The Kronikle Volume 5, Issues 4 and 5: Double Issue Special! Southern Accents, Historical Distractions, and Daniel Boone
Kronkites! Welcome to the last issue…I have several tales to share and poor transitions in moving from one story to the next so there is a little something for the fan and the critic in everyone.
Last week, in the Kronikle, we found the Red Stripe on a quest for clean clothes.
Upon completing my yearly laundry odyssey, I returned to the hotel. It being late, and having been invited by Professor Dr. German to sit with his Chicago klatch poolside and discuss those things that get lost in the shuffle of everyday life, I elected to grab an overpriced sandwich from the little deli/convenience store immediately adjacent to the hotel bar (Everything is awash in liquor!—my suggestion for Louisville’s new motto).
Having just sweated it out walking 3.5 miles in the 85⁰ weather with 187% humidity in order to complete mundane, domestic tasks, the delicate flower that is me presented a wilted appearance. Wearing a (now moist) Misfits shirt, the hairstyle I chose for the evening suggested “crazy lady”. I still had makeup on my face, just not where I had applied it as it had relocated due to rivulets of sweat.
There was a fairly long line at the deli/convenience store. As I waited, a tattooed man in front of me turned, read my shirt (it took a while to get through “Mommy! Can I go out and kill tonight?”), raised his head and asked, “Do you drink?”
To which I responded, “Regularly, but not tonight.”
I sensed that I might need to say something, so I, presuming he was here for the Reading, mumbled something about grading a bunch of essays. I learned from this comment that the man was not a teacher but a competitive fisherman from Alabama in Louisville to participate in a competitive fishing contest. In a very thick Southern drawl, he told me that he was unused to drinking on Sundays because of, I conjectured, the pervasive blue laws that still govern the morality of Southerners. I think I told him that it gets easier with practice and then, everyone within a five diameter—customers, deli employees, me, him—fell into a brief yet impressively awkward silence.
What I learned from that experience was either it is expected courtesy to offer people who look homeless a drink when within the vicinity of liquor in a quirky local custom (which adds a speculative twist to the upcoming Daniel Boone story) OR that guy was, like, the sixth person ever to try to pick up on me.
I ended the evening by eating the hell out of my ham and swiss while listening to the Chicago klatch debate music, clubs in Chicago, and wobbly-headed cats. Professor Dr. German employed the adroit use of the vulgar lexicon, so even when I didn’t have any idea what they were talking about, I got to hear obscenities used well. I decided that his sense of humor combined with the Northern/punk rock/academic brashness had to have been a disadvantage in his previous life of retail store manager. Ultimately I would discover his general existential state of pithy detachment combined with slivers of giddiness and sincerity would prove more valuable in getting though the Reading than his absolute commitment to creative inanity.
The next day, or maybe the same day, or the day before, another table sent ambassadors of goodwill (one of whom was probably Chelsea Clinton) to our table after spying the remains of the aforementioned playdough, sticky note, and army men littered battlefield. They filled us with compliments regarding our degree of “cool” (I urge you to remember the setting) and wishes to aspire to our level. Professor Dr. German, Boss Part Deux, and I felt pity for these wretched souls. Surveying the table, we noted a large number of athletic women and two Ted Kazcynski lookalikes (one who kept a band aid on his face throughout the Reading, I presume, to pay homage to his incarcerated cousin). We empathized with their plight and agonized over the decision that had been forced upon us by historical forces. Finally, after prayer, we decided to push aside concerns for our personal safety and with the mantra, “Be bold and mighty forces will come your way“, we decided to colonize the Table. Our invasion plan included plastic army men stationed strategically on packets with a larger force descending upon the table leader, a Proclamation on official Table 79 letterhead listing demands and littered with legitimate historical references to the verbiage of the US-Philippine War of 1901-1903 and a nod to the Borg from Start Trek (the cool collective Borg, not the weak, individualized shell they would become in subsequent incarnations). Awaiting their response, we twittered at our “cool” and the experiential benefits of our brilliant notion of extemporaneous role play.
They surrendered. Right away. I suggested we make them grade OUR essays while we took over ¾ of their tables for our financial gain.
Alas, it was not to be. Our only choice was to return to the grading of essays that, taken collectively, resurrected the reputation of a President my grandma taught me to despise and the film Black Dynamite taught me to fear.
(For all of you who were in Kentucky, feel free to skip the next story—you already heard this story or lived it.)
All right, somewhere in the middle of the reading, I was walking back to my hotel to turn in early after writing a Kronikle. As I was walking, I ran into Boss Part Deux and his friend, not-so-silent Bob. They asked if I wanted to run and have a beer. Reflecting that this had been a very “dry” Reading, I agreed. We walked a couple of blocks to the 4th Street Live™ area, which is a strip of restaurants and drinking establishments that lay under a giant orange glass and metal monstrosity. It should probably look futuristic but it only achieves ugly. Worse, it leans up against a classic example of late nineteenth century architecture, creating (probably not intentionally unless the designer was a brilliant asshole) a sense of dissonance and revulsion.
Those two emotional reactions tend to stay lodged in the pit of one’s stomach if meandering 4th Street Live™ on a Friday or Saturday night. It is, I believe, what more socially aware folks would characterize as a “hot spot”. Surveying this scene every year for the past five years, I am confronted with the mystery of what has been dumped in the Ohio River that makes the women of Louisville adopt high heels and hoochie mama clothes as the mandatory local dress code.
This evening was not a Friday or a Saturday so it lacked the endless yards of tottering flesh. We found a pub called the RiRa Irish Pub. The RiRa took their Irishishness (?) seriously, going so far as to have multiple copies of the ethnic paper, The Irish Emigrant, available for buzzed perusal and actual Irish people working (although none looked like the whiskey-drinking, socially maladapted yet quick breeding monkey people I had been cautioned to be wary of by hundreds of American 11th graders throughout the week).
We were the only occupants of the patio area (ultimately a critical detail). We were halfway through the first beer as I learned more about Boss Part Deux (the substance of that portion of the conversation is covered by boss/reader confidentiality) and Not-so-silent Bob (soon to be married, fiercely funny, possibly a leprechaun, will someday attempt to assassinate the members of Lynard Skynard, Chicago native—there were so many Chicagoans that one COULD make comparisons to the Chinese in California in the 1880s…). During a pause, SOMEONE (not me—I was pointed in the wrong direction) made inadvertent and innocuous eye contact with a passerby crossing the street (jaywalking, I believe…where are those cops on Segues when you need them?).
The passerby interpreted the random eye contact as to mean, “You look so interesting! Please, PUH-LEEZE come have a seat and talk to us!” As a result of this majestically erroneous reading of body language, a man in his late 40’s, early 50’s, maybe late 50’s, heck if could have been early 70’s, saunters up in a hillbilly version of the gangsta lean and places his half smoked cigarette and the full one he had tucked on his distinctly sweaty, close-cropped graying head on the wrought iron table and sat with a flourish. Upon sitting, I noticed the impressive number of what was either the work of the world’s worst commercial tattoo artist or the relatively decent work of an artist of the incarcerated variety. Two names that were not entirely clear on each side of his neck brought one’s attention to the assuredly medically disconcerting fist sized protrusion pushing out slightly under and to the back of his neck. His bulldog-like frame was clad in khaki cargo shorts and a bold orange shirt that announced, less boldly, that he had “Walked for Colitis” at some point in his past.
I speculated, having had a related experience in the past, that he was possibly a pimp interested in bumping up his profits on a slow weekday night. I thought he would ask the guys if they were looking for a, you know, “good time”.
I was wrong.
He first asked us all our names and shook our hands. He then told us his name was, “Boone. Daniel Boone.” Sensing some sort of mental calculation on all of our parts, he asked us if we wanted to see his ID, to which we responded, “Absolutely not. OF course you are Daniel Boone. That is the only possible person you could be.” Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, then turned to more conversational pursuits.
What you have to keep in mind for the remainder of this tale is every body language indicator, every vibe, EVERYTHING suggested Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, belonged to that club of drinkers that is able to take an answer like “Yes” and hear “You are a horrible, whiskey-drinking, socially maladapted monkey person. I question your honor, sir, and I would now like to fight you.” I suspect that the three individuals who were hot yet historical figures have had enough experience amongst the inebriated to recognize this drinking style.
Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, turned his attention, initially, to Not-so-silent Bob and asked him about his love life. I then decided I had been SOOOOO right and was going to have SOOOO much fun giving my iron tablemates a hard time for having to turn down prostitutes. Not-so-silent Bob made it very clear he was totally in love with his fiancé whom he is set to marry in six months. That touched Daniel Boone’s legendary heart. He observed how wonderful love is and demanded to see a picture of future Mrs. Not-so-silent Bob. Not-so-silent Bob then shared a picture of his sweetie's arm (he has a wicked sense of humor). This bonding over love, current and past, caused Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero to feel close enough with us to share that he had been married for 6 ½ years. Not 6. Not 7. American Heroes don't round; it was six and one half. Beyond that bit of heartfelt trivia, it was difficult to identify the individual words. We weren't quite clear at the end of his half-mumbled monologue what happened to make that woman give up God's greatest gift to womanhood. We leaned toward the "I chopped her up and ate her in a stew cuz it was winter and she looked at me wrong" type of denouement.
He then turned to "Carrie" who was actually Boss Part Deux. Boss Part Deux attempted the tactic of getting him to talk about himself, thereby reducing the volume of responses that could be misinterpreted. Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, saw through this tactic quickly and turned his attention to me. As he looked at me, I thought he would ask me a question of some sort, but he chose a different, and might I add, endearing, approach with me. He looked at me and I met his cloudy gaze with direct and unyielding eye contact (in the back of my head, I was actually speculating that when the highly probable physical confrontation erupted someone was probably going to stumble on my backpack and someone was probably going to have to punch the tumor in order to remove a historical legend from a historian). I believe this eye contact had a notable impact on his assessment of me; I conjecture that Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, does not frequently have his gaze returned by members of the opposite sex.
After a pause, he began by pointing at me and saying, “I know about you. I know what you are all about.” I then expected, flashing back to innumerable high school exchanges, accusations of my commitment to Satanic ritual and/ or racist affiliation and ending with some version of “Have you committed your life to our Lord Jesus Christ who died for your sins?” Since I once escaped the home of a couple who, I believe, had taken into modern day slavery a Chinese woman whose computer I used to maintain for money and/or instant mashed potatoes with the correct answer to that question, I knew what answer to give.
I was wrong.
Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, announced, “Now you…you thar…you’re one of them BISEXUALS!” He repeated his insight repeatedly and let me know that it was OK, really. In the realm of love, apparently colonial era frontiersmen follow the philosophy of “if it feels good, do it” (I will allow you to make your own distasteful dirty joke here—the possibilities are endless).
Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, after sharing such heartfelt, and in my case, life-altering information, suggested that we might buy him a drink for his troubles. That gave boss Part Deux the opening to escort the Legend inside and buy him said drink (he really DID work for it) and then we elected to go to the British Pub across the street. We were joined, belatedly, by Boss Part Deux’s and No-so-silent Bob’s friend, Jay. We filled Jay in on this epically unexpected turn of events and made a significant number of jokes at the expense of Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero.
The next morning, I blurrily turned on the local morning news as I steeled myself for the very long day of scoring essays and watched this news story:
Louisville police are investigating a man’s death this morning. The unidentified man reportedly left a strip club early this morning and became involved in two fights outside the club. He then walked into the street in front of a Circle K gas station where he laid down. A passing driver then ran over the man. The driver reportedly did not see the man until it was too late. He pulled over and called the authorities. Charges are not expected to be filed.
Having completed his important work, Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, was able to leave this world and pass on to another—hopefully one where Petrone doesn’t cost $10 a shot.
The Last Day
Day 8 of the Reading is a unique experience. The 1000 yard stare in 2500 eyes suggests the implications of why it is not a 9 day reading. Ability to focus on each individual essay diminishes as the sheer mechanical computations of processing the phrases “Détente”, “Stagflation”, and “Watergate” in their limited iterations become the dominant scoring approach.
Rumors are everywhere and Table Leaders, impatient themselves, have to ride herd over an unruly, unfocused collection of surly intellectual factory workers. All of management gets behind the message, “Plan to put in a full day,” repeating it so often and with so little variability that it would make Chinese government officials blush. The day is spent waiting for the relief of the next stretch break, the next eating break, lunch, all becoming, as slogged through, unsatisfying distractions from the fact that you a mere few hours from being relieved of ever having to read that DBQ again.
This year, it went out with a whimper rather than a bang. After much speculation as to how the boxes of packets are distributed and deft counsel on the part of Boss Part Deux to avoid being the person to get the last folder, we scored until around 3pm and then…there were…no…more..packets. We hung out, trying to stay still and quiet like first graders trying to behave before a field trip. I played hangman with Professor Dr. German and then invented a different game to play when I lost badly at hangman.
Then they told us to get out, which we did.
Early evening was spent blowing through the $25 dining out money given to us so we complain less about the cafeteria. I elected to accompany the Chicago klatch to some sort of restaurant/brewery where I ate a delicious Cuban, pondered what kind of tip one needs to give to the eight different people who variously and randomly waited our table, and tried to learn the mystery of Chicago living that makes the women look fifteen years younger than they actually are. I learned that Professor Dr. German has a deep, knowledgeable, and abiding love for ancient Mesoamerican culture. I love talking to people about the passion they have—that makes the best conversations.
Or, you know, making fun of the disadvantaged, which is how I chose to spend the remainder of the evening, departing from the Chicago klatch and meeting up with Boss Part Deux, Jay, and not-so-silent Bob to imbibe and laugh in a very unladylike manner. Then, after polite protestations and strong encouragements to wake up early and walk across the bridge so I can claim another state as one I have travelled to (they were unaware of my righteous commitment to sleeping in), I headed back to the hotel so I could wait to go back home.
I awoke the next day with not enough time or desire to walk across a high bridge but with an addictive need for coffee. Apparently word got out amongst the native Louisvillians (sp?) that the creepy historians had left and it was safe to bring the children out. Everywhere I went, there were little kids doing little kid things which made my appetite for home more intense. After checking out of the hotel, I got on the bus to take me to the airport, where I spied the photo Holy Grail that I wanted to take a picture of ALL week—a yellow cab that was pink, which I thought endlessly hilarious. When I noticed that the cab, painted pink for breast cancer awareness, also offered an advertisement on the top for a strip club, it became even more satisfying.
The planes rides were easy, high as the plane in a different way, waking occasionally for Sprites, and comprehending slim portions of what was going on, they were similar to the plane rides of nine days before. I had a layover in ATL, home of Outkast and many other creators of the Dirty South style of rap that I, as a sheltered, 37 year old white girl from Oklahoma, should not love but with my whole being do. I had always planned on NEVER, EVER going to the Atlanta airport for two very sound, scientifically valid reasons. First, I read it is the busiest airport (they weren’t joking either) in the country, which means there are a lot of other airplanes to crash into midair; thus, not my kind of airport. Second, I have a primal response to muddled Southern accents and it would probably be best for everyone if I never found myself in the vicinity of a large group of hard working, male airport employees lest I…well…anyway…it was a very BUSY airport. I ate frozen yogurt and Xanax for lunch and discovered airport employees were keeping a sensible distance.
After the second flight and the reemergence of my early-waking, jogging, and saintly aunt, Jeanne, my return home was punctuated by my almost 5 year old conducting a homecoming so touching that it was reminiscent of those exemplars of human emotion, Little House on the Prairie. It was pretty cool.
Kronkites,I hope you spend the next 50 weeks girding yourselves for the next set of tales!
I remain,
Carrie the Red (stripe)
Last week, in the Kronikle, we found the Red Stripe on a quest for clean clothes.
Upon completing my yearly laundry odyssey, I returned to the hotel. It being late, and having been invited by Professor Dr. German to sit with his Chicago klatch poolside and discuss those things that get lost in the shuffle of everyday life, I elected to grab an overpriced sandwich from the little deli/convenience store immediately adjacent to the hotel bar (Everything is awash in liquor!—my suggestion for Louisville’s new motto).
Having just sweated it out walking 3.5 miles in the 85⁰ weather with 187% humidity in order to complete mundane, domestic tasks, the delicate flower that is me presented a wilted appearance. Wearing a (now moist) Misfits shirt, the hairstyle I chose for the evening suggested “crazy lady”. I still had makeup on my face, just not where I had applied it as it had relocated due to rivulets of sweat.
There was a fairly long line at the deli/convenience store. As I waited, a tattooed man in front of me turned, read my shirt (it took a while to get through “Mommy! Can I go out and kill tonight?”), raised his head and asked, “Do you drink?”
To which I responded, “Regularly, but not tonight.”
I sensed that I might need to say something, so I, presuming he was here for the Reading, mumbled something about grading a bunch of essays. I learned from this comment that the man was not a teacher but a competitive fisherman from Alabama in Louisville to participate in a competitive fishing contest. In a very thick Southern drawl, he told me that he was unused to drinking on Sundays because of, I conjectured, the pervasive blue laws that still govern the morality of Southerners. I think I told him that it gets easier with practice and then, everyone within a five diameter—customers, deli employees, me, him—fell into a brief yet impressively awkward silence.
What I learned from that experience was either it is expected courtesy to offer people who look homeless a drink when within the vicinity of liquor in a quirky local custom (which adds a speculative twist to the upcoming Daniel Boone story) OR that guy was, like, the sixth person ever to try to pick up on me.
I ended the evening by eating the hell out of my ham and swiss while listening to the Chicago klatch debate music, clubs in Chicago, and wobbly-headed cats. Professor Dr. German employed the adroit use of the vulgar lexicon, so even when I didn’t have any idea what they were talking about, I got to hear obscenities used well. I decided that his sense of humor combined with the Northern/punk rock/academic brashness had to have been a disadvantage in his previous life of retail store manager. Ultimately I would discover his general existential state of pithy detachment combined with slivers of giddiness and sincerity would prove more valuable in getting though the Reading than his absolute commitment to creative inanity.
The next day, or maybe the same day, or the day before, another table sent ambassadors of goodwill (one of whom was probably Chelsea Clinton) to our table after spying the remains of the aforementioned playdough, sticky note, and army men littered battlefield. They filled us with compliments regarding our degree of “cool” (I urge you to remember the setting) and wishes to aspire to our level. Professor Dr. German, Boss Part Deux, and I felt pity for these wretched souls. Surveying the table, we noted a large number of athletic women and two Ted Kazcynski lookalikes (one who kept a band aid on his face throughout the Reading, I presume, to pay homage to his incarcerated cousin). We empathized with their plight and agonized over the decision that had been forced upon us by historical forces. Finally, after prayer, we decided to push aside concerns for our personal safety and with the mantra, “Be bold and mighty forces will come your way“, we decided to colonize the Table. Our invasion plan included plastic army men stationed strategically on packets with a larger force descending upon the table leader, a Proclamation on official Table 79 letterhead listing demands and littered with legitimate historical references to the verbiage of the US-Philippine War of 1901-1903 and a nod to the Borg from Start Trek (the cool collective Borg, not the weak, individualized shell they would become in subsequent incarnations). Awaiting their response, we twittered at our “cool” and the experiential benefits of our brilliant notion of extemporaneous role play.
They surrendered. Right away. I suggested we make them grade OUR essays while we took over ¾ of their tables for our financial gain.
Alas, it was not to be. Our only choice was to return to the grading of essays that, taken collectively, resurrected the reputation of a President my grandma taught me to despise and the film Black Dynamite taught me to fear.
(For all of you who were in Kentucky, feel free to skip the next story—you already heard this story or lived it.)
All right, somewhere in the middle of the reading, I was walking back to my hotel to turn in early after writing a Kronikle. As I was walking, I ran into Boss Part Deux and his friend, not-so-silent Bob. They asked if I wanted to run and have a beer. Reflecting that this had been a very “dry” Reading, I agreed. We walked a couple of blocks to the 4th Street Live™ area, which is a strip of restaurants and drinking establishments that lay under a giant orange glass and metal monstrosity. It should probably look futuristic but it only achieves ugly. Worse, it leans up against a classic example of late nineteenth century architecture, creating (probably not intentionally unless the designer was a brilliant asshole) a sense of dissonance and revulsion.
Those two emotional reactions tend to stay lodged in the pit of one’s stomach if meandering 4th Street Live™ on a Friday or Saturday night. It is, I believe, what more socially aware folks would characterize as a “hot spot”. Surveying this scene every year for the past five years, I am confronted with the mystery of what has been dumped in the Ohio River that makes the women of Louisville adopt high heels and hoochie mama clothes as the mandatory local dress code.
This evening was not a Friday or a Saturday so it lacked the endless yards of tottering flesh. We found a pub called the RiRa Irish Pub. The RiRa took their Irishishness (?) seriously, going so far as to have multiple copies of the ethnic paper, The Irish Emigrant, available for buzzed perusal and actual Irish people working (although none looked like the whiskey-drinking, socially maladapted yet quick breeding monkey people I had been cautioned to be wary of by hundreds of American 11th graders throughout the week).
We were the only occupants of the patio area (ultimately a critical detail). We were halfway through the first beer as I learned more about Boss Part Deux (the substance of that portion of the conversation is covered by boss/reader confidentiality) and Not-so-silent Bob (soon to be married, fiercely funny, possibly a leprechaun, will someday attempt to assassinate the members of Lynard Skynard, Chicago native—there were so many Chicagoans that one COULD make comparisons to the Chinese in California in the 1880s…). During a pause, SOMEONE (not me—I was pointed in the wrong direction) made inadvertent and innocuous eye contact with a passerby crossing the street (jaywalking, I believe…where are those cops on Segues when you need them?).
The passerby interpreted the random eye contact as to mean, “You look so interesting! Please, PUH-LEEZE come have a seat and talk to us!” As a result of this majestically erroneous reading of body language, a man in his late 40’s, early 50’s, maybe late 50’s, heck if could have been early 70’s, saunters up in a hillbilly version of the gangsta lean and places his half smoked cigarette and the full one he had tucked on his distinctly sweaty, close-cropped graying head on the wrought iron table and sat with a flourish. Upon sitting, I noticed the impressive number of what was either the work of the world’s worst commercial tattoo artist or the relatively decent work of an artist of the incarcerated variety. Two names that were not entirely clear on each side of his neck brought one’s attention to the assuredly medically disconcerting fist sized protrusion pushing out slightly under and to the back of his neck. His bulldog-like frame was clad in khaki cargo shorts and a bold orange shirt that announced, less boldly, that he had “Walked for Colitis” at some point in his past.
I speculated, having had a related experience in the past, that he was possibly a pimp interested in bumping up his profits on a slow weekday night. I thought he would ask the guys if they were looking for a, you know, “good time”.
I was wrong.
He first asked us all our names and shook our hands. He then told us his name was, “Boone. Daniel Boone.” Sensing some sort of mental calculation on all of our parts, he asked us if we wanted to see his ID, to which we responded, “Absolutely not. OF course you are Daniel Boone. That is the only possible person you could be.” Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, then turned to more conversational pursuits.
What you have to keep in mind for the remainder of this tale is every body language indicator, every vibe, EVERYTHING suggested Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, belonged to that club of drinkers that is able to take an answer like “Yes” and hear “You are a horrible, whiskey-drinking, socially maladapted monkey person. I question your honor, sir, and I would now like to fight you.” I suspect that the three individuals who were hot yet historical figures have had enough experience amongst the inebriated to recognize this drinking style.
Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, turned his attention, initially, to Not-so-silent Bob and asked him about his love life. I then decided I had been SOOOOO right and was going to have SOOOO much fun giving my iron tablemates a hard time for having to turn down prostitutes. Not-so-silent Bob made it very clear he was totally in love with his fiancé whom he is set to marry in six months. That touched Daniel Boone’s legendary heart. He observed how wonderful love is and demanded to see a picture of future Mrs. Not-so-silent Bob. Not-so-silent Bob then shared a picture of his sweetie's arm (he has a wicked sense of humor). This bonding over love, current and past, caused Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero to feel close enough with us to share that he had been married for 6 ½ years. Not 6. Not 7. American Heroes don't round; it was six and one half. Beyond that bit of heartfelt trivia, it was difficult to identify the individual words. We weren't quite clear at the end of his half-mumbled monologue what happened to make that woman give up God's greatest gift to womanhood. We leaned toward the "I chopped her up and ate her in a stew cuz it was winter and she looked at me wrong" type of denouement.
He then turned to "Carrie" who was actually Boss Part Deux. Boss Part Deux attempted the tactic of getting him to talk about himself, thereby reducing the volume of responses that could be misinterpreted. Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, saw through this tactic quickly and turned his attention to me. As he looked at me, I thought he would ask me a question of some sort, but he chose a different, and might I add, endearing, approach with me. He looked at me and I met his cloudy gaze with direct and unyielding eye contact (in the back of my head, I was actually speculating that when the highly probable physical confrontation erupted someone was probably going to stumble on my backpack and someone was probably going to have to punch the tumor in order to remove a historical legend from a historian). I believe this eye contact had a notable impact on his assessment of me; I conjecture that Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, does not frequently have his gaze returned by members of the opposite sex.
After a pause, he began by pointing at me and saying, “I know about you. I know what you are all about.” I then expected, flashing back to innumerable high school exchanges, accusations of my commitment to Satanic ritual and/ or racist affiliation and ending with some version of “Have you committed your life to our Lord Jesus Christ who died for your sins?” Since I once escaped the home of a couple who, I believe, had taken into modern day slavery a Chinese woman whose computer I used to maintain for money and/or instant mashed potatoes with the correct answer to that question, I knew what answer to give.
I was wrong.
Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, announced, “Now you…you thar…you’re one of them BISEXUALS!” He repeated his insight repeatedly and let me know that it was OK, really. In the realm of love, apparently colonial era frontiersmen follow the philosophy of “if it feels good, do it” (I will allow you to make your own distasteful dirty joke here—the possibilities are endless).
Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, after sharing such heartfelt, and in my case, life-altering information, suggested that we might buy him a drink for his troubles. That gave boss Part Deux the opening to escort the Legend inside and buy him said drink (he really DID work for it) and then we elected to go to the British Pub across the street. We were joined, belatedly, by Boss Part Deux’s and No-so-silent Bob’s friend, Jay. We filled Jay in on this epically unexpected turn of events and made a significant number of jokes at the expense of Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero.
The next morning, I blurrily turned on the local morning news as I steeled myself for the very long day of scoring essays and watched this news story:
Louisville police are investigating a man’s death this morning. The unidentified man reportedly left a strip club early this morning and became involved in two fights outside the club. He then walked into the street in front of a Circle K gas station where he laid down. A passing driver then ran over the man. The driver reportedly did not see the man until it was too late. He pulled over and called the authorities. Charges are not expected to be filed.
Having completed his important work, Daniel Boone, Kentucky Legend and American Hero, was able to leave this world and pass on to another—hopefully one where Petrone doesn’t cost $10 a shot.
The Last Day
Day 8 of the Reading is a unique experience. The 1000 yard stare in 2500 eyes suggests the implications of why it is not a 9 day reading. Ability to focus on each individual essay diminishes as the sheer mechanical computations of processing the phrases “Détente”, “Stagflation”, and “Watergate” in their limited iterations become the dominant scoring approach.
Rumors are everywhere and Table Leaders, impatient themselves, have to ride herd over an unruly, unfocused collection of surly intellectual factory workers. All of management gets behind the message, “Plan to put in a full day,” repeating it so often and with so little variability that it would make Chinese government officials blush. The day is spent waiting for the relief of the next stretch break, the next eating break, lunch, all becoming, as slogged through, unsatisfying distractions from the fact that you a mere few hours from being relieved of ever having to read that DBQ again.
This year, it went out with a whimper rather than a bang. After much speculation as to how the boxes of packets are distributed and deft counsel on the part of Boss Part Deux to avoid being the person to get the last folder, we scored until around 3pm and then…there were…no…more..packets. We hung out, trying to stay still and quiet like first graders trying to behave before a field trip. I played hangman with Professor Dr. German and then invented a different game to play when I lost badly at hangman.
Then they told us to get out, which we did.
Early evening was spent blowing through the $25 dining out money given to us so we complain less about the cafeteria. I elected to accompany the Chicago klatch to some sort of restaurant/brewery where I ate a delicious Cuban, pondered what kind of tip one needs to give to the eight different people who variously and randomly waited our table, and tried to learn the mystery of Chicago living that makes the women look fifteen years younger than they actually are. I learned that Professor Dr. German has a deep, knowledgeable, and abiding love for ancient Mesoamerican culture. I love talking to people about the passion they have—that makes the best conversations.
Or, you know, making fun of the disadvantaged, which is how I chose to spend the remainder of the evening, departing from the Chicago klatch and meeting up with Boss Part Deux, Jay, and not-so-silent Bob to imbibe and laugh in a very unladylike manner. Then, after polite protestations and strong encouragements to wake up early and walk across the bridge so I can claim another state as one I have travelled to (they were unaware of my righteous commitment to sleeping in), I headed back to the hotel so I could wait to go back home.
I awoke the next day with not enough time or desire to walk across a high bridge but with an addictive need for coffee. Apparently word got out amongst the native Louisvillians (sp?) that the creepy historians had left and it was safe to bring the children out. Everywhere I went, there were little kids doing little kid things which made my appetite for home more intense. After checking out of the hotel, I got on the bus to take me to the airport, where I spied the photo Holy Grail that I wanted to take a picture of ALL week—a yellow cab that was pink, which I thought endlessly hilarious. When I noticed that the cab, painted pink for breast cancer awareness, also offered an advertisement on the top for a strip club, it became even more satisfying.
The planes rides were easy, high as the plane in a different way, waking occasionally for Sprites, and comprehending slim portions of what was going on, they were similar to the plane rides of nine days before. I had a layover in ATL, home of Outkast and many other creators of the Dirty South style of rap that I, as a sheltered, 37 year old white girl from Oklahoma, should not love but with my whole being do. I had always planned on NEVER, EVER going to the Atlanta airport for two very sound, scientifically valid reasons. First, I read it is the busiest airport (they weren’t joking either) in the country, which means there are a lot of other airplanes to crash into midair; thus, not my kind of airport. Second, I have a primal response to muddled Southern accents and it would probably be best for everyone if I never found myself in the vicinity of a large group of hard working, male airport employees lest I…well…anyway…it was a very BUSY airport. I ate frozen yogurt and Xanax for lunch and discovered airport employees were keeping a sensible distance.
After the second flight and the reemergence of my early-waking, jogging, and saintly aunt, Jeanne, my return home was punctuated by my almost 5 year old conducting a homecoming so touching that it was reminiscent of those exemplars of human emotion, Little House on the Prairie. It was pretty cool.
Kronkites,I hope you spend the next 50 weeks girding yourselves for the next set of tales!
I remain,
Carrie the Red (stripe)