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Carter Monroe's Excellent Adventure
For Bill Slaughter
"Won't you scratch my itch sweet Annie Rich
and welcome me back to town.
Come out on your porch or I'll step into your parlor
and I'll tell you how it all went down.
Out with the truckers and the kickers and the cowboy angels
and a good saloon in every single town.
And I remember something you once told me.
And I'll be damned if it did not come true.
Twenty thousand roads, I went down, down, down,
and they all led me straight back home to you."
Gram Parsons - "The Return of the Grievous Angel"
Man! That's it. That's a song for sure.
As I neared the other side of Georgia,
having been ushered through the state
by Earl King and the Derailers,
I thought aloud,
"Damn! This is something.
What more can a man want?
Gram Parsons is leading me
to the home of the Allman Brothers."
The Bard had written the day before,
"By the time we "get up" (Carter Monroe, JOURNEY)
on Friday at 7:00 a.m. you'll no doubt be able to show me "some
things I ain't never seen before" (Flannery O'Connor, WISE
BLOOD) in my own town. Two great southern writers. One living,
one dead."
I knew that I would find something - something good.
The route and the drive had been so easy.
I wondered several times
why I hadn't become a trucker.
I couldn't recall ever
having doubted my career choice,
but here it was
coming in this barrage of thoughts
at 50 years old - going 75 in a cruiser.
The inn was negotiated with ease by 1:30 p.m.
I took my cooler inside,
stared for a moment, but thought better.
Had seen the Book Mart
as I made my way to the room.
A book is what I need.
Yeah, a book to read
at a bar somewhere.
Maybe I can learn to sip
and be cool. Naaaaah. Too late.
No cracks to worry about on a brick sidewalk.
This town was Chapel Hill in the 70's.
Plenty to do even on a Thursday afternoon.
"Damn! I wish I'd brought Chandler's memoir,
or even his novel for chrissakes!"
It was hot enough to hatch chickens
inside the book mart.
No poetry of note except that by the Bard.
In 30 minutes, I was sweated through and through.
I needed one now.
No need to procrastinate.
There was a sign upon the window - "Ragtime."
I walked in the back door,
but they were only open at the front.
Stepped up to the bar and she gave me a Bud Light.
A bottle's O.K. when you're out of the provinces.
Good music had been playing in the back.
Oldie Goldies in the front.
You can't have everything,
but why not? It's your adventure.
"Hang on Sloopy. Sloopy hang on."
BARF!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Then it happened.
They played "him."
Just like by request. The sounds spewed.
"I don't care, darling, about your past.
HOOP!
I just waaaaant, baby, a love to last.
ALL RIGHT.
The bartendress looked skyward in recognition.
She even danced a bit.
I caught her eye and said,
"What an omen! James Brown on a Thursday afternoon."
She was from Cleveland.
I said about 20 words.
She asked if I was from Carolina.
This woman knew her music and God knows I do.
We went from the Marvelettes to Elvis Costello
in nothing flat.
I told her about my paper
and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
and Leon Russell.
She said he'd been in town three weeks ago.
I told her I was there to meet the Bard.
She knew him. Knew his wife.
Five in an hour's nothing for me,
but on this day they went down too well.
The buzz began to hint.
I paid my tab. Stood up.
"I'm Mo," she said. "And you are?"
"Carter Monroe."
Back in the sobering heat,
I returned to the bookstore.
Bought two of the Bard's first
and took them to my room.
Read my favorites and went to Pete's.
Found out later
this was where the regulars drink.
My room found me at six.
I drank and smoked in silence,
the TV blaring meaninglessly.
Went down after about an hour.
Got five good ones
before the in and outs came.
Arose for the duration at 4:30 a.m.
Best hotel shower in memory.
On to Famous Amos
to have coffee with the other "wore outs."
Men with accents wearing golf clothes,
a guy with two hearing aids and brogan shoes,
a young couple in sweatshirts,
a big, pleasant waitress,
a day old newspaper with box scores,
"Are you ready to order?"
"No thanks. Just keep my cup warm."
Nicotine and caffeine having been properly consumed,
it was on to wait for himself.
The sun had broken through
and the breeze was perfect.
I walked around the office,
smoking and thinking.
Finally, I settled on a stone bench,
closed my eyes and began to sing
the song from the day before,
"Billboards and truckstops pass by the grievous angel
and now I know just what I have to do."
It was then the Bard came forth.
Grayer than his pictures,
but familiar just the same.
A gentle seeming soul who "knew."
An intellect with memory and history.
The man who wrote "The Hostage."
The athlete who displayed the words
that touched the souls of electronic seekers.
Someone who love had found
and who reveled in its fortune.
The Honest Man.
The stories came, the tales of art and craft.
Though we were dogs turned out to hunt,
no sniffing was required.
Amenities had been handled long ago.
More coffee in a "nice" place
as businessmen at a conference
scurried in, out, and about.
"To read," he said, "is the only way to learn.
They make up their minds too early these days."
A quote here and there,
an aside and a laugh,
and finally to a restroom
where businessmen were talking.
"I'd have never said that.
Not if I was in the legislature."
"I know what you mean."
We walked the alley
as he recited my favorite poem,
telling me when he'd finished
how it came about - a woman, of course.
Showed me where it was written.
I listened quietly and noted stops and starts,
his grasp of his own line was perfect.
Then on to his patio where I could smoke.
I told my stories and he told his,
like Big Joe and a platonic Phantom 309.
In nothing flat, it was over.
Four and a half hours that seemed like ten minutes.
He signed the books and gave me directions.
The Bard had been perfect.
Time to hit the road.
I'm carrying the Johns this time,
Hartford, Hiatt, Hammond, Prine, Estes,
and Lee Hooker.
Carter Monroe (c) 2001
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