Chapter 9
Dads, Truckers and Bigfoot
I had only been at Susan's for a week when I got the letter. My biological father wanted me to meet him in Shreveport, Louisiana in a few days. He was traveling there from Florida to visit some of his children from his second marriage. I had never met my half-sister Lisa and half-brother Randy and figured it might be a while before I would get another chance. So I made arrangements to link up with him.
I never really knew my biological father well, because my stepfather had cared for me since I was two. He was my Dad. But I had heard the stories about my father. He was the happy-go-lucky sort—just like his offspring.
I remember meeting him as an adult for the first time five years earlier when I was 24. We had some beers together and he told me stories about his short-lived career in the 50s as a Florida highway patrolman and a Fort Myers city cop. While on duty as a highway patrol rookie, he noticed a car parked along the banks of the Caloosahatchee River with its lights off. He pulled up behind it and kept his own headlights aimed at the back of the car so he could check it out. As he walked up to the vehicle, suddenly his lights went out. He turned to see his brand new patrol car rolling into the river. He had forgotten to set the emergency brake. So ended his beginnings in law enforcement.
I had some of his basic personality, his same genes. And not all of them were industrial or disciplined. When I did the smart thing, I thought of my mother or my stepfather. If not for their strict and loving guidance, I would have made many more mistakes than I did over the years.
Like father, like son.
So it was off to Shreveport for a few days. I was all caught up with my part-time jobs and still didn't have transportation or much money, but if I was going to go, this would be the time. And hitchhiking sounded fun.
It was 560 miles to my destination. I doubted I could make it in one day, but I figured I would give it a try. Susan dropped me at the on-ramp to Interstate 40 towards Arkansas just before noon, and once again, I powered up my thumb.
I got a ride almost immediately from a rough-looking, red-headed man in a faded-green Chevy Impala. He said his name was Fred and that I could ride with him as far as Memphis. Fred seemed nervous and I wasn't sure if it was because he was afraid of what I might do, or if he was up to something himself. To play it safe, I told him I was going to see my father who was a highway patrolman. But that only seemed to make him more nervous.
I had never owned a gun, but Susan had given me a can of mace, which I was ready to grab if needed. But I was bigger than Fred. If he tried anything I was certain I could overpower him – providing he wasn't carrying a weapon.
It took us about four hours to reach Memphis. I was sleepy off and on, but was afraid to let down my guard. I could have walked away from Fred when we stopped for gas and something to drink, but getting another ride might not be easy. So I stuck it out. When he let me off I gave him a $10 bill for the gas. That relaxed him.
I wasn't sure where I was in Memphis, until I saw a sign that said Elvis Presley Boulevard. Hey, maybe I should stop and see Graceland while I'm in the neighborhood. Why not? I wasn't sure where on the boulevard it was, but I was sure I would run into it before long. So rather than hitchhike, I walked.
Like Demonbreun Street in Nashville, Elvis Presley Boulevard was Tourist Row. Gift shops lined both sides of the street and the shoppers looked as if they were part of the same army of obese, pale-skinned retirees, packing floppy purses and Instamatic cameras. I never saw so many cars in one place with "Ruby Falls" bumper stickers.
The only thing I had heard about Elvis's home was what rocker Mick Jagger allegedly said when a reporter asked him for his impressions after a visit. "It's just what you would expect the inside of a house to look like if you had a million dollars to spend at K-Mart."
Every gift shop I saw had Elvis memorabilia. The man's friends and hangers-on were going to make far more money from him dead than they ever did alive. When I finally saw the gate bearing the large words, "GRACELAND, I decided not to stop after all. Let him rest, I thought. Then I walked and walked, until I was far from it all.
It would be dark soon, so I started thinking about where I was going to spend the night. I was nowhere near any of the arteries leading out of Memphis and towards Shreveport. I found my hotel 10 minutes later – Whitehaven High School, closed for the summer. The foyer extended out far enough to keep me dry if it rained. I was out of sight of the public and should be able to hear anybody walking up the steps.
I put on my thin jacket – more to shield mosquitoes than to stay warm, then rolled up a spare shirt for a pillow. After my bed was in order, I sat up, opened my notebook and worked on my songs – with the aid of all the street lights. I slept well on the concrete that night, which concerned me. I didn't want to get too accustomed to living on the streets.
The next morning, I woke up feeling dehydrated from walking the night before and not drinking any water. I put on the cleaner of my two shirts and set out to get some breakfast. Soon, I heard music from a nearby church. As I passed by the front of the building, something caught my eye in the bushes. I took a closer look and when I stooped to pick it up, was pleased to find it was an unopened can of Budweiser.
Tapping the top of the can to keep down any fizz, I opened it and said a silent thank you to the church for the gift. It went down warm, but still tasted great. Songs related to situations were always popping into my head, so I wasn't surprised to hear the lyrics to Kris Kristofferson's "Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down."
I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head
and it didn't hurt
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad so I had one
more for desert…
It may have been too early for a beer, but I took advantage of the moment and held a little concert for myself, strolling down the street singing all the Kristofferson songs I knew. I closed the show with the lines from another of his songs, accepting the irony of the moment:
…I ain't sayin' I beat the devil
But I drank his beer for nothin',
Then I stole his song.
While I was walking, I had my thumb out in case somebody felt like picking me up. After stopping for a bite to eat at a convenience store, I walked on. Of all the rides I could have solicited, wouldn't you know a Yellow Cab driver finally pulled over. He told me it was a slow day and he felt sorry for me, driving me as far as Interstate 55, south towards Jackson, Mississippi.
My next ride was a younger-than-he-looked white-haired man driving a '47 Chevy. It began to rain again. The old car was missing a windshield wiper on my side, but the driver's wiper was going "clackity-clack" almost in time to the music on an oldies station. When "I'm all shook up" came on, I pretended we were back in time.
"So, what do you think of that young upstart Elvis Presley?"
"He'll never last," he said.
My oldies ride had to ditch me in Jackson. For the next two and a half hours, I tried everything I could to get a ride. Nothing worked. I must have been passed by 50 or 60 servicemen returning from a weekend of warrioring – and I was ready for them with a large sign reading "VET." But I was ignored.
There seemed to be a pattern between certain car styles and their drivers – and how they reacted to me. Overall, in my hitchhiking days, good 'ol boys in pick-ups gave rides the most often. Most of the drivers were low-paid working stiffs who could probably relate to being stranded without a car. Forget getting picked up by a vacationing family. But I could count on the whole bunch gawking at me like I was a roadside attraction.
Then there were the middle-aged men who reacted to me as if I was a problem child. They drive late model big cars and shake their heads while mouthing the word, "No," as in "no way am I going to give YOU a ride." The more timid types pretended they didn't see me, or they would look at me and point to the left or right as if they have to make a turn just up the road. They would like to help, but they're not really going my way.
There are the curious types too, who will slow down and look me up and down as they get close, then step on the gas and rocket onto the interstate. In shopping malls, I can usually get a smile or a hello from women. But behind the wheel, I'll notice they will look at me through the corner of their eye without turning their head. Truckers totally ignore me and never, never stop.
Just as it was getting dark, a guy in a military uniform pulled over. He was the first military black man I had seen. I wondered if his act of kindness was because he knows what it's like to be snubbed or ignored. But I never got a chance to ask him. He had to turn off three miles further.
I found myself at a truck stop called S.O.S. 19 Wheels. I sat down at a table and had a Hostess Twinky and a Coke, while trying to decide what to do next. A table near me was packed with truckers flirting with a sleazy-looking waitress with a cute butt. While I was sitting there I overheard one of the truckers say something about Shreveport. That was my cue.
"Excuse me," I said, approaching the table. I know you guys aren't supposed to pick up hitchhikers, but I'll foot the bill for a six-pack of beer if one of you will take me as far as Shreveport."
The next thing I knew, we were hustling out to the parking lot like a pack of football players breaking up from a huddle. Fourteen trucks were lined up as part of a convoy going from Atlanta to Dallas. The group's leader, Rex, directed me to his rig, a 70-ton, 18-wheeled metal warehouse.
Once out on the highway, Rex must have shifted gears a dozen times until he settled in at 75 miles per hour. The dashboard was—as soulful singer/songwriter Tom Waits put it in a song—"lit up like the ol' Madam Marue pinball…a serious semi-truck." Through my rearview mirror, I could see the line of headlights wrapped around a bend behind us. The ride was anything but smooth. It was like sitting on a jackhammer. The smallest bump jarred every organ in my body—especially my bladder. Rex had taken me up on my offer of a six-pack and was downing his first bottled Miller. But I don't think he was the only one drinking. Barely an hour had passed before the whole convoy pulled over on the shoulder for a bladder break.
Illustration by Marisa Renz
We had sailed through Vicksburg, Mississippi and were closing in on Monroe, Louisiana. I didn't know what the truckers' cargo was and felt it was impolite to ask. Rex's CB radio sounded like a Saturday night auction as he and the other truckers sang songs out-of-tune and told dirty jokes over the air.
Rex did a rendition of country rocker Charlie Daniel's "Devil went down to Georgia," with lines like "He was in a bind 'cause he wasn't getting' any behind." Between jokes or sometimes in the middle of a sentence, he would interrupt himself with a sharp whistle and then continue where he left off.
As we drove along, Rex heard about a highway patrol radar unit—or "Smokey with its ears on"—ahead. The whole convoy slowed to the speed limit, then picked it up again after passing the Smokey.
We were nearing Houghton, Louisiana, just outside of Shreveport, when Rex announced he had some freight to unload. I thanked him and climbed down from the huge cab. As the truckers passed me in the night, I raised my right arm high and gave them a familiar hand signal. Each one blew his air horn as they accelerated for Dallas.
I walked to a gas station and called my extended family, who left immediately to pick me up. I would never have recognized Randy in a crowd, even though I had seen pictures of him. He was tall, but looked nothing like me or my biological father. Lisa, on the other hand, resembled both of us. I had wondered before the trip if I would be attracted to her, or if the realization that she was my sister would override the fact that I was meeting an attractive woman for the first time. Once I met her, I had no trouble thinking of her as my sister, in spite of her beauty. My father had changed little since I last saw him. Tall, big gut, always laughing and cutting up.
We stayed up until 4:00 a.m. talking and drinking beer. The next morning, Randy and his friend Clay drove us to a small private lake in the backwoods of Shreveport. We slalom skied on a special course put together by Louisiana State University's ski team. Randy and Clay were outstanding skiers.
The rest of the day was spent lounging around in the shade of an old oak tree and swimming in the lake. Later, my father took us to visit the late Johnny Horton's grave. He knew I had liked Horton's music and had even booked him back in 1958 as part of an open house for Jim Walter Homes in Houghton.
Horton had worked in the fishing industry in Alaska and California, and attended college in Seattle. He reminded me of my poet mentor, Robert W. Service. Some of Horton's hits included "When it's springtime in Alaska," "The battle of New Orleans," "Sink the Bismarck," and "North to Alaska." My favorite song though was "Whispering Pines."
Horton married Billie Jean Jones, the widow of Hank Williams. He died in a car accident in 1960 and was buried in Houghton.
I couldn't believe how small his headstone was. And simple. It read: "Johnny Horton 1925-1960 Here lies a perfect man, my husband." It saddened me to think that this is what it all comes down to for some of the great ones. I guess I had envisioned a large mausoleum on the top of a hill overlooking town. Horton's daughter also used to cut Randy's hair. It made me wonder if his children ever received any of his money. For that matter, I wondered if Horton ever saw any of his money.
The following night I met Randy and Lisa's mother and stepfather. The two of them so reminded me of my own mother and stepfather, I felt as if I was stepping into another dimension. Just how widespread was my family? My father had been married four times by now and he was currently single. How many more times would he marry? And how many kids were there from the four marriages?
The next day, I was introduced to my father's family from his third marriage – his former wife Debbie and their two kids, Dwayne and Stephanie. I had already met his fourth wife Shirley and daughter Dana in Fort Myers.
So now I had met all or most of my father's children. I wondered what my biological father's perspective was regarding his past. Perhaps it was best if he hadn't tried to visit us when we were growing up. It might have been disruptive, confusing. Maybe my mom and stepdad had told him to stay away. I don't know. But I suspect my life would have amounted to far less if my mom and stepdad had not been there for me.
I saw no depth in my biological father. I admired his being upbeat and laughing all the time. But there seemed to be nothing beyond that. In conversations, we never got past the small talk. Inevitably, he would direct our conversations back to "You know, when I win a million dollars at the casino, I'm going to buy each of my kids a new house and car." Years later, on his death bed, he would repeat the same line.
I wrote the following song, partly inspired by him, party inspired by who I could become if I ceased to think:
OLD MAN ON THE TOWN
His eyes search the bar room for an honest mistake
and rest on a table where a young lady waits
He knows he can't win her through the gray hairs of time
so he goes for his wallet, money makes the best line
And he's a latter day saint, he'll try but he can't
He would if he could but he knows it's too late
His best years have gone, the worst's yet to come
He'd like to just leave but there's no place to run
Hey don't you think it's high time he left it behind
he's lived every memory that could fill a man's mind
But his lust for the ladies keep dragging him down
Slowly he's sinking, old man on the town
There once was a time when his looks brought him love
those blue eyes and muscles were more than enough
Beautiful heads turned when he'd walk the streets
he could charm any woman right off of her feet
Now he's a latter day saint, he'll try but he can't
He would if he could but he knows it's too late
His best years have gone, the worst's yet to come
He'd like to just leave but there's no place to run
Hey don't you think it's high time he left it behind
he's lived every memory that could fill a man's mind
But his lust for the ladies keep dragging him down
Slowly he's sinking, old man on the town
Before I knew it my visit was over. Lisa drove me to Highway 71 North, just out of Bossier City. From there, the road would take me to Texarkana, bordering Texas and Arkansas.
Two hours later, I got picked up by a man named Herman, who took me as far as Gilliam, Louisiana. Enroute, I asked him if he knew anything about the town of Fouke, where I hoped to stop on my way back to Nashville. "There's a lot of prejudice in that town," he said. "I haven't been through there in a while, but they used to have a saying, "Nigger, don't get caught in town when the sun goes down."
He asked why I wanted to know about Fouke.
"In the early 70s, I saw a movie called 'The Legend of Boggy Creek,'" I said. It was about a Bigfoot creature terrorizing people in the backwoods and swamps around Fouke. I don't know if there's really such a creature, but I want to stop there and get a feel for the place."
After Herman dropped me off, two young black men in an old Cadillac picked me up. The racist in me said not to trust them, that they might be up to no good. But the part of me that overrides my redneck influences, said they were okay. As we were driving, I asked them about Fouke and they replied that they wouldn't want to break down in that town. And it wasn't Bigfoot they feared.
When we passed a sign saying "Fouke: Population 506, I asked if they would let me out. They slowed down, but refused to come to a complete stop. I had to hop out with the car doing about 10 miles per hour. Even at that speed, I lost my balance when my feet hit the pavement and I fell, scraping my arm.
Illustration by Marisa Renz
When I stood up and brushed myself off, I saw that I was in front of Pat's Café. In the shade of the building, a man in his mid 40s wearing dark sunglasses and a soiled Stetson, was sitting peering at me over the glasses.
"Ya' hitchhikin'?"
"Yes, sir," I said, wondering if he was going to ask me about the company I was keeping.
"My name's Harrol Smith," he said. "That's H A R R O L."
He asked me where I was going. I told him about visiting my father in Shreveport and why I wanted to stop in Fouke on my way back to Nashville.
Harrol spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the pavement.
"Wael, all I can tell you is the truth. There ain't no sense lyin' about it. The only time I ever lie is to a jealous husband or the police, and at times I've had to do both."
"They filmed the movie in 1972," he said. "I wattn't in it but my father, Willie Smith, was the old man tendin' the store in the beginn' of the show when the lil' boy come runnin' up hollering, 'Mr. Willie, Mr. Willie…'"
"How much of it was based on truth?"
"Almost all of it. They even used the people it happened to and not them Hollywood actors."
"Do you think there's anything to the sightings?"
"Has to be. Been too many things happen' too long for there not to be. My aunt is 85 years old and she told me about it.
"Back then, I owned a little grocery store across the street there. Hell, I earned $25,000 that year. I had tourists comin' in from everwhere. Even had a plaster cast made of a foot print. It was 14 inches long and 57 inches between steps."
"Have you ever seen the creature yourself?"
"No, I haven't. But I heard 'em. They sounded like a retarded person screamin', only 10 times as loud…like a high-pitched moan. The hair on my arm stood straight up. They're s'posed to be anywheres from four to eight feet tall, black and hairy."
"So there's more than one?"
"Yeah, several."
"Could they just be bears?"
"There ain't no bears around here."
We were interrupted by a customer at the gas pump. I walked inside and paid the woman behind the counter for a Coke, then asked directions to the restroom. There was a sign on the wall there that read, "I'm in this business for one reason: to make a profit. I do this by selling food and drinks, not by providing a free restroom service. –The owner."
I was going to ask some more questions, but there was a second car waiting to get gas. So I thanked Harrol for his time and started footing it out of town.
I hadn't gone far when an elderly couple pulled over. They introduced themselves as Sam and Marie Massey and volunteered to take me all the way to their town of Little Rock. Sam said he was retired from the H.J. Heinz company after putting in 34 years.
We talked about everything during the 2 ½ hour drive to Little Rock. They were a wonderful couple, full of enthusiasm and just as down home as can be. We were having such a great time that Sam insisted the two of them drive me all the way to Nashville, even though it was 350 miles out of their way. I tried to argue, but they wouldn't hear of it. When they dropped me off just after dark, they still had a six hour drive back to Little Rock. I was overwhelmed by their kindness. It was the highlight of my trip.