by Chris Price
'Yep.'
'What did he look like?'
'He was naked and had surgical tape all over his chest from the autopsy. I said "Hey Gram, what's that on your chest?" and then flicked him on the nose. We used to do that to each other all the time.'
'Then?'
'Then I doused him in gas and sent him up in smoke. We watched the body burn for a while – his ashes went into the air just like he wanted – then hit the road. There wasn't much of him left when we were finished.'
We chatted a while longer, Mangler one-liners tumbling over the repartee ('That was a couple of years after Gram stopped smoking', 'John went to Penn State and I went to State Pen') but he had to split. He wanted to get one more round of golf in before the frost arrived, and then he was going back on the road with Etta James. We walked outside together.
'Wait there. I've got something for you,' he said, disappearing across the car park to his Harley. When he returned he was carrying a book, which he handed to me: it was his autobiography, Road Mangler Deluxe. 'I'll sign
it for you.'
'Would you? That would be fantastic,' I said.
Taking a pen from inside his leather jacket, he wrote a dedication on the title page, forward dating it to Gram's sixtieth birthday, the final day of our journey. 'That'll be a dollar for the book, and nineteen for the signature.'
I gave him the money. We'd had our twenty dollars' worth.
Later, in the car as we neared Knoxville, I noticed that the price on the back cover of the book had been struck through with a black marker pen. I rubbed it with my thumb to see what was underneath. $16.50.
Manners, we are told, are what separate us from the apes. This manifests itself in many ways, including the genteel way that the British advertise their products: 'Try this – it's great!' is as close as we get to outright declarations of fabulousness. That evening, as I sat in our Knoxville motel room flicking through TV channels and chewing on jerky, it seemed to me that American commerce is a little more ruthlessly competitive:
'Ovaltine is three times as nutritious as Nesquik and tastes nicer too.'
'Advil is twice as effective as Tylenol.'
'Buy a Ford truck – only fags drive Toyotas.'
This isn't surprising of course. Americans have always been a little more direct than us when it comes to selling. What was novel though, was that this confrontational method had apparently moved over into political advertising too. There was some election or other taking place in the next few days, although quite what it was actually for we had no idea. A blizzard of names and an avalanche of possible offices swept past the car windows on signage attached to every house, mailbox and bumper in all Tennessee, but the party political broadcasts on television seemed to dispense with this essential information in order to maximise the time spent rubbishing their competitors.
Harold Ford Jr was a Democrat incumbent and was faring particularly badly in this televisual slanging match. 'Harold Ford supports gay marriage and wants to put contraceptive pills in high schools,' we learned in one ad break. The next advert warned that 'Harold Ford Jr says he's a qualified lawyer, but he didn't even pass the bar exam.' The next sternly informed us that 'Harold Ford diverted state funds to pay for the legal defence of a Los Angeles pornographer.'
The next advert was Harold Ford Jr himself staring pleadingly from the screen beseeching us 'not to believe the lies they're telling about me – I don't support gay marriage and I don't want to put the pill in schools'. (That he didn't deny the other claims suggested either he was a porn-loving legal charlatan or his Chief Advisor on Name-Calling wasn't keeping him fully briefed.) What became distressingly clear was that there was absolutely no fact-checking going on. Apparently it was fine to accuse your opponent of anything on telly as long he is given the chance of buying his own ad space to refute all the lies.
With three days to go until the elections I was hoping the race would get even tighter so we could see what how far this game of 'diss' would go. 'Harold Ford left a floater in my toilet', 'Bob Corker is a paedophile'. With no one to arbitrate then we might get what we all really wanted – two candidates standing at lecterns in a nationally televised, sixty-minute game of 'your mum'.
1 NOVEMBER
A DATE WITH THE NIGHT
Trapezoid Tennessee is an almost perfect parallelogram. The northernmost borders of Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia to the south form a perfectly flat line running west to east, on top of which sits Tennessee like a deck of cards laid flat and squished east towards the Atlantic. Stopping them from spilling into North Carolina are the Great Smoky Mountains, in the shadow of which sat our next planned overnight stay, Asheville, due east of Nashville just across the state border. We had chosen carefully. Among the city's long and impressive list of accolades were several that held a very obvious appeal, if not for two music obsessives on the look-out for rock and roll high drama, then definitely for elderly vegetarians looking to reinvent themselves.
Chief among these distinctions was Asheville's appearance in the 'Top 50 Most Alive Places to Be', as voted by everyone's favourite magazine for the over-fifties, Modern Maturity, a poll presumably intended to signal to the world that, for its healthy but ageing readership, being alive is still very much on the agenda. Three years later Modern Maturity, having changed its named to AARP Magazine – incidentally the highest circulation publication in the world – voted Asheville one of the 'Best Places to Reinvent Your Life'. (My favourite publication for the older market, spotted in the racks of a Nashville supermarket, was Prevention magazine, presumably offering information and advice to readers committed to stopping things from happening.)
What's more, PETA had named Asheville the most vegetarian-friendly small city in America which, though Joe and I are both meat eaters, appealed for the simple reason that a road diet of burgers, beef jerky, Dr Pepper, burgers and beef jerky was starting to take its toll on our complexions. Lastly, and most importantly, Rolling Stone magazine had voted Asheville, with its reputation for alternative and bohemian living, the 'New Freak Capital' of the US. It sounded like our kind of place.
The plan had been to make Asheville our final stop before Charleston, where we would meet Courtney, see Charlie Daniels and, crucially for the coast-to-coast aspect of the undertaking, dip our toes in the Atlantic.
But by 10 p.m. we had found ourselves 120 miles short of Asheville and in need of sleep, electing instead to check into a Knoxville 'MicroLodge'. Unsurprisingly given the name, it was cramped, utilitarian and depressing, but clean and – importantly at this stage, as the guitar purchase had put something of a dent in my finances – cheap. Cheaper in fact than the Firebird Motel in Dodge City with its unique ceiling hook facilities, and attractive therefore despite the repeated assurances of the twenty-something receptionist – apparently paid on commission – that he would 'hook us up' if we chose MicroLodge over Days Inn across the road. ('Hooking us up' turned out, much to our undisguised relief, to translate roughly as 'meet and exceed both price and service expectations vis-à vis our chosen lodgings'.)
We were glad, the following day, for having stopped early in Knoxville. Had we pushed on, the Smokies might have skulked by unnoticed in the dark, denying us the display of morning mountain fog they take their name from, and to which we were now treated. Whisps of morning mist – warm air from the Gulf of Mexico cooling in the upper elevations of Appalachia – rose between the highest trees like a forest fire. Lower down a thick fog flooded the spaces between interlocking mountain ridges receding into the distance like a theatre set.
I40 carried us through Pigeon River Gorge into North Carolina and south on to Asheville. Parking on College Street, we noted a bumper sticker on a Buick in front petitioning to 'Keep Asheville Weird'. As if on cue, two bearded drunks, huddled over a chessboard on a bench in the square opposite, raised their beer cans and grinned toothless gums as we stepped out of the car. We found a table at nearby Maybelle's Diner, where we lunched outside on the street under crisp autumn
sunshine. I called Courtney between courses to make final arrangements for our rendezvous later that afternoon. A satellite delay of several seconds rendered conversation virtually impossible, made worse by the fact I was vainly trying to relay directions to Joe as we spoke.
'Make a left onto East Bay Street,' shouted Courtney into my right ear, 'then a right onto Calhoun.'
'Left. East Bay Street. Right. Calhoun,' I repeated.
'Right,' said Courtney.
'Was that a left or a right onto East Bay?' whispered Joe.
'Left.'
'No, right onto Calhoun,' crackled the voice in my right ear.
'Sorry Courtney, I was talking to Joe.'
Silence, then Joe – 'Definitely left onto East Bay, not off it?' – and Courtney – 'Oh OK, bit of a delay on the line!' – at the same time.
And so on.
Maybelle's – all gingham tablecloths on rustic pine tables – was friendly, wholesome and family-run, just the place for two men starved for weeks of greens and keen to savour the curious offerings of America's freak capital. Not only was it the only restaurant in the entire country apparently able to resist the temptation of drowning a perfectly healthy salad in Thousand Calorie Dressing, our waitress also added another trophy to the city's growing list of distinctions.
Chatting to her as she cleared our empty plates, we asked about the city's reputation for weirdness. She was young with asymmetric hair, horn-rimmed specs and a voluminous flowery blouse which clashed with a tiny checked apron tied around her waist.
'Asheville ain't so weird,' she said, pausing to rescue her gum from behind a molar. 'If you ask me it gets kind of a bad press.'
'Why do you think that is?' I enquired.
'I really don't know. It sure is a shame though. There's more to Asheville than freaks.'
'Such as…?'
'Well let me tell you this,' she pronounced, wagging an index finger emphatically. 'Asheville has the highest percentage of people in the whole of North America who want to be pirates.'
'Excuse me?' I said.
'Pretty cool, huh?' And with that she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving us to contemplate this latest credit while a semi-naked street drinker shouted chess moves at passers-by. Asheville had given us precisely one hour of its time, but in that short window had proved itself to be freakish, vegetarian friendly and, Modern Maturity readers will be reassured to learn, very much alive. We pressed on to Charleston.
As we neared the coast I asked Joe, busily blogging in the passenger seat, to find the directions he had taken down over lunch. He reached into his pocket and handed me a small piece of yellow card.
'This is Phil Kaufman's business card,' I said, offering it back to him.
'Turn it over.'
There was a scrawl of red pen on the reverse. 'You've written directions to Charleston on the back of Phil Kaufman's business card?!'
'Er, actually I ran out of space on the back.
On the front, in thick pen obscuring Phil's name and job title – 'Road Mangler & Executive Nanny' – were the words 'Right again into Starbucks'.
'Christ, Joe!'
'What?'
'We must have collected hundreds of scraps of paper in the last two weeks – maps, tickets, postcards, hotel bills – and you've scribbled all over the business card of the one man without whom it would very likely never have happened?'
'Er...'
'Look! You've even written over his job title! There is no one else in the entire world with the title 'Road Mangler & Executive Nanny'. Mick Jagger gave it to him for crying out loud!'
'Right. Yes. Sorry.'
After a fashion we arrived at our scheduled meeting place. Courtney had suggested we meet at a Starbucks in downtown Charleston, presumably the safest place she could think of to meet us, if there is such a thing as a safe place for a lone woman to meet two strange men she has met on the Internet. She worked at a day spa nearby and would meet us straight after work around six, assuming there were no dramas closing up. Don't worry, I had told her, we were in no hurry. We ordered moccachinos and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
'You have to wonder,' I mumbled through a lemon and poppy seed muffin, 'what sort of girl agrees to meet up with two blokes off the Internet and lets them stay at her house for three days.'
'Hopefully a very nice girl.'
'Doesn't it strike you as a little weird?'
'What are you worried about? That she's the leader of a country music death cult out to feed us to the 'gators in the swamp?'
'Well I wasn't, but I am now.'
'Don't worry, no alligator could ever get its mouth around your noggin anyway,' laughed Chris. (I have a large head.)
'Thanks. That thought will cheer me up as you slip down 'gator gullet to the strains of Dolly Parton. What does she look like?'
'Blonde. Big tits,' said Chris.
'Really?'
'Come on, you must know what Dolly Parton looks like.'
'No, Courtney.'
'Oh. Pretty, if her profile picture's anything to by.'
This could be a problem then, because profile pictures lie. Social networking brings much joy and pleasure to many people (along with lashings of recrimination, resumption of old relationships, reconfirmation of youthful prejudices and rekindling of old dreams), but the single most depressing aspect of them, for me at least, is the profile picture.
The question is, which photo do you use? How do you find something that says 'Screw you, I'm fine now' to the ex you still haven't forgiven for shagging Carl Rigby, but that won't frighten your silver-surfing grandmother when she sees a picture of you with your tongue in a stripper's ear? And then there are the colleagues, bosses, old friends, new friends and friends of friends who might – as we all do – make up their mind about you based on eighty-by-eighty pixels they've found on MyFace.
Perhaps go for that one of you engaged in some extreme and impressive pursuit like bungee jumping? Fine, but in real life you had better be more outward-bound than Bear Grylls or people will feel a tad misled. Which leaves us with what? In the pub with friends? Too smug. A cute animal? Too wacky. A photoshop of you with Obama? Too needy. A snap with your children? Too twee. Reading a book? Too pretentious. Rarely has the phrase 'You can't please all of the people all of the time' been so apt. Which leads us to one simple conclusion: you cannot possibly tell what someone is going to look like from their profile picture.
Chris was getting agitated. 'Where the hell is she? She's nearly an hour and a half late.'
'Probably sharpening her knives.'
'Well she'd better get a move on or we're checking into a hotel.'
'Perhaps you should call and ask her to sharpen her knives more quickly.'
She walked in. Even prettier than her picture, and no knives. Things were looking up. As were we: Courtney was a tall, slender gazelle of a woman, and in three-inch heels – her, not us – we found ourselves rocking onto the balls of our feet to make eye contact. She had long, dark hair pulled up in pins revealing a high forehead and wide eyes, like a brunette version of a seventies Olivia Newton-John.
'Hey guys,' said the perfect American smile. 'Sorry I'm late. My boss kept me late after work and then I had to walk the dog and then I couldn't find anything to wear and…'
'Absolutely no problem at all,' said Chris, perking up suddenly, and it wasn't the seven moccachinos kicking in. Courtney was, in the absence of any other word for it, hot. I did what mates are supposed to do at times like this and let him lead.
'Charleston looks beautiful. What do you suggest we do while we're here?'
'Well it kinda depends on what you're into, but I was thinking maybe we could have something to eat at this nice Italian place called Il Cortile del Re, then go to the Music Farm to see the Secret Machines, then AC's for a drink and then tomorrow go to the Coastal Carolina Fair to see Charlie Daniels and then see the Slackers play after that… Maybe?'
'Sounds like you've got it al
l figured out! Perfect.'
We went outside. Chris opened the driver's door – 'Jump in the back would you Joe, let the lady ride up front' – and Courtney directed us into the heart of Old Charleston.
'Thanks for putting us up,' smiled Chris, pulling out of the car park.
'You're so welcome. I've been looking forward to meeting you guys. Your blogs are great.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'I've got to ask you though – weren't you just a little bit nervous about meeting two strangers from another country and inviting them to stay in your house?'
'Not really.'
'Joe thought you might be the leader of a country-rock death cult who feeds tourists to alligators,' said Chris.
Courtney turned to the back seat to look at me, wearing an expression of slight confusion. 'Well I'm not a cult leader if that's any help.'
'Good. I'm glad that's settled,' I said.
'And I love meeting new people. I did this Global Freeloading thing a while back. It's like a network of people around the world who offer up their spare room or couch in exchange for free accommodation wherever and whenever they need it. It was pretty cool.'