I woke up in a panic.
It wasn’t the usual, had the same fucking dream, kind of panic that I’m used to facing when eyes crack open. But rather, it was the variety I only experience when I’m on the road.
I glanced at the bluffs overlooking the Ohio outside my balcony window to help ground me. And for once, I can honestly say that I was thankful for the existence of Kentucky.
After hastily getting dressed, I zombied down to the lower level after a detour to the parking lot. I needed some smoke to help chase away the fog. As I sat on the ledge overlooking the hilltop entrance, I couldn’t help but miss the convenience of immediate self-destruction.
But I guess those days have gone up in a smoke all their own.
Breakfast was not particularly noteworthy. Just the typical hotel fare. Although something about the view made the food appear just a bit more palatable. Probably a good thing, since I knew I would need that sustenance to face the day. My appetite, fickle in the easiest of times, is even more finicky when I’m traveling.
I made the biggest dent I could on the gathered offerings and then it was off to the streets. The time for a good old fashioned typewriter hunt was at hand and I was excited to hit the usual haunts.
But, I struck out. There wasn’t a single machine to be found, save for the ubiquitous Underwood desktop. The variety which around these parts has often been known to be repurposed into a boat anchor.
While waiting for one of the antique places to open for their Sunday hours, I took a break down by the Ohio.
Sitting in the shade along the shore, I listened to that song as the waves from passing coal barges lapped against the shore. Sent a few messages out to friends and family, updating them on my adventures. Tortured my favorite archeologist with pictures of the “rare arrowhead” I claimed to have found. A joke I will always find funny.
Then it was more shops along the south side of Main before heading back up the giant hill to the room to enjoy some cool air and another dip in the jetted tub. Sore muscles needed the soak. And a heart still broken needed to slow the fuck down.
Before appendages pickled to an uncomfortable degree, I extricated myself from the creature comforts. Because it was time to type.
There were some letters in need of sending. And for those of you on the receiving end, you might actually read this spoiler before it hits your box. But for reasons I am unwilling to share, it seemed important those letters be stamped with a Madison cancellation.
And it was strange typing down here compared to my usual Mitten haunts. People seemed intrigued by the bald idiot banging away on an antique. But not many were brave enough to actually say anything. It was hilarious seeing that quintessential Hoosier stoicism at work. Because up in Michigan, people have never been shy about chatting me up while typing it down.
By the time I had finished banging out the second letter, and most of an underwhelming Americano, it had started to sprinkle. Given my lackluster hunting abilities at that point, and the shift in the weather, I decided to head north. Maybe I’d have better luck at some of the more modern thrifty places. A decision fueled more by the extra shots in the coffee than by actual necessity.
But I struck out there, too.
The coffee and breakfast were starting to wear off. So I thought it prudent to duck into a grocery to stock up on necessary supplies. Pringles, milk duds, a few liter bottles of soda, etc. You know, food.
Then it was back for another soak. Only this time, with the fireplace alight and a Colts game on the television. A rare treat since it’s been prohibitively expensive being a Colts fan in the land of the QD Lions.
The water relaxed sore muscles enough that a nap on the king bed, sprawled in air conditioning cranked all the way down, sounded amazing. So I treated myself to a gentle tap out, fully aware that I’d be ticking off another “Old People Bingo” square with that indulgence. Because they never tell you growing up just how much you’ll grow to appreciate the simple joy of a cathartic nap.
Waking up to more substantial rain, I knew I needed to keep moving. Bad things happen when foxes sit still for too long. A fact I was reminded of the night before when I was visited by my furry brethren. That adorable little grey fox who appeared, scrounged around, took a shit, and then scurried off into the night.
*sigh* My spirit animal.
So it was a quick shower to feel human and then I was back on the hunt. Not for typers, but rather for a proper pint. There were a few choices available, despite it being a day devoted to someone else’s God, so I stopped at the most promising.
I settled in at the bar and waited to order. A slightly inebriated patron asked if he could join me and I did my best to politely decline that shit. There wasn’t the headspace available for such barroom interactions and thankfully he finally took the hint and left me alone to peruse the choices.
I was more relieved to see that Guinness was on tap.
A pretty bartender noticed me and walked over, smiling. She asked me what I was drinking. I ordered a pint and politely declined the offered menu, fully intending to just drink my dinner.
She asked me how I was and I did my best to deflect that interaction, too. But, she just wasn’t buying it. And immediately called me out on my conversational bullshit.
There was no choice but to come clean. So I confessed the truth behind my trip to her little town. And much to her credit, she neither ignored, nor dismissed, the hurt plainly evident on my face.
Instead, she offered me a hug.
There were no strings attached. No hidden agendas. Just a simple human connection offered to a man who needed it more than he was actually willing to admit.
It reminded me of another hug. One shared years ago, back when the teargas had barely cleared. And the city of Wayne was still teetering in nervousness.
As much as I wanted to just collapse into her, I declined the hug. Not because it would have been inappropriate. But because there was no guarantee I would remain a master of my emotions. And I’ve been drinking long enough to know that nothing good ever comes from barroom tears.
She checked in on me throughout the night. Offered me multiple opportunities to peruse the menu. I’m guessing because she could clearly sense that I was starving. And what I couldn’t share was that the things for which I was aching, well, they were not listed on that particular menu. But it still meant something that she could genuinely care so much about a random, hurting stranger.
When it was time to settle up, I asked that she put an “after work drink” for herself on my tab. She smiled a pretty smile and politely declined, stating she’s not much of a drinker. So instead, I tipped her almost as much as the tab.
Since she seemed genuinely interested in the fact that I write, I unpinned one of my custom buttons brazenly advertising this site. And then I gave it to her. A tangible reminder of a meaningful conversation between gentle barroom strangers.
When she returned with my card and receipt, I noticed she had pinned that silly button to her shirt. And that made me smile.
Maybe she’ll actually remember me. Perhaps enough to even look me up.
I hope that she does; there was a lot we never had the chance to say.
And I’d like to finish that conversation.
