high-fives a few other drivers he obviously knows and leads me toward the truck stop’s “Party Palace,” which has all the windows blacked out and just one small lightbulb illuminating the entrance. Frightening hookers approach us but Gumdrop barks, “No oral!” and they back off in respect.

  “Don’t worry, they got fags here, too,” Gumdrop tries to comfort me, but I’m not concerned, I’m having a great time already. I’m introduced to a big hog of a bouncer named Joe-Eddy. “I loved the rosary job in Multiple Maniacs,” he says gruffly as he rubber-stamps my hand with a gearstick penis logo. “Thank you,” I answer as he hands me two “free speed VIP” tickets. “Fuck your brains out,” he welcomes Gumdrop, who just chuckles and asks, “Is Fumbelina working tonight?” “She sure is,” Joe-Eddy responds lecherously. “I love that bitch,” Gumdrop explains as we enter the dark, hot truck stop nightclub that has been off the beaten path for so long that it is now completely claimed by lawbreaking truckers lucky enough to know this place still exists. Everybody inside seems to be high on crank. Big-time. They’re drinking, too, and truckers clap wildly as the strippers slide up and down poles made out of truck tailpipes. One girl slaps her ass with an oil dipstick as she dances to “Hot Wheels,” an amazing Johnny Cash soundalike tune with the lyrics “I’m takin’ little white pills to keep me awake and pushin’ on down the line.” I love this song! When I hear the
trucker-horn sound effects mixed in with the chorus, I know I’m in the right place. Maybe I can use this song in my next movie soundtrack!

  Gumdrop leads me to a bar and orders me a free vodka without even asking what I drink. He just knows. He gets gin for himself and guzzles it down in one gulp and burps out the sound of a busted truck muffler with amazing realism. He drags me through the partying drivers, many of whom are dancing recklessly with other scary women. I see a red-hot dancer who looks like a gal in a Russ Meyer movie undulating with precision in a bikini top and a micro-miniskirt. Gumdrop races ahead and stuffs a $20 bill down her cleavage. On cue, she retrieves the bill from between her giant tits, pretends to drop it, spreads her legs in a practiced stance, and bends over to pick it up. She is, of course, wearing no underpants. Knowing the routine, Gumdrop leans his head over between her legs and looks up to Cupid’s cave. Fumbelina purrs, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera” and “takes a picture” with the expert muscle control that can only come from years of training. I have never seen a man look happier than Gumdrop does at that moment. He fumbles for another double sawbuck and in between her knockers it goes. Once again, she pretends to be all thumbs as she retrieves it and “drops” the twenty and slowly … very slowly bends over to pick it up. “Take two,” Fumbelina chuckles as Gumdrop takes his place below and says, “Say cheese,” through a shit-eating grin. Again she snaps his “photo” with vaginal precision. I can see Gumdrop’s eyes beaming in gratitude. “Fumbelina, this is John Waters,” he says politely, poking me in the side to let me know I, too, should give her a twenty. “Nice to meetcha,” she says as I slide a bill inside her supervixen breasts, and Gumdrop slaps me on the back in approval. Fumbelina “fumbles” the bill, drops it in choreographed clumsiness, bends over to pick it up. I hesitate, knowing what is expected of me. “Don’t worry, I’ll retouch the picture,” she says with a giggle, and I take my place between her legs looking up into her natural lens. “Hold still for focus,” she orders, and I do. Click! Yikes, a snatchshot! I feel like Lee Miller as she modeled for Man Ray’s first solarized photography, the “rayograph.”