Saturday morning I retold a dream I'd had, possibly influenced by the movie version of Kurt Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions. Nick Nolte was a married cop who had a mistress. I was in love with his wife and partner in crime. I think I ended up killing him.
The cold front predicted at Boyd's Campground had made it to Athens. It was about 40 degrees, but warm enough to smoke outside and watch the neighbor throw Frisbees for his dogs. I asked Jeff what made him move to Athens.
"I just looked for a place where they were making music," he said.
Aaron, another friend of ours, lives down the street from Jeff. He walks everywhere because he has to; he plays the drums because he has to. He used to have real long hair, but now it's just kinda long. There's a big disco ball hanging in his house, and he prints T-shirts part time. He and Jeff are in a band called Abacus, just until they can start their own (hopefully with Henry). Aaron personifies Athens grunge; old green Adidas and misbuttoned shirt.
We went to a bar called the Lunchpaper. It had been a bank many years ago, and in the vault was a couple of pinball machines with black lights. There was just enough room for a table and chair where someone could sit, smoke, and marvel at what a black light does to white skin.
Aaron ordered a pitcher of PBR and lit a Camel.
"What are we going to do tonight?" Henry asked.
"Well," Aaron said. "When we're finished with this beer, we'll drink another one. And when we're finished with that one, we'll drink another one. And then another one, and another. Then we go see Jucifer."
Our next stop was the Georgia Bar. A man in a black leather jacket tried to sing like Angus Young, and then a drunk black dwarf entertained us. Aaron said the dwarf was bisexual. He'd been hurt by his parents, which is why he walked with a limp.
"If I could go anywhere in the world," Jana said. "It would definitely be Egypt. I'd love to see the Pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx, float the Nile, ride a camel and drink tea under a tent with a Bedouin."
"Would you smoke the hashish?" I asked. "Indah'ken agilla?"
"Sure," she said without hesitation.
"The Arabic word for the day is Indah'ken. That means 'to smoke." If you're going to Egypt, you must know the word."
The man in the leather jacket apparently had some pull; the old AC/DC album played non-stop. I like them too, but 30 minutes of them was enough.
Aaron said he used to come to the Georgia Bar after work and eat all of the free popcorn and peanuts he could and consider it dinner; with beer of course...the Breakfast of Champions.
"Yella," I said. "That means: 'Let's go see Jucifer.'"
"Yella then," Aaron said.
We pulled into Extreme Skatepark around 10, scraping the bottom of Jana's white Prism.
Jucifer had received the Band of the Year Award from The Flagpole, Athens' chosen tabloid. It's just a two-person band - Amber Valentine and Edgar - but they put out a lot of energy. Seeing them perform has been called a "visceral experience." That's close.
Edgar closed his eyes, meditating behind a crude set of drums adorned with Karen Carpenter's signature. He had on a cool hat with a mesh back that said, "Give me some of the GOOD stuff." His greasy black locks curled out from under the brim.
He suddenly became a possessed punk-rock demon. His eyes rolled back into this skull and in the mayhem, snot oozed out of his nose. He didn't wipe it off until the music was over.
Amber Valentine's black velvet pants matched her guitar. She had a nose ring and wore a long white wig, blue lipstick and 8-inch black suede platform shoes. Not many other girls have "Rock Star" tattooed across their knuckles.
The kids did their thing during the show, riding up and down and spinning around, sometimes crashing. One BMXer landed on his back wheel on the middle beam connecting the two half pipes, endoed, then rolled backward. A skater in horn-rims cracked his board, then finished it off with a good whack on the coping.
After 15 minutes of pounding the skins, Edgar needed a break. He took a swig from his 40-ounce bottle of beer, then poured a libation on his cymbals.
Amber hit more power chords and groaned something about wanting to take me with her when she dies. Then Edgar went back to business. Beer splashed off of the cymbals. It was like a 80s music video. The crowd of spiked, dyed and pierced heads listened intently, except those wearing ear plugs.
When the set was over, Edgar smashed his hat on the snare. The small colorful crowd delivered a long, heart-felt applause. Punk is alive in Athens.
After the show, I heard the tail-end of a discussion between Aaron's lime-green-haired friend and a skinny punk in tight black clothes. The topic was who looked worse.
"Look at your hair, man!" said the skinny punk.
"Well, look at your face!"
Both of the punk's eyebrows were pierced, as were both nostrils, each lip, and the bridge of his nose. In one ear was a big round piece of wood that looked like something from the mid-Pacific or Africa.
Leaving Athens was like leaving an old friend. Henry and I stopped for coffee, and I got disoriented. Henry went to the Junkman's Daughter's Brother to get a drum he'd seen the day before, but came out without it. I asked a kid on a bike how to get to Atlanta. He said we could get there from anywhere east of the city. I asked him which way was east. He didn't know but thought the statue of Athena was south. We went to the statue and turned left, but got lost. I stopped for gas down the road, and we finally made it out.
Mama, I'm Coming Home
The road back to Arkansas was long and bumpy. It rained hard in Alabama. We stopped at the Twilight Zone Truck Stop after the rain died down. It was an old diner with yellow countertops and padded stools. Old truckers drank coffee and ate a late dinner. I found the coffee and poured a cup to go.
Henry bought a faded red hat for \$5, replacing the camo one he'd thrown away in Marathon, Florida. He was a new man.
I called my folks. Dad suggested that we not push it, so we spent the night in Meridian, Mississippi, nursing the burn of the sun and the road.
In the morning, Interstate 20 took us to a convenience store/diner where we ate hash browns and fried eggs. Then on to to Hickory, Mississippi, just down the road from Chunky, where we stopped to take a leak at an abandoned house. Three hunting dogs chased us at the infamous Mississippi Cactus Plantation.
Discussion turned to the cinema.
"We should've gone to see Sweet and Low Down in Palm Beach," I said.
"I told you...It's fun seeing a movie in a different city."
"You remember that movie Soul Man with C. Thomas Howell and Rae Dawn Chong? I'd like to see it again."
"Police Academy 6...Now that's a good movie. Hightower says to this guy, 'I believe what you're sayin', so I won't dispute ya, but if I find out you're lyin', I'll come back and shoot ya.' He laughed like an old black man in Oakley sunglasses."
We crossed the Old River about the same time as the week before. Nothing much had changed. The water boiled with undertows and was as brown as Belgian chocolate.
My skin peeled like that of a lizard, which I thought was appropriate. I had grown somewhat.
I'd learned a few lessons: Don't go through the SunPass Lane unless you have a SunPass sticker. Don't buy coffee at Arby's or strip malls. Don't eat at strip joints. Don't go to a Caribbean beach without wearing at least 40 grade sunblock. Always check for your toothbrush and belt before you go. If you're camping, put a bed roll at the top of your list.
Research your destination closely. I wouldn't have gone if I'd known that there weren't any soft beaches in Key West. Who the hell wants to pay \$40 for a hard little camping spot?
Last but not least, take a journal. Anytime we travel, we bring back a little bit of the places we visited. Something besides seashells or T-shirts. It gets under your skin.
Mine would shed soon. I look less exotic now, but I'm still a slave to the radio.
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