Short Stories

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“Welcome to Arkansas, Home of President Bill Clinton.” The sign in blue rocks me out of a daze. I immediately turn on my blinker thankful I did not pass my exit. I brake hard and turn right onto the off ramp that connects to Highway 71. The sun is setting; I should get gas before every dirty gas station in Arkansas turns into a scary Saturday night hangout for teenage rednecks. My car bounces off the highway into the fluorescent lit gas station. I smile as I watch people not much younger than myself pull up too quickly in loud dirty trucks. They glance slowly at me standing by my old convertible as I fill up.
This car is my baby, a 1987 Jaguar XJS with a gas-thirsty V-12 engine and a slightly faded British green paint job, given to me by my uncle. It must have taken an entire tree to make the dashboard, and these seats are more worn and comfortable than a couch in a dorm room. He knew I loved the car, and he needed space for his new Jag in the garage. It does not earn the attention of the ladies I hoped it would, but I have fallen in love with the way it drives. She is not a sports car and probably will not be considered by experts to be a classic or desirable Jaguar, but the exhaust sounds great, and the interior is the only place I ever feel at home. I slide the gear lever to D and pull out of the first of many gas stations I will see on my trip to the northern border of the “natural state.” Two hours ago I left my college campus with my worn suitcase after wrecking my GPA in what might unfortunately be my last semester. Usually, I blast up the interstate straight through the heart of the state to Little Rock and up to my grandparents’ home outside of Rogers, but this time my Jag will be driving the long way around. This year, I have no reason to hurry.
I picked up a road atlas while browsing through Books A Million last week and decided that I should find a scenic route through Arkansas. When I was a freshman, I went camping in Devil’s Den State Park with some friends and realized Arkansas had more to show than people who marry their cousins. We traded turns driving on twisty roads through beautiful mountains that looked stolen off a dust cover of an inspirational devotional book. We told each other we would be back next semester; that was over two years ago, and the only part of Arkansas I have seen since is the interstate that leads me straight to my grandparents’ for my obligatory annual visit. After such a terrible semester, I have decided to take that Arkansas trip by myself.
I turn the radio dial looking for an NPR station. Driving on a rural highway reminds me of high school when my uncle and I would work on his cars on the weekends and listen to the radio as we struggled to keep his cantankerous British roadsters running. He was an avid fan of the dead art of the radio show. Garrison Keiller is the last hero of the auditory band wave, and Prairie Home Companion is his masterpiece. I have not listened to this show in years; I am surprised it is still on the air. Garrison’s familiar voice comes over the stereo in the middle of one of his original skits. I smile to myself while sipping on my coffee. I fumble for the headlight switch and barrel on into the growing dark. I slept away the morning in the dorm, so I have plenty of energy to drive until later tonight. Despite the immense space on these highways, Arkansas has retained the annoying 55 mile per hour speed limit which, compared to interstate speed, is barely moving. Signs along the road mark creeks and give mile distances to places like Nashville, Murfreesboro, and other forgotten places. The V-12 under the long hood rumbles behind classically dim headlights as I listen to the entire radio show.
My first stop is Hot Springs, the small town once known as Al Capone’s hangout. I find it funny that an infamous mobster left a perfectly enjoyable city like Chicago to soak in spring water this far into the middle of nowhere. He probably just needed to get away from everything for a while. Arkansas benefited from the affair, gaining the reputation of a small town with high class flair that stuck for decades. The blend of Old South and mobster glamour intrigue me, so I will spend a day looking around. From there I am not sure where I will go.
Prairie Home Companion goes off as I pass through a spot on the road called “Dierks.” I shut off the radio and listen to my engine. The sun is gone, but it left behind a dusky glow. I think back over the year and the events leading up to today. It will not be enjoyable telling my uncle just how badly this semester has gone for me. He pays good money for me to go to college and I make a mess of a semester like this. Three years of college has not helped me decide what I want to do with myself. I majored in computer science because that was the thing to do at the time. The dot-com bubble had not yet popped; students poured into the field out of graduation. I just followed the crowd to college. I studied hard my first semester, went to all my classes, and obeyed all the rules. Somehow I realized that academics just was not doing it for me. All the studying, all the work, all the sucking up did not make life any easier or help me figure anything out. Here I am, 21, failing, confused, and the only direction in my life is the old highway I’m driving to an old town in Arkansas.
I’m nearing Hot Springs, the trees are thicker and the scenery is hilly instead of flat. It is not even midnight yet so I overestimated the distance. The back roads are not as time consuming as I had imagined. I drive slowly through the southern part of Hot Springs. Strip malls, common chain restaurants, and a Wal-Mart give the impression that the modern generations have added their boring flavor to Al Capone’s hangout. Most of the places appear closed for the evening except for a nondescript building that must be a bar. The old Arkansas shines through in the form of a trashy boat dock and other shoddy boat houses on a lake beside the road. The drive takes me North up a hill and into the older part of town. Neat brick buildings crowd together and display windows of antique shops and creatively independent restaurants all closed for the night. The farther North I drive the more impressive the buildings become until I reach the row of bathhouses. Each looks like a small resort the size of a home but of a different genre than the next. An Italian villa, a brick house, a Greco-Roman temple all with signs and names bragging about natural spring water. The idea of a bath does not interest me, but the images of these buildings crammed next together entertains me. On the last important corner in Hot Springs, stands the tall and proud Arlington, Al Capone’s old hotel. The nightly party is over, but the lights are still on inside by the dance floor. I smile to myself thinking about mobsters from Chicago swing dancing in Arkansas and soaking in bathhouses lined together. I find everything I hoped for, and it is not even daylight.
About one o’clock, I pull into a dirty truck stop with a large gravel parking lot full of potholes. Half a dozen big rigs are parked with their engines running, parking lights on, and drivers asleep in the cabin. I don’t want to waste money on a hotel for just a handful of hours so I park the Jag and slowly crawl out. My legs are stiff from driving and my head is still ringing from having the top down all day. Out of my leather bag in the backseat, I pull a fresh shirt, kick off my shoes, and walk on the gravel in my socks lifting up the canvas roof of the car. Regretful that I cannot brush my teeth, I crawl back in the Jag, lean back, and sleep for a few hours.
At six my cell phone rings, scaring me awake. I had set myself an alarm to be sure I didn’t stay in my car all morning. Undoubtedly, a truck would wake me up, but I had to be sure. My neck is killing me, and my teeth feel even nastier. A quick trip into the truck stop with my shaving bag fixes my hair and teeth fuzz problem and allows me to buy another cup of coffee to rot my teeth. Before pulling out for a morning adventure through Hot Springs, I check the oil in my Jag. Not surprisingly, she is low, so I top it off with overpriced Mobil 1 and crank it up. I am very fortunate that my old British car is running dependably- not the result I have come to expect. I have seen what I wanted to see of Hot Springs, so I’ll drive back and find a diner that serves breakfast before heading out.
The first place I come to is Granny’s Diner. As I push open the door, clinging the classic bell signaling my entrance, several old men wearing their caps gently on the top of their heads and flannel shirts give me a quick glance. Not many people my age visit a diner before lunch so something must be amiss. Old black and white pictures of Hot Springs in the twenties and thirties line the walls. Smiling faces in silvery photos and glamorous clothes contrast strongly with the plaid shirted patrons with wrinkled, tired faces. I hate sitting at a table by myself, so I make my way to the bar where I can watch the cook prepare steamy plates of classic southern gourmet breakfast.
“What can I get you to drink, hun?” asks an older waitress. I reply with the first words I have said aloud since leaving Longview, Texas, “Coffee and milk.” I have to clear my throat because the words come out rough. My dad would have loved this place. We used to go out for breakfast early in the morning. He’s the man who made me a morning person. I wish he was here to enjoy it with me.
As she sets down my coffee, sloshing it over the edge of the thick white mug, the waitress asks, “What’ll ya have?” I reply to her, “Biscuits and gravy and two scrambled eggs.” I sit in silence for a few moments before the hot plate with my order slides across the bar with a smile. I nod in thanks and begin my solitary breakfast. The old men chatter loudly across the restaurant about the weather and the news. I haven’t thought about either in days. I just think about my uncle. The tired mechanic made a big sacrifice taking me in after my parents were killed in an accident, and I will always owe him for that. He took on the responsibility of completing his younger brother’s dream of sending me to college. I say I’m trying to be grateful, but all I do is mess up all his hard work. I could blame it on the tragedy of not knowing how to deal with the emotional stress. Although I miss my parents and didn’t know what to do, these six years have taught me that it was not their death that has given me trouble but my life. Pleasing my parents was never the answer. I tried that, and it still left me wanting more.
I finish off the large plate of food, leave a ten on the table, and walk away. Seven a.m. and I have several miles to go. I hope to arrive in Rogers tonight. My uncle told me about a car museum on top of a mountain here in Arkansas. The atlas shows a county road that leads toward Petite Jean Mountain, small green words circled in black ink on the page. Besides this shirt, I am wearing the same clothes I had on yesterday and probably look like it. As the sun rises my thoughts wander to my friends. I wonder if they will miss me if I do not come back next semester. I force myself to think about the car and how well the old engine is running. The large V-12 works well because I rebuilt it, not because of any one else. If life were like cars it would make sense and be repairable. Each person would be judged on his or her ability to make their life run like a well-tuned V-12.
At a quarter to ten, I start climbing up a narrow two lane road that bends around a tree covered hill that Arkansans call Petite Jean. My friends from Colorado and Wyoming laugh at these “mountains” in Arkansas, but I love them because the road leads straight up to the top. On the way up, I realize I notice the temperature gauge straying too close to red for my comfort. Hopefully the car just needs a moment to cool. I ease off the road to an old gas station covered in antique signs with two old gas pumps in the front. I slide the shift lever into park, get out of the car, and pop the hood to let the engine cool. As I am checking the oil, an old southern man in overalls strides up behind me and yells too loudly, “That’s a fancy ride there, everything alright?” “Yes sir, thank you,” I reply quickly. “You must be on your way to the car show.” “Actually I am just here to see the car museum on top of Petite Jean, I did not know about a car show.” The old man seems surprised, “Oh yea, this is the big one of the year, it’s right next to the museum.” “Well I guess I’ll be there soon,” I say with a smile and get back in my Jag. “Alright now, you take care,” the old man says with a slow wave as he steps back to the shade of the store. I have never gotten used to the way old men talk to everyone. Maybe conversing with strangers is the universal old person method of coping with loneliness; I should try it out. In the tradition of curious old British cars, the problem seems to have fixed itself and my Jag runs fine for the rest of the way up the mountain. I make the most of every sharp turn and really put my foot down in the straight stretches of road. I pride myself on my driving skills; my uncle taught me well.
The car show overwhelms with old hard metal cars and the hardened people who own them. Classic automobiles cover the lawns, and less exotic, modern cars that brought spectators from miles away line the road. I park to take a minute to walk around. The feeling of attending an event like this is awkward alone and I wish that someone was here with me or else this event was not this weekend, so I could just enjoy the small museum of classic cars. I ignore the loud middle age Arkansans bragging about their Corvette motors and head for the air conditioned building at the center of the automotive circus which must be the museum. A sign says the museum is free today because of the car show, which is the only advantage I can find to tolerating such a crowd. Behind the glass doors, meticulously clean archaic cars sit on carpet with velvet ropes blocking anyone from touching or looking too closely. I stride slowly, ignoring all the other people around me. In the far back corner, past the old Lincoln and the Ford Model A sits a racing Jaguar from the sixties. The curvy roadster with its shiny paint that matches my convertible parked outside looks misplaced here with these large Detroit cars. I am proud of everything about my country except its cars. The plaque standing in front of the dashing Jaguar tells about the history of this particular D-Type racer and how it came to rest here in the mountains of Arkansas. I take a few moments to absorb the room and the other examples of Mercedes, Mustangs, and other classic racecars and head back outside. Maybe on my way back home I will stop by to see the museum without the crowds. The drive down the mountain makes me think the road itself is worth the trip up Petite Jean Mountain.
I decide to shorten my trip and use interstate for the first time since leaving Texas. I-40 takes me west toward Fort Smith, Arkansas. I will not take interstate the whole way up, but an hour here will save me time later and make it possible to reach my grandparents’ before too late. On the interstate I start to feel tired, and my arms feel heavy on the steering wheel. A quick stop at an exit produces a cup of coffee from a drive through Starbucks, and I am back on the road. I appreciate the ease of modern interstates and highways, but they never have the character of old highways and trashy gas stations. I turn off onto highway 23 going North and stop my thoughts about my family by listening to talk radio and watching the miles click by. Small towns fly by- Cass, Dutton, Witter, and several others that look like mirror images of each other. Hours go by this way, and I barely give life a thought. I drive extremely slow like an old farm truck and let the wind chap my face. The drive would be more comfortable with the top up, but I cannot force myself to close it. With weather this nice, I would hate to close myself away from it. A closed car without wind would allow me the peace to think which I would rather avoid right now. I realize too late I should be looking for my turnoff to Rogers. I glance down at my atlas and realize that I passed 123 just a few minutes ago.
Since I missed my turn, I might as well continue down the road. I end up in Eureka Springs, a small town known for antique shops and the people who travel to visit them. I think of it as a Hot Springs without the old wealth invested years ago. I had not planned to visit the antique haven, but I am not excited to see my grandparents. They never understood me like my uncle. They never took the time to know me like my parents would have. Maybe life would be different if they were still alive. They had such hopes for me. I remember going to church and saying prayers. I remember having faith in God… But, I lost that a long time ago. I’m not honoring my parents by rejecting what they taught me, but it is not easy believing in the loving God of your parents while they lie six feet under ground. It’s not easy to keep faith in something that destroyed life itself.
I wipe a tear from my face and replace it with a grim frown. I plant the throttle into the floorboard and listen to V-12 smoothly force the old green car faster and faster down the weaving road. Only six miles to Eureka Springs; I will blow through the town like a cold wind and never look back. I will drive on through Missouri and Illinois and Canada if I have to. My Jag is pointed North and it will not point South again. I do not care where the road goes or where it ends. Life, school, my grandparents, and all my problems are in my rearview mirror somewhere in the dark, hiding from the glow of my taillights.
I begin to ease off the gas as I cross a highway. The historic homes and shops of Eureka Springs line the road, but I do not pay them any attention. Whether my hands are shaking from coffee or my anger towards the world, I have no idea. The slow pace of the speed limit annoys me, but I obey patiently and force myself to look around. The shops are even more compact than Hot Springs, and the road is hilly and narrow. I think of a city on the west coast or somewhere classic on the eastern seaboard, but not Arkansas. Despite my despair, I am impressed by this subtle, small town. The antiquated windows of restaurants, the clean sidewalks, the bridge of the road that connects the upper level of two buildings, rock cliffs jut out directly behind the row of buildings. Eureka Springs must have been carved from the hill so these antique shops could form here. The town loosens my hardened face and forces me to relax. Somewhere between Petite Jean Mountain and the small main street in Eureka Springs I lost control. I smile through tears because I have nothing left. I smile because I will not be going back. I top the hill slowly, no longer driving my Jaguar in anger. I sip on yesterday’s coffee I never finished or threw away. Although the flavor must be horrible my tongue never sends my brain the message; my sense of self preservation has cut off all thought. All that exists is the hum of the engine.
As I crest the hill, I see the top of a well lit…something. I cannot make out the object but I can tell it is a statue standing tall among the trees. I make a u-turn in the road looking for a path that leads to the strange object. Curiosity drives me to act as my brain left the responsibility unattended. I find a small parking lot with a path that leads in the direction of the white statue that must be a pioneer or some founding figure. If this were Hot Springs I would expect to find Al Capone, but the history of Eureka Springs has never been explained to me. I park the Jag and force myself out of the car. Like my mind, my legs are numb. A family walks past me along the sidewalk leaving the statue. They look at my greasy hair and face red from crying. The stench from my clothes must reach their nostrils as they frown and fail to avoid staring. Traveling has taken a toll on me. The trip has been short, but in the process of thinking, I have forgotten to attend to myself. I have not even taken a look up at the statue as I walk in front of it following the dimly lit path. Large clusters of powerful lights, similar to those found on a professional baseball field, point up toward the large white shape. As I stop in the middle of the path and view park benches on the edge of the sidewalk I slowly turn and glance toward the statue. I slowly take in the image carved out of stone standing high in the night. The image of Jesus looming over me with arms spread wide makes sense in my mind. A tear runs down my face, and then I flush with anger. A quiet feeling of fury fills me. I have no clue if any one is around and do not care. I only see the statue through bloodshot eyes. After traveling away from my life and my problems, he was the last person I expected to see. I stand there and stare. Thoughts run through my head in jumbles, running over one another. I find myself on my knees, crying against my will.
The sun climbs slowly over the tree after I have spent hours sitting in the dark staring at the brightly lit statue of Jesus Christ. Somehow in the night, despite my senseless rage, I found peace. The excuse for all my problems in life was actually the only answer to my questions. My parents death does not justify my pathetic choices. I have lived my life trying to find someone to please. I tried to find answers in my academics and found them lacking. The task of studying and searching for a career is hopeless and hollow. Friends make life enjoyable but never give it a purpose; they too let me down. The answer to my questions was a part of my life all along. I was taught to pray and to trust, but I had turned my back on the on source of answers. I have no clue how life is going to work out or if I will return to college in the fall. The only thing I know is where I will look for help in the years to come. I know that God is with me and that he exists in the details. He searched me out on my road trip of escape through Arkansas and grabbed me just miles from the Missouri border. He stood tall in the form of a manmade statue probably put there years ago. Although just a symbol, I would not be surprised that many wayward souls remembered their only hope when faced with the mighty image. I force myself to step slowly towards my car. After my annual visit to my grandparents’ I have no idea where I will go or what I will do, but that is exactly where I need to be. For the first time in years, I am at peace.

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