i drove a hearse to mississippi
CHAPTER FOUR
In the midst of my unformulated, random, immature thoughts, where I don’t even know what I’m trying to say, really, I experience a sudden, inexplicable urge to . . . just what if I do . . . what if I just say, screw it, and turn down that side road coming up and follow it, see where it goes, see where it leads to . . . maybe straight into the wide open heart of the Delta . . . maybe somewhere where the untold secrets of the Deep South are revealed, a place where the mysteries of exotic, charming Mississippi come alive with unexpected meaning and reassurance that not all is as it seems or like people told me or something I read in a book.
But what do I know, being just a sixteen year old white kid from the cornfields of Indiana? Nothing, nothing at all, about Mississippi, or the South, other than it was on the losing side of the Civil War and home of the blues and the birthplace of Elvis Presley, but I keep wondering anyway and never do end up turning down that side road despite all my yearning heart’s desire for an unexpected moment of spontaneous adventure and discovery, the pure stuff of fiction, left to Mark Twain’s, or my own, creative imagination.
Continuing down the road, the October sun in full bore, I’m thinking, AH! HA!, no wonder people live in the South! It’s warm, almost tropical! Not cold and dreary like back in Indiana. I’m cruising now at sixty, feeling it, and so want to crank it up a notch or two, but I stay on the safe side, enjoying a boundless sense of freedom and awakening in this exotic, far-away place that might as well be Mali as Mississippi.
With Dad still snoozing away shotgun side, I’m fiercely focused on the task at hand — driving a hearse through Mississippi! No easy thing, if you want to know the truth, because, well, think about it, it’s a lot of responsibility man-handling this ton of hurtlin’ metal for a kid barely in possession of his driver’s license! But, I’m telling you, I sure do feel super-competent, empowered, and in control! No greater feeling in the world for a sixteen year old, or any year old, for that matter.
Feeling bolder, I bravely press the pedal down, and why not, we’re all alone on this killer straightaway, so feeling the freedom, my soul soaring, I let ‘er rip and gun it to seventy! The powerful V-8 kicks in and revs loudly; Dad barely stirs and the Hearsemobile doesn’t miss a beat. I’m tearing down the road like nobody’s business now with a cocky elbow jutting out the window and just one hand on the wheel (ignoring Dad’s admonishments). The Hearsemobile is a tight-ass machine, keeping an arrow-straight trajectory. Then, just ahead, I spot a sign:
“EXIT NOW, DON’T MISS ALLIGATOR FARM, 2 MILES!”
I slow it down real quick, ’cause, man, no way am I gonna miss that! I don’t care what Dad thinks. I slow down, but not quite enough, and swerve off the exit ramp a bit too recklessly. Dad rouses with a startled expression. “What the hell, son! What’s going on? You need gas or gotta take a leak or what? Slow ‘er down now!”
“I got it, Dad, I just saw this sign about alligators, and seeing as how I’ve never seen an alligator before, I thought . . . ”
Dad scoffs.
“Alligators? What alligators? Son, we don’t have time for nonsense. We’ve got to be in Hattiesburg tomorrow by noon.”
“C’mon, Dad, there’s time. It’s only a couple of miles down this road. Can’t we spend a few minutes even? It must be pretty neat. I’ve never seen a real live alligator before. Have you?”
Dad motions me to drive on a bit. “Pull over when and where you can.”
I come to a lot overgrown with weeds, a god-forsaken place called Bean Junction that looks like it’s stuck in the Depression Era, with wrecked hulls of rusted out vehicles and trucks piled up in a junkyard next to a mound of old tires and car parts. There’s an old-timey Sinclair gas station with a single ancient pump and the green dinosaur sign hanging down in disrepair next to a crusty old catfish sandwich shack to be avoided at all costs judging from its run-down appearance. A group of men are eyeballing us with ominous suspicion, I feel. I can almost read one guy’s lips as he leans over conspiratorially and whispers to his friend, I’m imagining, “Who be dem cats drivin’ that fancy death chariot?”
And to tell you the truth, I’m starting to feel like maybe Dad’s right, maybe we should get back on the road, right now. Even though, on second thought and further eye contact, the men are probably just some harmless locals amused by a couple of lost city slickers.
We switch places and Dad takes over at the helm and whips out of Bean Junction like he means business, and, maybe because he’s blurry-minded from all his snoozing, he ends up getting turned around and starts heading the opposite way from the way we’re supposed to go.
“Dad, this isn’t the way back to the highway, it’s the way to see the alligators. Did you change your mind? Are we going to see the alligators?”
“CRIME IN ITLY!” cries Dad, then tries to make light of his mistake. “See ya later alligator!” He makes a near out-of-control U-turn to get back on track, and, CRIME IN ITLY!, he makes another wrong turn down a dead-end country road, and wouldn’t you believe it, next thing you know, we hear a loud POP! sound. Dad pulls over and we’re sickened with the realization that now we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere! — with a flat tire!
“Oh, this is just great,” says Dad. “Just fuckin’ great.”
I flinch at Dad’s sudden change of tone and harsh language. So mild-mannered at home, I’m shocked, for I’ve never once, I swear, heard him cuss. But now he’s flinging invective every which way and I sense a violent streak like he’s about explode, and it’ll all be my fault for turning off that damn exit ramp just to see those stupid alligators we’ll never see anyway. I’m feeling shitty and scared not knowing how Dad will react as our adventure spins out of control. Dad orders me to get out of the car and check the back area, under the floorboard, for the spare tire. He remains in the car, half-slumped over, head in hands, probably wishing he had a big, stiff drink right about now, I’m thinking.
After rummaging around for longer than Dad thinks is necessary — “What are you doing back there?” — I approach his side window and, gulping, say in a shaky voice, “Dad, I think we’re in trouble.”
“What do you mean, trouble? Where’s the spare?”
“Well, it’s, it’s . . . good news and bad news, Dad.”
“Okay, let’s have it, son.”
“Well, the good news is that the spare tire is only half-filled with air . . .”
“That’s good news?” Dad says. “So what’s the bad news?”
“Um, the jack is, uh, well — it seems to be missing, Dad.”
I am feeling like a miserable turd, since this unlikely, stupid dilemma is all my fault.
“Are you shitting me, son? What’re ya tryin’ to tell me, there’s no jack? What a crock of horsepucky. Now, quit playing games and get that tire changed.”
“But, Dad,” I plead, “Come look for yourself.”
Dad relents and heaves his lanky frame up and out the door, and follows me to the rear of the Hearsemobile. He gives the spare tire on the ground a swift kick. Better that damn tire than my sorry ass, I’m thinking. Dad starts rooting around under the floorboard tossing aside old paper coffee cups, crumpled candy wrappers, a pen with “Tecumseh County Mortuary” on it, old brittle rubber bands, a pocket calendar from a decade ago, mangled sunglasses, and odd and ends and bits of things that had fallen down in there over the years. Every stupid thing except a tire jack.
“Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit,” says Dad. He’s standing there scratching his head, sweating in the heat, then reaches back to swat a mosquito on his red neck. I’ve never seen Dad get so gol-darned riled up, not even when he lost his temper the time I accidentally broke that expensive vase he’d brought home from his war days while stationed in China. That was nothing. But this —well, this is probably going to cost me my hide, ’cause it’s all my fault, isn’t it.
After a few minutes of pacing about and frantic thinking, Dad slaps himself upside the head and then pounds the hood of the Hearsemobile with his fist so hard he leaves a dent in it and nearly breaks his hand. At that, his mood changes and I’m relieved to see him soften up.
“Ah, to hell with it, son. Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. I’ll tell you what pisses the holy hell outta me, though.”
“What, Dad?” I ask, tiptoeing around my words hoping he wasn’t going to say ME and haul off and bust my skull or something for my irresponsible stupid nonsense of diverting off-course and getting us into this mess.
“Your goddamn uncle, that’s what!”
Sure enough, the “drunken cocksucker” — poor Uncle Scoop — had forgotten to replace the tire jack the last time he’d had a flat, that’s the only thing that makes sense; leaving us now stuck down a dead-end country road in the middle of Nowheresville, Mississippi, about a mile away from the alligator farm we’d never see anyway.
Dad senses my discomfort and low morale, and to his ever-lasting credit, he cops the blame. I feel a heavy weight release in my heart. “You know, son, it’s probably a good thing this happened right here and now, off the highway, because a blow-out on that bad tire going at high speed would have been the end of us. Besides, it’s my fault, son, I admit it, I should have checked things better before we took off.”
So, Dad and I are eating a sandwich and drinking the last of our water, and praying to the Lord above for salvation, wondering what on earth we’re going to do, when we spot a family sauntering down the road toward us. They look like simple country folk, a middle-aged couple and their four children. People! Hallelujah! Talk about feeling happy and grateful and optimistic in the moment! A sudden reversal of fortune! See, God is listening to our prayers!
“Well, what we got here,” says the man, with a bundle slung over his shoulder he puts down on the ground. He’s shirtless and dressed in overalls and wearing a straw hat to shade him from the hot sun. The woman is wearing a pretty yellow dress and also a straw hat. She leans over to peer inside the Hearsemobile. “Would you look at this fine automobile! But it looks like it can’t go anywhere with that tire flat like it is.”
Dad and I smile weakly, and shake our heads.
The children, aged from three to eight, are adorably raggedy-assed and barefoot. They begin running in circles around the vehicle, singing a child’s catch-me-if-you-can kind of song. The man bends down to take a serious inspection of things.
Dad finally thinks to say, “Hello, how do you do.” He offers up our names and his hand for a shake and an explanation of our dilemma. “Looks like a fine mess we’re in with a tire low on air and no jack, huh,” Dad says.
The man and woman nod, admiring the Hearsemobile, giving us the once-over, up and down, but not in any judgmental or envious way, just merely curious, is all, so far as I can tell. They appear to be friendly and good-spirited, sympathetic and willing to lend a helping hand, which is a good thing, ’cause you never know when you’re lost and alone and out of your element in the strange boondocks of backwater Mississippi.
The woman offers us some of her water in a plastic jug and pulls out some hard rock candy, which we accept with gratitude, and we’re now feeling quite at ease with their warm, gentle smiles and genuine concern over our sorry state of affairs.
The man says, “Phew, sure is hot, now, ain’t it.” He wipes his brow. The woman corrals her kids and instructs them to settle down. The man says, “Now you just hold on while I go fetch us a jack to get this here tire fixed up and you’ll be on your way.” Dad nods eagerly.
Luckily, the family lives in that farmhouse we’d passed a while back, not more than a ten minute walk, and, just as he said he would, the man soon returns waving the jack triumphantly, the most precious item in the world to us at this moment. The man insists that he do us the favor of changing the tire and tells us there’s a gas station with an air hose at Bean Junction, but it might not be working. But at the least, he says, we can stop at the Catfish Shack and order up the best catfish sandwich around while we figured things out, and his buddies would probably be hanging out there to give us a hand if need be.
We profusely thank the family and wish them goodbye, and they wish us good luck and prepare to go off on their way. Dad, bless his heart, pulls out a ten dollar bill from his wallet, but the man holds up his arm, palm out, and flatly refuses to accept it with an imperceptible bow. “We just happy to be able to help you out, that’s all, sir,” he says. “Now we be on our way, and you on yours.”
And with that, we thank our lucky stars — and God! — for their existence and generosity, because no one else was bound to come along this lonesome stretch of back country road. The feeling of joy and relief is immeasurable once we’re on our way, safely resuming our trip through the Mississippi heartland, but we still have to keep it at just thirty until we reach the gas station at Bean Junction to get air, and I’m thinking, please dear God, let there be air, let there be air!
Stay tuned for CHAPTER FIVE!