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Like most weather predictions, the various meteorologists half-missed. There’d been a late-March snow of memorable intensity, but far to the east. Merchant sea captains off the coast of both Carolinas and Virginia reported white-out blizzard conditions. Further inland—though the airports closed—the areas of Hovis’s route received anywhere from a dusting to six inches. He drove the speed limit at most, and kept both windows up because of an inadequate, unreliable heater that, when actually running properly, dimmed his headlights and crippled the windshield wipers. He’d brought along a sleeping bag, a case of beer, and a quart of Old Crow for inevitable roadside nights. Because he knew exactly the price of cigarette packs in New York—he’d made a small fortune driving up Winstons, Marlboros, Lucky Strikes, Virginia Slims, and American Spirits in U-Hauls, Econoline vans, and rental trucks of all sizes—Hovis brought along two cartons to last him less than one week, for he calculated moochers into his daily consumption.
He’d made a small fortune driving up Winstons, Marlboros, Lucky Strikes, Virginia Slims, and American Spirits in U-Hauls, Econoline vans, and rental trucks of all sizes—Hovis brought along two cartons to last him less than one week, for he calculated moochers into his daily consumption.
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He spent the first night in a KOA campground, in his truck. On the second night—not really that far from Manhattan—he dozed off back where longhaul drivers napped behind a Pilot Travel Center near Harrisburg. Hovis knew that he needed a shower, that his drowsy wool sweater and sports coat retained an effluvium no longer recognized as appropriate in America. He thought, I’ll get to the room, check in, clean up, and practice my word in a variety of sentences, both puerile and metaphysical.
At noon sharp he left his pick-up with a valet to park, and walked into the lobby, not knowing of the 4 p.m. check-in rule. The desk clerk, whom Hovis automatically considered a striking ingénue of questionable thespian abilities, breathed in deeply. She savored what emanated from Hovis’s clothes, got his name and made sure that he indeed had a room reserved, informed him of the standard 4 o’clock policy, and burst into tears. He said, “It’s all right. I have time. Is there a bar anywhere?”
“My grandfather,” she said. “I haven’t thought of my grandfather in years. God. Not that you’re old enough to be my grandfather, but the memories …” She wiped her cheeks. Hovis offered a clean handkerchief, which she refused, then took. She held it to her nose. “Goddamn. I haven’t remembered this in years. His farm. The smell of his clothes.” She dropped her hands, shaking visibly, below the counter top. Then she crossed her arms. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Hovis smiled. He nodded. “Four o’clock. Can I leave my bag here?”
She motioned for a bellhop. She said to Hovis, “Thank you so much, sir. Listen, if you walk down to 18th and Irving Place you’ll find a bartender with a heavy pour. It’s a few blocks,” she extended her right arm and waggled her wrist in circles, “that way.”
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He didn’t get to the first intersection before a Jack Russell terrier, led by a woman who looked like she’d been editing fashion magazines for 40 years, lurched toward Hovis and humped his right leg. The dog’s nails dug in, and its apostate tongue lolled out panting. The owner jerked the leash to no avail, then grasped her dog’s collar and pulled back once, evenly. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and Hovis could tell that she meant it.
He said, “No problem here. No problem and no charge.” The terrier’s nails had torn through his khakis.
The woman picked up her confused, determined dog, held her free hand to Hovis’s shoulder, and breathed in his personal tobacco-fogged odor. “Ahhhhh!” she said. To her dog she singsonged out, “This is what I’ve told you about, Barry.” To Hovis she added, “Those were heady days, out until dawn every night, artists sleeping with artists. The blue-gray-gray-blue clouds of Camels and Chesterfields hanging in the rooms like … like, I don’t know what. Hanging in the air like the opposite of toxins, I suppose. There should be a word for what I’m trying to remember.”
Hovis thought, I am in a land of zombies. He said, “I’ll invent you a word for next year’s competition,” and escaped across the street, cold air seeping through his compromised pants.
Hovis walked and wafted. Men and women alike—most of whom hailed from western European nations—passed him, stopped momentarily, underwent flashbacks that involved cages, pubs, bodegas, hidden school yard corners, the kitchen of a favorite cigarette-addicted relative, and then turned around. They quickened their pace and closed in on Hovis, who remained unaware of his sweater’s attraction, his coat’s magnetism.
“I’ll have a shot of bourbon,” Hovis said up at the bar. “A bourbon, a draft beer,” he looked at the taps and recognized none of the brands, “a draft beer that has somebody’s last name for the brewery instead of an animal, and another bourbon.”
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“I’ll have a shot of bourbon,” Hovis said up at the bar. “A bourbon, a draft beer,” he looked at the taps and recognized none of the brands, “a draft beer that has somebody’s last name for the brewery instead of an animal, and another bourbon.”
People piled in behind him and inhaled. A woman said, “I miss men who have guts.”
Another woman said, “Where are you from?” and a man said, “Take us back with you, please.”
The bartender said, “One bourbon, one bourbon, and one beer. Like the song.”
Hovis shook his head. He leaned forward and smiled, checked behind both shoulders at the other new bar patrons who invaded his space, and almost employed his new word twice in one sentence. “I don’t know that song,” he said, though he understood how the bartender confused one scotch for one bourbon.
Everyone else ordered exactly as Hovis. They drank when he drank, cleared their throats when he did, held their shoulders ear-ward when Hovis tried to eradicate tension brought on by hours and hours of late winter traveling.
He felt their eyes. He tried not to glance at the mirror to see what evolved behind him. “Thanks,” he said to the bartender, hopeful to find a less crowded bar down the street. He unfolded a $20 bill.
The bartender held up his palm, said it was on the House, and tried to keep his voice from cracking high when he said, “Come on back any time and often.”
Hovis said, “Can I smoke outside somewhere? I don’t know the rules up here. It’s all so goddamn …” He almost used his word.
The bartender said, “I don’t know the rules anymore.”
Hovis walked out of the bar slowly. He thought about taking off in a dead sprint, but he knew that his lungs wouldn’t last; there were people coming toward him already. He thought, I made a mistake.
As it ended up, Hovis could’ve used his winning term all day long, or in front of strangers, for he got kidnapped out on the street corner, lighting up. His followers surrounded him and, like 30 shepherds in charge of one sheep, led him away. Hovis missed his meetings and ultimate ceremonial induction fete. They placed him in a small, sterile room in what had once been a cheese store, took turns breathing him in, and had memories and memories and memories no one had ever recalled as being so pleasant. When had my life been happy? each person wondered. How could I have been enveloped by love without anyone touching me?
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—Photo by Marius Mellebye/flickr
Readers of “There’s a Word” may well want to check out the George Singleton feature—two new stories plus an essay on Singleton by William Giraldi—in the Winter 2010 issue of THE GEORGIA REVIEW.
Stephen Corey
Editor
Thanks, Stephen! I would second that rec.