Road Trip Pt. 02

Tennessee

In another few months, all hell would break loose in the Arkansas wildlife refuge I camped at overnight: the various hunting seasons would begin. Rabbits, squirrel, ducks, geese, deer, and even chipmunks beware! The hunters are coming! The hunters are coming!

In absolute stillness, I stood with a small empty envelope in my hand, alone on the banks of the White River in Arkansas, as I watched my late wife's ashes drift slowly away from me on the surface of the water carried by hidden eddies. I thought of the symbolism: ashes instead of life, drifting away instead of increasing intimacy; eddies representing the unpredictable events in our lives that change us forever, and the river personifying our continuing existence and flow through life.

I shook my head, still in disbelief that Karen had departed this life. I believed that her spirit carried on, and could even become part of another being who returned to this realm to continue their spiritual evolution and growth, maybe even to interact with me in some way. Maybe we were still soul mates. I completed my small ceremony and walked back to the Harley. I'd packed up most of my campsite, so I only needed a few more minutes before getting back on the road.

I'd ridden my motorcycle to this campsite the day before from El Dorado, Arkansas, leaving behind a beautiful woman named Pat that I easily could have spent more time with, but instead I chose to continue my meandering path through my grief and self examination, and through the remainder of the lower forty-eight states. I wondered if I were maudlin or ghoulish by continuing to dwell on Karen's death and by spreading her ashes in every state I visited. I wondered if I'd finish my healing by the end of my trip – so young, so beautiful, so loving, so exciting, and so dead – and even now, mysterious, as I continued to discover things about her from her sister Lauren – things she chose to hide from me.

I crossed over an impressive and aging metal bridge that spanned the Mississippi River and by ten o'clock I'd started rolling through the southern suburbs of Memphis.

Memphis was another exception on my journey. I had chosen to side step most of the large cities along my route. I was of a mind that if you'd seen one large city, you'd seen them all; further, I'd had to travel heavily the past ten years in my technology work, and I had seen so many of them they all started to look alike. Thus, I'd skipped such interesting places as New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Atlanta, and even New Orleans. I'd also chosen to avoid the Interstate highways when I could; I wanted to see the America away from the heavily traveled paths, see what had happened to small town life, and open myself to new adventures that I believed lay off high speed routes. Somehow, I knew my destiny lay on these back roads, and not on some Interstate.

As I got near Memphis, I cut east until I found Elvis Presley Boulevard. A short ride north and I found Graceland – home of the King of Rock and Roll for two decades starting in the mid-1950s. Sometimes a sucker for 'schmaltz,' I stopped to tour the attractions at Elvis' house and the surrounding buildings. I walked through the small mansion staying behind the velvet cordons, enjoying views of the white living room, the green carpeted and famous Jungle Room, and even the King's grave. I got a look within his custom jet named after his daughter Lisa Marie, the large collection of his clothing, awards and memorabilia, and some of his cars –the famous pink Cadillac and even his Harley Davidson motorcycles. I had a late lunch at the Rock and Roll Café, and later concluded that everything within at least three miles of Graceland was named 'Elvis Presley" something.

I had always been a fan of Elvis. I admired how he transformed music, almost single handedly launching the rock and roll craze, as well as the era that persists today where the lead singer has to be at least slightly outrageous. My love of music brought me to Memphis and would take me to Nashville; it also reminded me of how much I'd missed in the past few months as I grieved. I missed the music; I missed the happiness the music brought me. I resolved to get both back soon.

It started to rain about an hour out of Memphis. I changed my plans and ended the day at the Natchez Trace State Park an hour later. I set up the tarp and tent in the rain, not a pleasant task. As I did, I had a transistor radio playing through my headset; the weatherman assuring his listeners that the weather front would be gone by morning.

After I got under the cover of the tent and tarp, I unpacked my laptop computer and spent the rest of the afternoon composing emails to my sister Anna, my sister-in-law Lauren, Kim, and a couple of other friends. I told Anna and Lauren about my week in El Dorado as a counterman in a diner, and how I'd helped the police apprehend the man that looked like me and rode a similar bike – the similarities that had resulted in my spending a night in jail before I could prove my innocence.

Somewhat cavalierly, I told Anna and Lauren about my assignation with Pat, the daughter of the owner of the diner and mayor of El Dorado. I made brief mention of my civic medal in connection with apprehending the man doing the chain of robberies. This was the first time I'd sent Anna an email containing mention of my 'love life,' although I omitted the lurid details that I did share with Lauren – how Pat and I made love our first night together all over the diner: on counters, tables, kitchen work surfaces, stools, and the bar; and how we flirted outrageously at work. Lauren, my kinky sister-in-law, would chastise me if I didn't send her an explicit email – something that would titillate her fantasies and provide her masturbatory material. When I got near a Wi-Fi connection the next day, I'd send the emails.

I also wrote in my journal, pasting into the document file both of the emails, and then adding more details about what I thought about Pat, my mother-daughter experience in Louisiana, the current state of my rapidly healing wounds from the Alabama shooting, and my most recent thoughts about Karen and her passing. I could tell by how I wrote and my selection of words that I'd started my transformation back to being a whole person – someone not constantly saddled by loss and grief.

I managed to start a small fire, even in the rain, and fixed dinner from my small collection of nearly-ready-to-serve meals. I read while there was still light, and when I found myself squinting to see the words on the page, I put things away so they'd stay dry and went to sleep.

The weatherman was partially correct. I awoke not to rain, but to deep penetrating fog that wafted through the forest and gave everything an almost eerie appearance. I did some exercises for the first time since the shooting, taking care not to stress my lower left side. I did enough to work up a sweat that necessitated a swim in the river. I packed up the wet tent, tarp, clothes, and camp gear; got everything stowed in place on the motorcycle; and left the campsite. I took time on my way out of the preserve to walk part of the trace or trail, feeling in the ghostly fog the presence of the thousands of famous explorers, settlers, and Native Americans that had used the trail since the beginning of time.

Might I be on a similar exploration as my forefathers that walked the trail? Was my road trip the equivalent journey? They had no idea where they would end up, or even if they would survive. Did I feel the same? I thought so.

The Trace felt so significant to me after those thoughts; I left another spread of Karen's ashes in a pretty place beside the main path. I thought of how I'd parsed some of Karen's remains into the small envelopes originally meant for saving rare coins. I thought back to the various places I'd left a piece of Karen – and a piece of me. Could we ever reclaim the parts of us we leave behind? I also thought about myself and worried about my self-centeredness.

As I started my slow ride east, I realized how I'd compartmentalized my life since Karen died. There were my memories of Karen and our life together for eight years. I had been trying to separate those from the reality of my current life – to put those memories behind me because her death had made each memory painful and bittersweet. In another compartment were my travels on this road trip, including the people I'd met and loved since Karen's death. In still another, my sister Anna and Lauren, and my questions about what my future might be with them.

I'd left my career behind, closing off that compartment – my 'Geek Years,' Karen had called them. Since she died I'd gone into a 'brain-dead' time period when I didn't want to think – or remember – or work. I wasn't motivated to do anything except renovate the motorcycle. I still wasn't ready to contemplate what I would do after my road trip. I had learned that life could be unexpectedly short so I wanted to be sure that my next job would be something that I really enjoyed doing. What that would be, I had no idea. Hopefully by the end of my trip, I would have figured something out.

During the trip I had opened up a long closed compartment of my Army years. I had sought out some of my old buddies and had a few more of them to visit in the days ahead. It was good to connect with the guys who were my life and death companions. It was also good to be physically fit once again after years of my neglect. My gunshot wound had temporarily stopped my morning runs and heavy exercise, but I had replaced them with lots of sexual exercise – the best kind, I thought as a smile crept across my face..

I gave myself some points in the Life Compartment I named Spiritual Growth because of my gratitude, thoughtfulness, communion with Nature when camping, and my service to others – rescuing a farmer, saving some kids floating out to sea, stopping a rape, helping out at the diner, and helping to catch a felon, plus how I felt about the people I met. I'd found loving and willing sexual partners along my travels; they had stimulated my creativity in lovemaking, and Kim had taught me how to add a spiritual component to my lovemaking. However, I felt something was still missing, and I was just skimming the surface in a superficial way.

Each of these areas of my life was a compartment, disconnected from the others, and sometimes, not scoring very high in terms of my performance. I didn't feel whole. I didn't feel integrated. I knew that I needed to become a cohesive whole if I were to ever feel truly happy. It all seemed a daunting task because I was still in healing mode. However, I was glad that I now had a way to look at my life and see what I needed to work on.

I treated myself to breakfast at the Waffle House in Dickson, sent the emails I'd composed the night before over their Wi-Fi, and plotted a route to Nashville. I wanted to make an exception for this medium size city and visit because I loved music, especially country music. So much of country music dealt with lost love in some way; I could remind myself about Karen but sure didn't need help to do that. Since her death I'd avoided listening to country music, but now I felt I could back into it. I'd see how I felt after Nashville. The Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum was on my list, along with attending a couple of matinees and evening performances by some country singers. Since Graceland had been so interesting to me, I thought I'd take the four-hour 'Nashville Homes of the Stars' tour too.

I figured I'd establish a campsite near Nashville and use that as a base of operations, so I spent some extra time using the restaurant's Wi-Fi 'hot spot' while I could. The first two camping places I researched were a not-my-kind-of-place or didn't allow overnight camping. A few more were far on the other side of the city. I decided to camp at Radnor Lake, a nature preserve that also didn't allow overnight camping, but I figured I could use the motorcycle to go 'off trail' and away from the parking and patrol areas, find a place, store my camping gear, and then go into the city for the entertainment. When I came back, I wouldn't build any fires, and I'd keep a low profile until well after the park had opened each morning.

I left Dickson and took one of the few roads that would lead me directly to Radnor Lake. I'd crossed under Interstate 40 on an old, unkempt, and untraveled two lane macadam road, when in the middle of nowhere I came upon a large expensive looking Prevost bus – the kind that are about forty-five feet long, beige, and cost about a million bucks because they have been so extensively outfitted. The engine compartment of the bus was open, and steam was pouring out of the opening – not a good sign. A half-dozen people stood near the uniformed driver looking at the engine. I slowed to a crawl, intending to stop and offer assistance. There was no other traffic on the road and probably hadn't been for days.

Standing by the bus as I came along side was a sexy young woman in her late twenties in daisy duke shorts, a red checked shirt, a ratty looking cowboy hat, big sunglasses, and a pair of western boots. She waved wildly for me to stop – and I did, right next to her; I shut off the engine. I noticed that everyone else watched her, so I figured she was the Queen Bee of the bus.

She jumped up and down with glee when I stopped; "Hi – no one stops for someone in trouble any more – if they even drive on this road; I'm so grateful that you stopped. We shouldn't have come this way, and now we're broken down – as you can tell – and there's no cell phone coverage out here. We've been here almost an hour, and no one has come by."

As several others walked up to me on the motorcycle, I smiled broadly at her; "I'd be glad to help anyway I can. Do you want me to send someone, or give one of you a lift to civilization? I can drive them back here too."

The pert young woman said eagerly, "I'm hoping you can give me a ride into Nashville; I'm late for a recording session, and I'd be ever so grateful. You can even come and watch if you want; many people think they're fun to attend.

Just then, one of the men standing in the group politely but sternly intervened: "Miss Lee, you shouldn't go riding off with a stranger. You don't know who he is or anything else about this man." I ignored the slight figuring I'd tell any female friend of mine the same thing before she rode off with some stranger on a motorcycle.

She turned back to me and said, "Let me introduce myself; my name's Crystal Lee, but I guess you already know that?" She had a vivacious style about her.

I took her cue and responded, "And, I'm Jim – Jim Mellon. I'm from Massachusetts taking the long way to San Diego, and I'd be delighted to give you a ride into Nashville – maybe you can aim me at a good place to camp out along the way." We shook hands; I also offered to shake hands with the heavyset guy that had admonished her not to go with me; he ignored my hand.

I made one further statement that amused everyone standing around. I told Crystal Lee, "Sorry, and I hate to admit it to you, Crystal, but I don't recognize your name. I've been out of touch for a while – a long story. You must be in music if you're late for a recording session."

Crystal smiled and said, "Yes, I'm in country music." Proudly and in a way that showed she was surprised at her own accomplishment, she went on, "I have the number one country music hit in the country right now – 'Flirty, Flirty Cowgirl' ... and if I don't get some new tracks laid down real soon I may become the shortest one hit wonder in decades." I thought I'd heard her song on the radio a few times without paying attention to the artist.

Crystal went on, "There's a band, backup singers, a whole recording studio, and my agent waiting. We're all returning from a public appearance south of here, and the band left in their bus before we did. These folks are part of my entourage – my helpers and groupies, and I love them all." She attempted some introductions, but the names went by quickly.

Crystal said, "Let me get my purse; I'll be right back." She turned and ran back into the tour bus. I'd started to realize that this was a country music star of some kind on her way to some important business.

The heavyset man spoke with me as soon as she was gone in a voice that was both polite and intimidating, "I'm responsible for Miss Lee's security, so humor me. May I please see your driver's license?" I pulled my wallet out and flipped it open to my Massachusetts photo license. He studied it and me – comparing the photo to my face. He pulled a paper from his pocket and wrote down some salient information from the license along with my motorcycle registration number. As he wrote, I gave a thumbnail description of my trip and why I happened to be traveling by on the road. He conceded that not another vehicle had appeared the whole time they'd been broken down. I conceded that he was paid to be suspicious of anyone interacting with his charge.

He said to me, "Miss Lee is headstrong, and trusts too easily. I hope you realize the burden you assume by transporting her – on a motorcycle too." I nodded at his assertion.

The bus driver came up and joined the bodyguard and me. He thrust a business card in my hand and asked that I call the phone number on the card as soon as I could, and explain about the breakdown and where they were. I promised I would send help back soon.

Crystal came up to us with her oversize purse over her shoulder. Brad, her bodyguard, again tried to discourage her from going with me. She refused his advice, and I could see he couldn't do anything other than counsel her.

She turned to me and said, "Jim, let's go. I'm really late, and I hate to be late." The others from the bus had gathered around to watch her departure.

I explained to Crystal that she had to wear a helmet and not the cowboy hat; I put that in the side compartment as she tucked her long brunette hair beneath the helmet I'd bought weeks earlier for Kim and buckled the chinstrap as though she knew what she was doing.

I got Crystal situated on the seat, apologizing that she'd have to hug me because of all the camping gear on the back of the bike. As I mounted in front of her, I thought to ask, "Do you know where we're going?" She nodded; I started the bike and off we went to Nashville.

Crystal would yell in my ear when we got near a turn. As she directed, I got on Interstate 40. A few miles closer to Nashville we stopped at a rest area, and I telephoned the bus company. They promised to send a van for the remaining passengers and a repair truck.

Before we started off again, Crystal asked me, "Did you ever see the movie 'The Princess Diaries?'"

I allowed as how I hadn't, however, I had a hazy idea of the plot.

Crystal told me as she remounted the motorcycle, "Well, that's me. I was this 'Plain Jane,' and then one day about nine months ago I found myself in the spotlight ... with groupies, a bodyguard, an agent, all sorts of others around me, public appearances, and people always wanting a piece of me." She paused and added, "Jim, you are a breath of fresh air, particularly for not fawning all over the place when you learned about me. You're like the guy in the story that rescues the princess and shows her the real world."

I didn't know how to respond to all that so I just shrugged and gave my silly grin. We got back on Interstate 40 east, and then took Interstate 65 north a few exits.

A few more turns off the Interstate exit brought us to a two-lane road where after a mile she had me turn off between two ornate gates into a long straight driveway.