The next morning I felt better again. As I walked back to the highway, I came upon a young man standing near the freeway on-ramp with a large handwritten poster-board sign around his neck. As I got closer, I read the board.
I CHEATED ON MY WIFE.
THIS IS MY PUNISHMENT.
I stopped a couple yards from him, read his sign, then looked up at him. He was red-faced with embarrassment and just stood there, avoiding eye contact. After a moment I said, “She made you do that?”
Glancing furtively at me, he said, “Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“Today. And all day tomorrow.”
I shook my head, then continued walking.
Highway 61 South turned into a bigger, busier road with a speed limit of seventy miles per hour. Fortunately it had a wide shoulder. I kept thinking back on the guy with the sign around his neck and chuckling.
I crossed into Pemiscot County and left the highway for a frontage road lined with cotton fields. Four hours into my walk I stopped at Chubby’s BBQ for lunch.
South of the Mason-Dixon line, barbecue restaurants are as plentiful as deviled eggs at a church picnic. In the same vein that the state of Washington prides itself on the creative naming of coffee shops, the South holds the titling of barbecue joints in high regard. I dedicated a page in my journal to writing down some of their names.
Fat Matt’s
Kiss My Ribs
Squat and Gobble
Swett’s
Bubba’s
Porkpies
Birds, Butts and Bones
The Boneyard
The Bonelicker
Barbecutie
Butts
Bubbalous Bodacious Barbeque
Dixie Pig
Bone Daddy
Prissy Polly’s
Pig Pickins Parlor
The Boars’ Butts
The Prancing Pig
Holy Smokes (A bbq joint in a converted Lutheran church)
Sticky Lips
Adam’s Rib
The Rib Cage
The Butt Rub
The Pig Out Inn
Hog Wild
Half Porked
Lord of the Swine
Big D’s Piggy Strut
The Swinery
Some of the restaurants’ slogans were noteworthy as well.
“We shall sell no swine before its time.”
“A waist is a terrible thing to mind.”
“No pig left behind.”
After a lunch of chopped brisket, collard greens and cheesy mashed potatoes, I returned to the interstate. I disliked walking such a busy road. The draft created by semis traveling at seventy-plus miles per hour would hit my pack like wind against a schooner’s sail and almost knock me over. Twice I lost my Akubra hat, chasing it across more than one lane of traffic. Still, I made decent time and after twenty-six miles I took exit 8 off 61 and walked to the Deerfield Inn. For dinner I ate a meatball sandwich and a tuna salad at the local Subway restaurant.
CHAPTER
Twenty-four
Missouri calls itself the “Show Me” state. I’m not sure if they’re claiming skepticism or voyeurism.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning I reached the town of Steele in less than an hour. Running parallel to the road was a slow-moving train, and I saw several men clambering onto the outside of one of the cars. The scene reminded me of Israel, the hitchhiker I had met outside Marceline, Missouri, which now seemed like a decade ago. It was hard to believe that after all these months I was still in the same state. But not for much longer. Just before noon I saw a small arch spanning the road in front of me. As I approached, I could see that it had the word ARKANSAS written across it.
A hundred yards from the border, I passed a dilapidated white house with a plaque in front of it. I stopped to read it.
EDGAR HAROLD LLOYD
MEDAL OF HONOR RECIPIENT FROM WWII
It was a poor monument, but a monument just the same, and the fact that a hero came from such an unassuming locale made me glad.
Like my transcendent experience of crossing from Wyoming to South Dakota, shortly after crossing the Arkansas state line, the landscape and architecture improved and soon I was walking past country club estates with beautiful manicured lawns and minicolonial mansions. I stopped for lunch in the town of Blytheville, where I ate southern fried chicken.
Unfortunately, not far past the restaurant, the scenery changed from beautiful mini-mansions to pawnshops and boarded-up buildings, making me think the place was only Blytheville for some. I walked another five miles and spent the night at the Best Western Blytheville Inn. That evening I turned on my cell phone to check for messages. No one had called.
CHAPTER
Twenty-five
To challenge the rules of conventionality is to open ourselves to an entirely new universe. One cannot pioneer new worlds from old trails.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next day felt like a rerun of earlier days, with seemingly endless cotton fields and, again, the mysteriously leaning power lines. The tilt of the poles was so perfectly symmetrical that I wondered if they had been purposely set in this manner or if their leaning was caused by some natural phenomenon, like the famed bell tower of Pisa. I vowed to ask someone when I got the chance, which settled my mind on the matter enough that I never actually got around to asking anyone.
I felt physically more able than I had in days and I was eager to get through this lonely stretch, so I walked nearly twenty-five miles until I reached the quaint little town of Wilson. Wilson had once been a thriving logging town, built around a huge sawmill and lumber yard which, decades before, had been closed down, cordoned off by an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
What distinguished Wilson from the other towns along that stretch was the architecture—which, peculiarly, was more British than southern. I stopped for dinner at the Wilson Café and my server gave me some of the history. The town was founded by Robert E. Lee Wilson, who, after cutting down the trees, used the land for agricultural purposes. Wilson pretty much owned the town, but he was a generous public benefactor, and every town resident had use of the company doctor for just $1.25 annually, about $17 in today’s money.
Wilson’s son, Wilson Jr., and his bride, returned from a honeymoon to England fascinated by British architecture. Apparently their excitement was contagious, because shortly thereafter all the town’s buildings were either built or retrofitted with Tudor elements, giving the town a distinct and charming British appearance.
I finished my meal of split-pea soup and pork ribs, then camped the night behind a screen of trees in the park next to the restaurant.
CHAPTER
Twenty-six
For centuries the spiritually seeking have asked God for a sign. Perhaps that’s why there’s so many of them planted out front of southern churches.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next day marked two weeks since I’d resumed my walk. Unremarkably, I passed more cotton fields and walked through a string of small towns: Bassett, Joiner and Frenchmans Bayou (the latter town so named because no one could pronounce the French name the original French settler had given it).
My route led to Highway 77, which I reached just before sunset. I ate fried chicken and Baskin-Robbins ice cream I bought at a gas station, then stopped for the night at the small town of Clarkedale, making camp on the far side of the railroad tracks that ran parallel to the highway. I set my tent too close to the tracks, and when a train whistled in the middle of the night, I woke, all but certain my life was over. I slept fitfully the rest of the night, anticipating the advent of another passing train, which never came.
Early the next morning I reached a town with the biblically inspired name of Jericho. Appropriately, the first street I passed was Praise the Lord Boulevard. Perhaps not so appropriately, the first building I passed was the Jericho Liquor Store. I was always surprised to see more tha
n one church in a town with so few residents, and this town contained many. I walked by a church sign that seemed especially apropos to my circumstance:
Are you on the right road?
I should write something about church signs. Walking from Seattle—the third-least Christian city in America—to the pious southern roads of the Bible Belt, one of the things that stood out to me (in addition to the sheer number of churches) was the phenomenon of church signs. Pretty much all of the churches had signs or marquees. Some were designed to lure people to their meetings, while others were sermons unto themselves. A few of them bordered on the bizarre.
As I had with the Wall Drug signs along Interstate 90 in South Dakota, I decided to dedicate a few pages of my diary to writing down some of these messages.
Walomart is not the only saving place.
God’s last name isn’t “damn”!
Stop, drop and roll won’t work in Hell.
You have one New Friend Request.
From Jesus. Confirm or Ignore.
Santa Claus never died for anyone.
Don’t make me come down there.—God.
Read the Bible.
It will scare the Hell out of you.
Yes, our A/C is out.
But there’s no A/C in hell either!
Free Coffee. Everlasting life.
Membership has its privileges.
Life is a puzzle.
Look here for the missing PEACE.
Forbidden fruits create many jams.
God is like TIDE soap.
He gets the stains out others left behind.
Why pay for GPS?
Jesus gives direction for free.
Honk if you love Jesus.
Text while driving if you want to meet Him.
What is missing from CH**CH? U R
There are some questions that can’t be answered by Google.
Be an organ donor.
Give your heart to Jesus.
Sign broke. Message inside.
People use duct tape to fix everything.
God uses nails.
Prayer isn’t the only thing that can bring you to your knees.
For all you do, His blood’s for you.
Then there were some that could only be described as bizarre.
Don’t let worries kill you.
Let the church help.
Jesus said, “Bring me that ass.”
To ERR is human. To ARRRRR is Pirate.
Face powder may get a man, but it takes baking powder to keep him.
God does not believe in Atheists.
Therefore Atheists do not exist.
Midnight Mass and Toga Party. B.Y.O.B.J.
(Bring your own Baby Jesus)
7 pm Hymn singing. Come prepared to sin.
Keep using my name in vain.
I’ll make rush hour longer.—God
Before noon I passed through Marion, a town with a sizable population, then changed roads to Interstate 55 leading to Memphis.
The road into Memphis wouldn’t have been easy even if I had been at my physical peak. I had a long and difficult day walking, more than twenty-six city miles. Despite my exhaustion, I kept on because I didn’t feel safe enough to camp anywhere. The outskirts of Memphis are a blighted landscape of gutted buildings and stockyards.
When I finally reached the city, I booked a room at the first hotel I came to, the Super 7 Inn Graceland on Brooks Road. I could tell that it was a rough area from the inch-thick, bulletproof partition between me and the angry-looking Indian man working at the reception counter.
Once I was in my room, I found Paige’s phone number and called, but my cell went straight to voicemail. I wondered if her grandmother had died. I left my phone number for when she was ready to talk. I wondered if I would ever hear from her again.
I was too exhausted to leave my room, so I ate an entire box of Pop-Tarts and fell asleep.
CHAPTER
Twenty-seven
Elvis may have left the building, but some of the audience have kept their seats.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning both my head and body ached, which I attributed to pushing myself too hard the day before. Still, I got up earlier than usual, as I planned to put in a normal day of walking but also wanted to take the time to see Graceland, Elvis Presley’s mansion, which had been turned into a museum.
I took a quick shower, dressed, then fled the dumpy little hotel.
It wasn’t hard to find Graceland. In Memphis, all roads lead to Elvis. At the first block I made a right on Elvis Presley Boulevard, then, following the abundant signage, walked a little more than a mile to Elvis’s mecca.
I have a confession to make, one that I fully realize may lessen me in your eyes. I don’t really like Elvis’s music. Before you abandon me on the side of Elvis Presley Boulevard, let me clarify my position. I’m not saying that I don’t like Elvis. I do. Actually, I like the idea of Elvis. And I think that if more people were completely honest, they’d admit the same thing. Elvis is much more than his music, he’s the image, the flash, the iridescent sparkle of rhinestones, the entire American dream wrapped up in a lip-curling, pelvis-gyrating, hunk-a-burnin’-love. Elvis succeeded because we wanted him to succeed—a God-fearing young man from a sharecroppers’ shack speaking out for a generation of American youth with an ingratiating “yes, sir,” and “yes, ma’am.” Of course the fact that women, young and old, found him insanely good-looking didn’t hurt any.
Only in walking through Memphis can one truly realize the extent of the adulation bestowed on the young man from Tupelo who sold a billion records and inspired ten thousand impersonators. Elvis was more than an entertainer—he was divinity in rhinestones. It would not surprise me in the least if someday, perhaps a century from now, a religion springs forth from his legacy. The Church of Elvis. Its followers would wear pompadours, dress in holy white leather rhinestone-studded robes, and resolve to “love each other tender.” The theological possibilities are endless. Hell would be referred to as the Heartbreak Hotel, and at funerals the Elvisian minister would say, “Brother Jones has left the building,” “He’s joined the choir,” or “He’s off to the Graceland in the sky.”
Graceland wasn’t open yet, so I ate breakfast at the adjacent Rock & Roll Café, then waited outside the park in a growing line of Elvis fans. When I got inside the visitor center, I bought a ticket for the whole tour, which included Graceland, Elvis’s auto museum, and his two airplanes.
Graceland is marvelously kitsch, preserved in full seventies splendor, with a black baby grand piano on white carpet, red fur, leopard skin, a jungle room with an indoor waterfall, and stained-glass peacocks. Words like “gaudy,” “garish,” “tacky” and “tasteless” come to mind.
McKale would have laughed herself silly. She would have said something like, “It looks like a Liberace nightmare.” I just thought it was cool. The experience was worth the admission. Heck, it was worth the walk to Memphis.
After the Graceland tour, I took the shuttle over to the auto museum and planes. The Elvis Presley Car Museum houses more than thirty of Elvis’s vehicles, including his famous pink Cadillac, Stutz Blackhawks, a 1975 Dino Ferrari, two Rolls-Royce (one black, one white), a six-door Mercedes limousine, Harley-Davidson motorcycles and the John Deere tractor Elvis drove at Graceland.
Elvis also had two airplanes. His largest, the Lisa Marie (named after his daughter), was a 1958 Corvair 880. Elvis spent nearly a million dollars remodeling the plane with a living room, conference room, sitting room and a private bedroom.
Not to be outdone by Graceland’s kitsch, the airplane has leather-topped tables and suede chairs, a television and telephone, gold-specked bathroom sinks and 24-karat gold-plated safety belts.
His second plane was a smaller Lockheed JetStar, less impressive, but also customized by Elvis with a yellow and green interior.
Finally, succumbing to the commercial allure of the shrine, I broke down and purchased a Gracel
and T-shirt, then set off, walking south down the bustling boulevard back to Highway 51 South. An hour later I crossed the state border into Mississippi.
CHAPTER
Twenty-eight
Some towns, like people, seem to attract history. I suppose this is as much a curse as it is a blessing.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Over the next six days I followed Highway 51 south to Batesville, then walked east on Highway 278. Tolkien wrote that easy times do not make good stories, which is why I have little to write about that part of my journey. The pleasant exception was my stop in Oxford, a historic town between Batesville and Tupelo.
Oxford is a picturesque college town, home of the University of Mississippi (aka “Ole Miss”) and laden with history.
During the Civil War, Oxford was invaded by Generals Sherman, Grant, and Andrew Jackson Smith, the latter of which left his mark by burning the buildings in the town square. Oxford is also the hometown of American writer and Nobel Prize Laureate William Faulkner, who based several of his novels on the small town.
In 1962, Oxford gained national attention twice, first when Faulkner died, then, later that fall, when Mississippi state officials attempted to prevent James Meredith, a black man, from entering the university.
U.S. Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy ordered federal marshals to escort Meredith to school. In response, thousands of protestors rioted, damaging property and killing two men, one of whom was a French journalist sent to cover the affair.
President Kennedy responded by mobilizing the National Guard, which restored order to the small town. Meredith enrolled without further incident and eventually completed his degree, though he was constantly harassed and spent the rest of his time at the university with U.S. marshal bodyguards who escorted him from class to class.