Chapter VII
4:10 pm
It was my turn for a shower. I don’t know when, if ever, I so looked forward to the feel of hot water running down my back. While hiking day after day I came to ignore the dirt and grime that built up on the skin. I ignored my stiff, matted hair. When I did get a chance to take a shower, the water was usually cold, or if I was lucky, lukewarm. The offer to get a hot shower was the kindest gesture Owen Squires could make.
I followed Owen into his RV. He showed me around before he led me to the bathroom. He opened a tiny linen closet, pulled out a clean towel and handed it to me. “Enjoy,” he said.
“That won’t be a problem.”
Owen excused himself and went outside.
Sitting down on the toilet lid, I took off my shoes and socks. The stench of my feet was familiar enough not to bother me, although I was confident that I was the only one who would think that way. I laid my socks across my shoes and stood up to remove the rest of my clothes.
I loosened my belt, unzipped my jeans and pulled them off. The jeans were soft from many days and nights of endless wear. I took off my shirt and T-shirt – both were stained around the armpits. I didn’t have a change of outerwear, but thankfully did have clean underwear and socks.
Reaching into the shower, I turned on the water and adjusted the knob until the water felt comfortably hot. I stepped in. “Oh man, oh man,” I said out loud, not caring if anyone heard me. I just stood there and let the water spray onto my head and run down my body. The dirty water swirled into the drain. At first it was dark and muddy with bits of broken branches, bark and leaves. Gradually it became more transparent until the last remnant of trail debris disappeared into the drain. I turned around and let the water massage my back as I reached for the soap. I had forgotten just how good a hot shower feels. It is especially noticeable when one has been deprived of such pleasure for as long as I had.
The shower had the effect that only a hot shower could – making me wonder what was so unusual about showering. I had read that the sound of falling water relaxes most people. I know I have felt that way. In fact, Max and I tried to camp next to cascading creeks whenever possible – it’s great for sleeping. But the sound of falling water does not compare to the feel of falling water, especially the feeling of hot water running down your back.
As the shower enclosure in Owen’s RV filled with steam, my pores opened and sinuses cleared. I have no idea what really happened next, but I will accept that as the sinuses opened up, cranial pressure fell and somehow stimulated the neurons in my brain to release more serotonin or, perhaps, endorphins. With the elevated brain activity my ability to concentrate intensified, and I stood at the center of a secluded world that suddenly seemed right.
I first considered that one of the important daily experiences might be the relaxing, mindless activity of showering; eventually realizing that taking a shower fosters a balanced mixing of subconscious and conscious thoughts that leads to clarity not even duplicated by driving on an open highway with favorite music playing on the radio. I had lived long enough, however, to also know that a steamy shower sometimes evokes delusions. Perhaps as evidence, I imagined the sound of an out-of-tune, would-be singer attempting a difficult melody while showering – he sounds good to himself, but not to anyone else.
Too self-conscious to sing in a stranger’s shower, I began to hum and daydream of a world where I was a benevolent master of knowledge – ready to espouse transcendental thoughts of unquestionable value to all humankind; in other words, I was full of myself. I was about to speak to a group of amorphous, out-of-focus bodies that were, mysteriously, hovering about in a hazy room filled with cabinets. The cabinets, finished in a warm honey glaze, made me realize that I was in the kitchen of my childhood home. In front of me were a young Max and a large woman wiping her hands on her apron. I vainly tried to recall her name, but the memory was too distant.
The large woman and the others among my imaginary audience were, I was certain, interested in every word I spoke – clearly they stood before me ready to accept whatever I might say as the undeniable truth. And so, with great sincerity I began an enlightened discourse. “You know, it’s a rather simple proposition,” I said out loud. “The founders of this nation clearly understood that there are certain inalienable rights. These rights are manifest regardless of any human characteristic that visibly or otherwise distinguishes one person from another. Such characteristics are not grounds for denying people the right of free speech, freedom to worship, to vote, to own property. I believe that anyone, at any time in history, has had the capacity to understand this truth. One need only listen to that inner voice, the voice that…”
“What the hell are you talking about in there?” I heard Max say, shocking my synapses back into their more normal state.
Embarrassed, I snapped, “Why didn’t you tell me you were out there? Good Lord, can’t a man have a little privacy? The least you could do is whistle or something.”
Max laughed and said, “And miss out on your infinite wisdom? Ha! Look, witless one, I’m getting your clothes. Mr. Squires is going to let us use his washing machine.”
“They put washing machines in these things?”
“Evidently.”
I showered self-consciously as Max picked up my dirty clothes. He asked in a tone I can only describe as sinister delight, “So who were you talking to in there, some stupid son of an ugly man?”
“No one,” I said sheepishly.
“You always did live in your own little world. Anyway,” he continued, “I now know what they mean when they say, ‘You talk like you’re in the shower’.”
“What’s that?”
He responded slowly and deliberately, “It’s easy to be right when no one is listening.”
“You’re weird,” I said.
“Me,” he scoffed. “What do you call, ‘To understand this truth, you need only listen to that inner voice’?”
“Enlightened.”
“Oh that’s precious,” he said. “Hurry up, I’m getting hungry.”
“Don’t rush me.”
“I hope you run out of hot water.”
“What a nice guy.”
“Yeah.”
“Wait a minute,” I said “What am I supposed to wear?”
Max answered, “A Union soldier’s uniform. It’s on the toilet seat.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. It’s the only thing Owen’s got that will fit your skinny butt. It belongs to his son.”
“A Union uniform; I’m not sure how I feel about that. After all, I was born and raised in the South.” After a pause I asked, “So, what’s it like?”
“The uniform?”
“Yeah.”
“Just a light blue pair of pants and a white shirt.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Some of Owen’s clothes,” Max answered. Then he whispered, “So, do you think this guy’s okay?”
“Owen? Yeah, I guess. Seems nice enough. We had a good talk while you were showering. Besides, we’re not going to be around that long.”
“You’re right, Billy Yank,” said Max and before I could respond he said, “Later,” and closed the door. I could hear him loudly whistling “Yankee Doodle” as he walked down the hall. The cheerful quality of his tune said that he had his lips pursed. He was either still teasing me, congratulating himself for teasing me, or both.
I stood there still enjoying the shower, but had no desire to finish lecturing. Instead I rinsed off and began thinking about dinner.
I got out of the shower, dried off and put on the Union uniform. The pants were made of thick wool and the shirt was cotton. The pants fit a little tight in the thighs and hips, but the shirt fit perfectly. It was cut differently than a modern shirt – a narrow collar and no double layer of cloth down the center where it buttoned up.
As I stood there in a Yankee uniform I looked in the mirror and recalled the conversation I had had w
ith Ms. Thompson at the sutlers’ village. Again, I wondered what it was really like to be a soldier in the Civil War. I wondered what a soldier, any soldier, thinks about the first time they put on a uniform. What did they think about before they went into battle; did they really want to fight and were they afraid to die? I thought of Henry Fleming, the protagonist in Steven Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage. How many soldiers are like Henry – so unsure about his own resolve to fight while others are dying around him, willing to accept heroic accolades even though he did not deserve them, and yet finally courageous enough to become a fighting soldier? As I stood there wearing that uniform, I became more interested in the Civil War and the reenactment of the Battle of Clear Creek.
When I walked out of the bathroom I found Max and Owen sitting at a dining table. Max was flipping cards one by one, playing solitaire.
“Fits perfect,” Owen remarked. He picked up a glass half filled with an amber liquid. At first I though it was tea.
“It’s comfortable,” I said. “Thanks.” I pulled a chair from the table and sat down. The smell of bourbon drifted into my nostrils.
“Care for a drink?” Owen asked. “I’ve got sodas, tea, orange juice and water; or,” he held his glass up, “something a little stronger, if you prefer.”
“I haven’t had a glass of iced tea in a while.” I answered. “Max here tells me that you can spend a lot of money on one of these uniforms.”
“That’s right,” replied Owen, “especially if you purchase all the accessories. What you’ve got on would cost two-hundred dollars or more.”
“What’s a jacket cost?” I asked.
“Oh, at least a hundred and fifty.”
“And a hat?”
“Forty bucks, maybe more.” Owen stood up with his glass in hand and walked toward the kitchen stove. He twirled his drink and the ice clinked against the side of the glass. He opened a large pot and stirred with a wooden spoon. “Chili’s hot,” he said. “Y’all hungry?”
“Hungry’s not a strong enough word,” I said.
“Well, there’s plenty here.” Owen opened a cabinet, pulled down three large soup bowls and handed one to Max and one to me. “Help yourself.”
“That’s what I call a bowl,” said Max. He neatly gathered and stacked the playing cards, while I ladled out chili until the bowl was nearly full. Owen poured me a glass of tea.
As I sat down at the table I saw a stack of newspapers sitting in a chair. I picked up the one on top and immediately noticed an article about a U.S. senator who was under pressure to resign because he made some racially insensitive comments at a friend’s birthday party. According to the article, he steadfastly argued that his remarks were taken out of context and reportedly apologized on three separate occasions. By the time I finished reading, it seemed apparent that he would be forced to resign. Evidently his apologies were not enough to appease the various minority rights groups, legislators in the opposing party, and those within his own party who stood to gain from his departure.
I laid the article in front of Max and asked, “Did you read this?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t miss politics.” It was hard to keep up with politics, or any news, when you spend your days and nights on the trail.
“You know,” Max said, “it might be better if they didn’t pressure him to resign.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“You remember when that auto repair chain was accused of cheating thousands of customers out of money by charging for services they didn’t provide?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, soon after that story broke I took both of my automobiles to them for servicing. In my mind the scandal was a guarantee that I would get everything I paid for, and then some.”
Owen said, “I wish I’d thought of that.”
“Max is a clever one.” I continued, “So Max, what’s that got to do with the senator?”
“Are you kidding, he’d be the best political advocate minorities have had in a long time.”
“You’ve got a point,” I said, “but do you really think that logic applies here?”
“No,” replied Max. “But a desperate politician might.”
Owen spoke up. “Do you think he’d be in all that trouble if he really understood the issue?”
I raised my eyebrows, looked at Max and pointed toward Owen and said, “Now he’s got a point.”
I reached over and picked up another paper. As I lifted it from the stack I noticed a number of articles that had been clipped from other papers. The one on top was entitled, “Mississippi Reenactors Turn Their Backs on the Klan.” I picked up the article and the one beneath was entitled, “Blacks Reenact as Confederate Soldier.” The next one read, “Man Shot and Killed by African-American for Flying Confederate Flag.”
“Wow,” I said.
Owen saw me looking at the various articles and said, “Junior cut those out.”
“I see.”
“He’s really into this stuff,” Owen said.
I was curious to see what else I might find in the stack, but got the feeling that Owen was uncomfortable with me looking at the newspapers so I put them down. I returned to eating my chili. Before I finished Max went back for a second bowl, and Owen was pouring another bourbon and cola.