This morning as I drove down the major connector road to the other main connector road I noticed an old guy walking a tiny dog down the sidewalk in front of the 19th century houses that line the main thoroughfare.
He was wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, a black short sleeve t-shirt underneath, a leather cap on his head, Levi's with a chain attaching his wallet to his belt to thwart and discourage theft. Under the black leather cap, his grey hair was pulled back into a pony tail that spilled over his collar and traveled half way down his back.
Damn, I thought to myself, we have landed in the place where old motor cycle gang members retire. As I looked around it became even more evident that this was true. Rail Roaders' and Aging Harley guys.
I have been meeting the locals, one at a time. Since the town's population is slightly over 1400, I should have it completed in no time. Today, after a night of tremendous thunder storms and numerous tornado watch issued, which I gloriously slept through waking only long enough to shout out "DAMN" at the loudest claps of thunder to roll over and resume dreaming.....I ambled over to the the Storage Units where I am once again forced to rent one because I have too much stuff.
The owner is Jr. Johnson, past sheriff of this fine community. A small man who I imagine was no nonsense at one time. He was very nice and now knows everything about me that brought me to have to rent a storage area. He sent me down to the local hardware store to pick up a heavy duty lock from Boogie.
I've yet to go, saving Boogie for later.
Next there was Ed, the BBQ smoker guy who has a small shack by the side of the road. I passed it, famished last Sunday, and quickly found out if it is Sunday in this here parts, not much is open if you do not travel into Clarksville. As I flew by his road side attraction I noticed the Motor Cycle Gang of about eight to twelve bikes lined up in the gravel parking lot (I am always reminded of Pee Wee Herman sashaying out of the Biker Bar only to knock over the row of Harley's lined up)and took note. As I flew back by a little later on I slowed down and pulled in. The neon light was still on flashing "OPEN" and in I went.
He is old. And by old, I mean in his 80's or quite possibly his 90's. He sits behind a make shift drive thru window and seemed surprised that I wandered in. "My waitress is gone for the day" he told me with sorrowful eyes weighed down by enormous purplish bags. "That's fine, I just would like something to go".
I was so hungry I slapped together a sandwich in the parking lot, cold slaw on BBQ with hot sauce served on a hamburger bun.
It was heaven! Sweet and smoked and the best ever pork BBQ I have ever tasted. I went back in to tell him how it was like magic and he talked about UK Basketball, since my accent is not quite right, where am I from? Central Kentucky, outside of Lexington...and so it goes.
The guy who owns the Flea Market, Jimmy C., has put me open a waiting list to rent a booth space. (I thought I would sell my books at the Flea market rather than house them in the storage unit and make some money). I am number 75. "How long do you think I will have to wait?" "Maybe forever. Unless some of those before you die or leave. You see, once they grab ahold of those booths, they hardly ever give them up." "Sounds to me you should expand your flea market." "Lord no honey!! It's too much work right now."
I have yet to venture into the State Line Bar which also sits on the Main Main Drag, a small red shack of a building with a gravel parking lot. The lot is normally filled with pick up trucks and motorcycles. I think I may be fine in there, but Joe just shakes his head and hums the theme to Deliverance.
I can't wait to get in there.