Road Small Town Talk (summer 2005)

We had come to the place on this motorcycle trip where we were used to our presence in little towns calling idle attention to ourselves with our strange dress and roadtrip adventures that we shared with the home-bound during our encounters.

To a certain extent we were knights of the road — members of a bygone wandering aristocracy. Our worn leathers, goggles, boots and loaded, grimy bikes were like our calling cards but without with any discernible job description or impressive title.

We were just two bikers with roadpacks and old gasoline station paper maps with all manner of road crud stuck to our jeans, We were shadows of our former big Eastern city selves.

At one small gas station at the upper edge of small town, our arrival at its entrance attracted the amused or curious glances of onlookers. In the distance the town emitted smells of that day’s luncheon plates being prepared in a diner or cafe, which cried out to our empty stomachs.

We were tired from a difficult morning of riding over rough broken pavement. We tried not to show our exhaustion obviously, when we were assaulted by the attendant with a request for news of our ride. We knew that reciting the crappy details of that day’s hardships we had suffered on the long hard road was not what he wanted to hear. So, we told him of the good times from other days, which seemed to make him happy.

News of our arrival, however, must have reached the ears of other fellow town dwellers who beseiged us pumpside for our stories. We smiled and took turns as the other was allowed to go to the bathroom and buy a bottle of water.

To meet a road wanderer in these western outposts seemed to signify the need on our part for a certain hospitality and neither of us was in a position to turn down their polite requests for a story or two. We got very good after a brief story from each of us patiently requesting where we could eat, since we were hungry. This allowed our audience to at great length give us their considered options and allow us a pleasant way of ending our unending story telling hour.

Their tips allowed us to venture down side streets, dirty stairways and dark recesses, talking to the occasional homeless gent, as we plumbed the town’s depths for the best meal in town.

Once seated, we just ate until we were content. We found many a marvelous meal that way. Today was my turn to pick the restaurants and my riding partner’s job to pick the motel — one notch above scuzz was our rule. All three were most excellent.

We met the unofficial mayor of our lunch town at today’s cafe, who treated us amicably. He gave the impression of acting out a scene in a play, taking much care to pronounce each word perfectly. He became enthusiastic only when talking about his past. We could have stayed for a long time, but we told him that we had many miles to make it to our destination outside of another National Park on our list to see.

He told us to use the park’s back entrance. We had no clue what he was talkong about. Still, it was probably consoling for him to feel he had been of some positive use to these vagabonds. We collected our things and bade him good day. We left with great regret that we did not farewell the cook of what was a fabulous meal.

all our small town talk
had no he said she said
so no rumors were spread
like we knew something
they’all didn’t know
man, our talk stories
never got old

their day’s twenty-four hours long
but to them each one seems longer
there’s no hurry, for there’s nowhere to go
nothing to buy and no money to buy it with
once they stopped talking to us
they probably started talking about us

Small town talk

I wish they were of mind to trade our tales for their stories . . . stories about the bad fruits of passion and true stories of murder in a small town . . . steamy August night, teen-aged paternal twins — brother and sister, secret mission in a rural forest, death, disappearances, Ouija board prophesy, defrocked Roman Catholic priest . . . . you know, the typical, American road small town talk.

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