A quick note: I don’t think a vivid imagination is all it’s cracked up to be. I’m quite certain you have one, but if not, thank the gods of born-with gifts and move on. However, if you’re cursed as I am with a love of storytelling and adventures in galaxies far, far away, and mythical creatures from fictional lands who are more real to you than actual people with blood and bones—which is to say, people who exist—well, let me be the first to pass on my condolences.
Because life is rarely what you imagined it would be.
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Storytelling Lackey
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
(526 Miles to Go)
12
Anomalies
IN SIXTH-GRADE ADVANCED English, my teacher presented a challenging assignment: find a single word to best describe you, then write a paper as to why. During the two weeks leading up to the paper’s due date, I pored over the dictionary each night, searching for that one word which might perfectly define Mim Malone. In the end, I chose the word anomaly. (I had it down to that, or cheeky, and by my reckoning, it would be far easier to define my many moods with a word whose very definition was a person or thing that couldn’t be defined by any one thing. This, I thought, was irrefutable logic at its finest.) I remember the last paragraph of that paper like it was yesterday.
“In summary, I am 110 percent Anomaly, plus maybe 33 percent Independent Spirit, and 7 percent Free-Thinking Genius. My sum total is 150 percent, but as a living, breathing Anomaly, this is to be expected. Boom.”
Back then, I closed all my papers with Boom. It added a certain profound punctuation—a little high class among the meandering bourgeois. If I remember correctly, I received a C minus.
But even today, inasmuch as an anomaly is a thing that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected, I can think of no more appropriate word to describe myself.
I hate lakes but love the ocean.
I hate ketchup but love everything else a tomato makes.
I would like to read a book and go to a fucking party. (I want it all, baby.)
And, pulling into the Nashville Greyhound Station, I am reminded of how much I hate country music—but blimey, I just can’t get enough Johnny Cash, the grandfather of that very genre. And, of course, Elvis, but I don’t really count him as country. Those were Mom’s two favorite musicians. We used to sit on her old College Couch in the garage, and listen straight through Man in Black or Heartbreak Hotel—vinyl of course, because there really is no other way to listen to music—just soaking in the scratched-up honesty of those two baritones, because damn it all, they’d lived life, and if anyone had a personal understanding of the pain of which they sang, it was Cash and Presley. At least, that’s what Mom said. As I grew up, my tastes changed, but when I think about it, even the music I listen to now has a certain tragic honesty to it. Bon Iver, Elliott Smith, Arcade Fire—artists whose music demands not to be liked but to be believed.
And I do.
I believe them.
Carl pulls the bus into the station and grabs the mic. “Okay, folks, welcome to Nashville. If this is your final destination”—he smiles, and I wonder if those chipped teeth are courtesy of the accident—“well, you made it. If not, you done missed your connecting bus. Just go on up to the ticket desk, they’ll set you up. And don’t forget your vouchers. Lord knows you earned ’em.” He clears his throat, continues. “As a Greyhound employee, I apologize for the incident outside Memphis and hope it don’t discourage you from choosing Greyhound in the future. As a human being, I apologize for the incident outside Memphis and wouldn’t blame you one damn bit if you never rode another Greyhound again. Now get the hell off my bus.”
I make it a general rule not to clap for anyone. Seeing as how few concerts and sporting events I attend, it’s never really been an issue. But after Carl’s rousing oration, this bus is going wild, and I find myself slapping my palms together in spite of my rule.
I grab my backpack from the overhead bin and slide into the aisle, keeping my good eye on Poncho Man. After—let’s call it the Incident of the Bile in the Restroom—I made two important decisions: number one, I would lay off The X-Files reruns, as my capacity for monstrous imaginings has had free reign for long enough; and number two, I would not turn him in. The X-Files thing, I decided in about three seconds. The not-turning-in-a-perverted-troll-of-a-loafer-strutting-poncho-wearing-motherfucker I thought about the rest of the way to Nashville. And while nothing would give me more pleasure than handing his ass over to the cops, getting to Cleveland is an absolute nonnegotiable. Period. I say something about the Incident of the Bile in the Restroom, and that’s that. I’d be dragged back to Mosquitoland, a traitor among the bloodsucking scavengers. On top of my not being in Cleveland for Mom during her hour of need, Poncho Man knows about my Hills Bros. can. Kathy would press charges, I’d be arrested for theft, and instead of spending Labor Day with Mom, I’d spend it in juvie.
Bottom line: I can’t be certain Poncho Man will strike again. But turn him in, and I can be certain my Objective is done for.
So yes. It sucks. But honestly, I can’t figure a way around it.
Poncho Man is at the front of the line; I watch him nod to Carl, then step down off the bus. Now—I just need to get my ticket, get lost in a crowd, and pray that’s the end of it. He goes one way, I go another, and ne’er the two shall meet.
Carl is sitting in the driver’s seat, saying good-bye to everyone as they pass. Whatever questions I had at the beginning of my trip pertaining to this guy’s true Carl nature have been answered and then some. He’s about as Carl as they come. I smile at him, and even get ready to shake his hand (which requires serious preparation on my part), when he grabs me by the shoulder. He leans in, his eyes full of familiar mischief, and whispers, “Good luck, missy.” Then, releasing his grip, he smiles and winks, and suddenly I know exactly who he reminds me of.
And it’s not Samuel L. Jackson.
Once off the bus, I locate the nearest bench and pull out my journal.
September 2—afternoon
Dear Isabel,
Let’s pull back another layer of the Giant Onion of my Reasoning, shall we? Reggie is Reason #6.
He always stood on the same corner back in Ashland: knee-high combat boots, frazzled hair, dirty face, winning smile. Mom said the reason Reggie stood on the same corner (Samaritan and Highway 511, if you want specifics) was that it was the closest traffic light to the downtown shelter.
I had soccer at the YMCA on Wednesdays after school (more unwanted extracurriculars). From Taft Elementary to the Y it was a straight shot down Claremont to East Main, a drive which should have taken no more than five minutes. But we never went that way. Instead, Mom, her eyes gleaming with the Young Fun Now, took Smith Road to Samaritan Avenue, then 511 up to East Main. It added an extra ten minutes, but she didn’t care. Every Wednesday, without fail, Mom rolled down her window at the corner of Samaritan and 511, and exchanged three bucks for a smile and a God-bless from Reggie.
One Saturday, while shopping for a new something or other, Dad happened to be in the car with us when we came to that exact corner. Dad had never met Reggie before, and as far as I knew, he didn’t know about my mom’s generosity toward the homeless. As we pulled up, Mom reached for the window down button, but before she could press it, Dad started in on what a lazy bunch the homeless were, being the dregs of society and whatnot. “He could get a job,” Dad said, casually throwing a thumb in Reggie’s direction. “If he wasn’t such a lazy drunk.”
Mom looked right at Dad and didn’t say a word—just calmly rolled down the window.
Reggie walked up. “Howdy, Eve. Mighty fine mornin’.”
Still looking at Dad, my mom responded, “Indeed it is, Reggie. Here you go.”
I was concerned about what Dad would say once that window was rolled back up. I guess Reggie could feel the t
ension, because after taking the cash, he looked right at me in the backseat and winked, his eyes full of a comforting sort of mischief. Then, looking back at my mom, he gave a two-fingered salute. This salute had always been accompanied by a God bless. But this time, Reggie said, “Good luck, Miss Evie.”
My mom rolled the window up, never once taking her eyes off Dad. “Good luck to you,” she said. (She could be stone-cold when she wanted to be.)
Later, just before bed, I asked her if Dad was mad that she gave three bucks to Reggie. She said no, but I knew better. I asked if Dad was right, if Reggie was nothing but a lazy drunk. Mom said some homeless folk were like that, but she didn’t think Reggie was one of them. She said even if he were, she would still give him three bucks. She said it wasn’t her job to pick which ones were genuinely starving and which ones were faking it.
“Help is help to anyone, Mary. Even if they don’t know they’re asking for it.”
I said that made a whole lot of sense, because it did.
And it still does.
Here’s the thing, Iz: my mom needs help right now. And I know it, even if she doesn’t.
Signing off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Samaritan Avenue Vagabond
13
Everything Sounds Better on Vinyl
“EXCUSE ME, DO you have the time?”
I look up from my journal and almost keel over. The stranger has a unibrow, a bushy mustache, severe acne, three-inch-thick glasses, and overly chapped lips.
So. Many. Things.
I vomit a little, force it back down. “Sorry, I’m just—” . . . unsure which facial feature to avoid . . . I blink, then gulp, then use my words. “Yes,” I say, pulling my cell phone out of my bag. “Almost one.”
He stomps off, leaving me to stare at my phone. Twenty-eight missed calls. Twenty-six from Kathy. Two from Dad.
Attaboy.
A waste bin sits by my bench, beckoning. I could just throw the stupid thing away, be rid of Stevie Wonder and His Sonic Detritus once and for all. Reluctantly, I stuff the phone in my bag, along with my stick figure journal, then march over to the ticket counter and hand the lady my voucher.
“You traveling alone?” she whines, chomping on gum.
I’m ready this time, armed with a new strategy. “Yes, ma’am. My dad is sending me up to Cleveland to live with my mom, see. They got divorced earlier this year, a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, and it pretty much devastated me to the point of murdering myself, but really, how does one go about it?”
The lady continues chewing, wholly unimpressed.
“I know, I know,” I say, nodding, smiling, “and before you say it, yes, I thought about sleeping pills, but how many do you take? My luck, I’d take just enough to do some serious damage, but not quite enough to do the trick, you know? Doomed to roam the streets of Cleveland, some tragic kid with a half brain, everyone whispering as I pass, There’s the girl who failed at living and dying. So yeah, I’ll pass on pills, but the car in the garage thing, that sounds promising, don’t you think?”
She pops a bubble the size of a grapefruit, takes my voucher, hands me my ticket. “Number sixteen seventy-seven to Cleveland,” she says, “departs at one thirty-two. You got thirty minutes, kid.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the ticket. “You’re a real treat.”
Outside, the downtown area is abuzz with traffic and music; tourists young and old swarm into boot parlors, record stores, and vintage guitar shops, trying to get a jump on Labor Day deals. Live bands are set up in a dozen storefront windows like mannequins, advertising twang instead of tweed. And the honky-tonks, my God, the honky-tonks! Until now, I’d assumed a honky-tonk was a quiet bar full of strange people I would never want to talk to. In reality, they’re obnoxiously loud bars full of strange people I would never want to talk to. I pass one with a band blaring something about a bedonkey-donk, which I can only assume is the Official Honky-Tonk National Anthem. I’m already jealous of myself five minutes ago. Because you can’t un-know a honky-tonk.
Across the street, a life-sized statue of Elvis beckons, and suddenly, nothing else matters. I grip my backpack and hustle over for a closer look. It’s sort of sad, actually, though not altogether unrealistic. The hair looks about right, anyway. From his later days. That’s when it occurs to me—Mom would love this. However imperfect this trip has been thus far, I’ve now stopped in both Graceland and Nashville, two cities synonymous with Cash and the King.
This is a good sign.
I take another look around and hook my thumbs in my pockets. I whistle, I smile, I throw on my idiot face. Give me your hats, your honky-tonks, your boots, your bedonkey-donks. I am Mary Iris Malone, tourist extraordinaire.
Behind the statue is a store called Hat Shoppe. Summoning every ounce of Malone stick-to-itiveness, I walk inside. The floors are wooden, the people are loud, the music is I-don’t-know-what . . . The first hat in reach has black and white spots. I pick it up, and, just out of curiosity, inspect the tag on the inside: MADE WITH AUTHENTIC COW HIDE. Well that’s good and gross.
I take a deep breath.
I put it on.
I look at myself in the mirror.
I set it down.
I walk out.
As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.
I spend the next ninety seconds in the adjacent Boot Shoppe, then over ten minutes in a record shop. (S-H-O-P. For real. It’s not hard. Actually, it’s two letters easier.) Pre-loved vinyl is a weakness I inherited from my mother, one I’m quite proud of. I had a record player long before my classmates decided it was cool. And when they finally came around, I didn’t rub this in. Everything sounds better on vinyl. It’s not a trend. It’s a fact.
I almost purchase a near mint copy of Remain in Light by the Talking Heads but talk myself out of it. There’s no telling what sort of expenses I might encounter between here and Cleveland. Speaking of which . . .
What little sustenance may have been garnered from a hockey pucked–burger, I’d put to far greater use during the Incident of the Bile in the Restroom. Which is to say, I’m starving. At a nearby taco stand, I order three carnitas with extra cilantro, then wolf them down on the walk back to the Greyhound station. Once there, I keep my head down (on the off chance Poncho Man is still around) and step in line for the sixteen seventy-seven at Gate B. After a few minutes, the line inches forward. I stick my hands in my jeans pocket and grip Mom’s lipstick.
Shit.
I should’ve bought that Talking Heads record.
She would have loved it.
September 2—1:32 p.m.
Dear Isabel,
My mother was the greatest alarm clock of all time. Every morning, without fail, she threw back the curtains to let the sun in, and always, she said the same thing.
“Have a vision, Mary, unclouded by fear.”
Just like that. It was so wonderful. (Of course, this idea of unclouded vision would come to mean another thing entirely after the Great Blinding Eclipse, but that’s neither here nor there.) The quote was an old Cherokee proverb, one that her mom told her, and hers before that, and so on and so forth, all the way back to the original Cherokee woman who coined the phrase. (Mom’s father was British, but her mother was part Cherokee, which is, I think, a perfect example of history getting the last laugh.) I was so proud of this heritage, Iz, do you know what I did? I started lying about the degree of Cherokee blood in my veins. I was something like one-sixteenth, but honestly, who wasn’t, right? So I claimed one quarter. It just sounded more legit. I was young, still in middle school, so I went with it the way kids that age do. The more admiration this garnered from teachers and friends, the closer I felt to my ancient ancestry, my kinswomen, my tribe. But the truth will out, as they say. In my case, this outing took on the sound of my mother’s unending laughter in the face of my principal, when he t
old her the school was going to present me with a plaque of merit at the next pep rally: the Native American Achievement Award.
Needless to say, I never received the award. But even today, there are times—most notably when I wear my war paint—when I really feel that Cherokee blood coursing through my veins, no matter its percentage of purity. So from whatever minutia of my heart that pumps authentic Cherokee blood, I pass this phrase along to you: have a vision, unclouded by fear.
Not sure what made me think of all this Cherokee stuff. Maybe it’s the plethora of cowboy hats and boots I’ve seen today. Politically correct? Probably not. BUT I’M ONE-SIXTEENTH CHEROKEE, SO SUCK IT.
Anyway, I just remembered there’s a bag of chips in my backpack, so I’m gonna put the kibosh on this note with another one of my mother’s Cherokee proverbs.
When you were born, you cried while the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries while you rejoice.
Funny, as a child, I never knew whether to laugh or cry when Mom said that. But now I know the truth. You can laugh and cry, Iz. Because they’re basically the same thing.
Signing off,
Chieftess Iris Malone
I SHUT MY journal and slide the lock to UNOCCUPIED.
This new bus is far from packed, which means I get my own row again. Considering the rare collection of individuals on board, the having-my-own-row thing could not be of greater import. It’s a freak show, really. Reminiscent of my time in the Deep South. Mosquitoland: the thorn in my side, the rock in my shoe, the poison in my wine. Unfortunately, it appears the thorn, the rock, and the poison have followed my path north.
29B is breast-feeding.
26A has fallen asleep while snacking on a box of Cheez-Its.
24B is playing Battleship with 24A, complete with warlike sound effects.
21D is wearing Bugs Bunny slippers and a T-shirt that says NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR BLOG.