August 15th
A rumbling southbound woke me before dawn and I scrambled to pack my sleeping bag and hop the train as it passed. On board, I huddled in a boxcar. I was going to play boxcar roulette, riding the car till the train stopped. I didn’t travel too far before the train came to a halt. I could tell the train help up on a siding, most liking waiting for another train to pass. Peering outside, I could tell we were near a fair sized town; it had to be Middleboro. If I remembered right, the freight would pass through Middleboro, enter Cumberland Gap National Historic Park, cut a small corner of Virginia before heading into Tennessee and hopefully Knoxville.
Like Kentucky, Tennessee, and many other states in the south, had dry counties. Campaigning in those counties would be difficult, for if you read my ramblings you know I do best with a little “political lubricant” in the form of a tall blonde or a shot of Stoli.
By mid-morning heat was building in the boxcar. I reckoned the freight was more than half way to Knoxville, and I hoped that it wasn’t going to turn into a broiler. I managed to nod off for a bit and I woke to the squealing brakes. I stood and peered out of the boxcar and saw it we were in a train yard. I gathered my pack and slid the door open. I could tell immediately that I was in Knoxville. I spray painted “Robert ‘08” on the side of the car before hoofing it downtown.
My first stop was Barley’s Taproom, an establishment known for its tap beer selection and pizza. I always enjoyed brick walled bars; they give a place an earthly feel. The only think I enjoyed more would be weathered wood, the true rustic touch that every dive needs. Immediately, campaigning went well, the topic of the day, energy and fuel prices. The irony of gasoline prices dropping as the tourist season slowed and the election approaching. I mentioned ethanol, and that its price artificially inflated since last year’s bumper crop of corn left silos overflowing. The laws of supply and demand would dictate that prices should fall if supply is great.
I’ll spare you the litany of every stop and their conversations. Though, I must say, I wish every day was as smooth, and everybody as willing to participate in dialog as this Friday afternoon.
Acting on a recommendation, I set my sights for a dive between Knoxville and Chattanooga. I found the tracks, hiked past the University of Tennessee, crossed the Tennessee River over a trestle, and started south, hopping a freight about two miles outside the city. I landed on a flatcar and like always, waved my sign at railroad crossings.
((The name of the town and bar are being withheld do to the events which took place. The name of the bar owner is also a pseudonym )Campaign HQ)
Around 7:25, I leapt off the train and walked into XXXXX. Just as told, the sign of XXXXXX dominated the town’s main street. A gray headed man with the red face of a beer slinger stood behind the bar, greeting me as if he knew me. “Hey Pardo, how are we tonight?”
He fetched me a tall blonde and we fell into a pleasant conversation. There were two patrons in the bar. I thought there would be more people, but I was told that the bar usually had a late crowd, and that it could be a cemetery in the early evening.
The bartender seemed tickled to have a presidential candidate and had me sign a Miller High Life Mirror that hung on the wall. The man flew into a litany of jokes, mostly one-liners, delivered with the mannerisms of Johnny Carson.
“I don’t care whose son you are, drop that cross one more time and you’re out of the parade.”
“More land, cried the king! The Queen sighed, kneed him in the nuts, and he had two more acres.”
You get my point, it was endless; suddenly, the bartender said to me, “You’re the most trustworthy fellow in here, would you do me a favor and watch the bar for about ten minutes, I forgot to get extra bourbon; I need to pick some up.
For some reason, I agreed and stepped behind the bar. He just told me to right down how many beers and mixed drinks I sold and put the money in the till. It shouldn’t be too bad, I’ll be back right away.
Al rushed out the door and the two at the end of the bar laughed.
Fifteen minutes later, no Al. The door opened and it was like a bus unloaded. A dozen people floated in and ordered up. Luckily it was all beer and I served them up.
Every time the door opened, I expected to see Al the bartender strolling in. Every time, I was disappointed and the crowd grew larger.
“I want a Cape Cod.” Not knowing what it was, I looked for the bartender’s bible. Not being able to find it, I asked what’s in it. Vodka and Cranberry, the patron told me. More people filed in. I struggled to keep up.
“Two Kamikazes and three Washington Apples,” a twenty-something lass ordered. Frustrated and overwhelmed I fetched her two Budweisers, three Miller Lights, Two shots of Jack Daniels and three shots of Early Times.
“What’s this?!?” she asked.
I pointed to the Buds and said, “Two Kami…” and then pointed at JD and added, “Kazes. The three Miller Lights are the Washingtons and the shots are the Apples.”
The girl shrugged and said, “What the hell, if you say so.”
The game was on. The bar was packed and whenever someone ordered a mixed drink, I produced a shot and beer.
When a smart ass ordered a Dry Martini, I got a Tall blonde and a shot of Stoli, slammed the shot, and handed him the High Life. “That’s a Dry Robertini. If you want the shot, order a Robertini.
This game went on for hours, contrary to being pissed, I was enjoying the experience, Word was out about town that a presidential candidate was bartending and the crowd grew. When was the last time a presidential candidate served you?”
The crowd stayed strong till the bitter end. Assuming closing time was two AM, I called last call at 1:30. As people left, be it one at a time, couples, or in small groups, I shook their hands, wished them well and asked them for their vote.
After the last person left, I locked the doors, shut off the neons, jacked the stools upon the bartop and counted my tips. I made almost $150, smiling, I slipped the money into my pocket. Exhausted, I pondered what to do. Al never returned, but I wasn’t surprised, the locals told me Al was the owner and he often played this game. He would sucker someone behind the bar, drive to the next town and get drunk. I filed my report with Campaign HQ before laying out my sleeping bag on the pool table and catching some sleep.
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