Safe and Secure -or- The Remora: Part 5: Tons of Burgs (394 hits)
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Submitted by Erosion Rules (View user info) at 2006-05-18 01:20:59 EDT
All of the specific locations mentioned are, in fact, real. For the most part, the described geography is correct as well. However, I would like to correct a few things that have been bugging me:
Goose Bay Road is not off route 37, it's off route 12. I messed that up because I haven't been in that area in almost six years.
The truck stop on the NY/PA border doesn't actually have a flyswatter at every table...there's one for every two tables.
Mutzavaugh's Grocery was spelled incorrectly. All other aspects of Duncannon I remember are accurate, right down to the 7-11 in the "bowl" of the town.
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Part 1: http://www.ubersite.com/m/87398
Part 2: http://www.ubersite.com/m/87495
Part 3: http://www.ubersite.com/m/87784
Part 4: http://www.ubersite.com/m/87928
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Upon finishing my smooth mentholated stick of inhaled relaxation, I attempted to figure out what to do next. My sense of direction is terrible, so getting a map wouldn't help all to much, but it would do the trick if I hitched.
I hated the idea of hitching, always thought of hitchers as parasites. They take and take, and rob those good enough to help them. These days, however, the helpful folks who offer a ride have become just as bad, like white blood cells attacking a dead virus in preparation for immunity. Many people feel the need to cause problems for at least one hitchhiker, just so they feel confident enough to deal with them from that point on.
I was guilty of this myself at sixteen. Some friends and I were heading home from a double feature at the Fence, and we had some drinks. The girls with us had their empty wine cooler bottles, whereas I had my flask of vodka. Our designated sober friend wanted the bottles gone, so we started dropping them into the street behind us as we rode. As I was preparing to pitch the last bottle, I saw a tired looking man walking down the side of the road, with his thumb out. Almost on instinct, the bottle left my hand, and flew toward this hapless individual as I screamed "Fuck you, ya hitchhikin' fuck!" It shattered against his hipbone, and he collapsed by the road, wailing in pain.
Thinking back on that night flared up a deep self-loathing. Where could he have been going? Is it possible he was just someone in need, hoping for the kindness of a stranger to get back home? Maybe he wanted out of a terrible life, and that was the only way. But that night, I saw only a parasite. A disgusting thing that lives only to hurt others. I decided at that point that if I am ever to hitch, I cannot do it for nothing. I would have to do something kind or worthwhile in return. Some not including sexual favors, of course. I was nowhere near desperate enough to give road head. No, I would not be a parasite, I would be like the remora. Something offered in return.
I went back into the 7-11 and bought a map. Not one of those small state maps, but a thick, but small, road atlas of the entire nation. All was laid out before me. I didn't know exactly where I was heading, but I could take a cue from Jack Sawyer, a literary creation whose quest I lived again and again from the age of 14 until just last year in The Talisman. I highly doubted I would be spending any time in other worlds or collecting a large mystical orb, but perhaps there was more meaning to my life yet. I could pick a town name that seemed good, and charge forward headfirst.
The best thing I could do at the moment was to choose a road and start walking. I chose what seemed to be one of the best maintained roads. I had a feeling the worse the road maintenance, the higher the chance of getting picked up by some anal raping woods dweller. Thank you, Deliverance.
Perry County was a strange little place. This well maintained road seemed to go one forever, and buildings seemed to suddenly disappear, giving way to spacious fields and Amish buggies. Twice I was greeted in front of farms by Siberian huskies. The first was friendly enough, but still wisely shy. I approached politely, and allowed a few quick pats on the head before running off to the next all too important task in the life of a dog. The second husky was much less tolerable, and it took a handful of dusty road-shoulder to shoo it away. It was an overly friendly, hyperactive beast with an overpowering smell of dead things and shit. Bits of various wastes hung from its matted fur, full body dingleberries. The sheer abundance of nastiness clinging to this animal created almost a shell of filth, and this dog wanted attention. After what seemed like seven thousand dodges, I picked up a handful of grit and sand from the space between pavement and grass, and hurled it mercilessly into this misled creatures face. It bolted away, sneezing.
Many cars passed me, and I had still not yet raised my thumb. I merely stepped off into the tall grass growing next to the road, and allowed them to pass. I had decided on Chambersburg as my next destination. Pennsylvania is full of "burgs." Never before this state have I seen so many similarly named towns. New Yourk had a few "ton" towns (Clayton, Heuvelton), but the numbers didn't even come close to Pennsylvania's "burgs."
I managed to get a ride about six miles down the road from the Siberian crustacean, with its outer shell of feces. It was an older man who was headed southwest, prefect for me. He said he could take me almost halfway there. It was a quiet drive, and I spent most of it with my head out the window like a dog. It was all I could do to keep from hurling myself onto the slowly moving pavement below: The codger was listening to recorded farm reports from 1991. He had a long cassette case of them in the console.
We came to his turnoff, which would lead him east, and I got out. I thanked him, and offered him a twenty. He politely refused, and I insisted, explaining my theory on leeches and remoras.
"Lemme tellya suttin', humbob. I picked you up 'cause you was in need. Tha's enough fer an ol' boy like me any day. You keeps yer bills, I gots alls I need. Save it up, pass the good deed, humbob."
Hearing this geezer spouting country music lessons to me normally would have set me off in a fit of laughter. For some reason, I felt like a better person.
In the distance I heard a siren wail, and thought of Thane... That son of a bitch. I read a headline earlier that morning, staring at me through the window of an honor box. "Officer Gunned Down at Truck Stop." No points for originality in rural Pennsylvania, and not much of a knack for the real story. Gunned down would be generous. Executed seemed much more fitting. I'm sure State Officer Flynn would much rather have taken a swim in George Boldt's pool that day, considering what his fiancee had to deal with when presented with the body. The poor woman was only a year older than me.
I checked the road numbers with my map, and the old man had brought me well beyond halfway. I was barely over a mile outside of Chambersburg.
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User Reviews
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-05-18 03:02:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
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Submitted by Kent_Weirdo (user info) at 2006-05-18 02:00:36 EDT (#)
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See you at the bottom of the front page (by 5 AM!)
Submitted by erosion_rules (user info) at 2006-05-18 01:46:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Why do I always post so late at night? I'm a fucking moron! FUCK!