I heard the key in the door. Rolling over, I watched Al stroll through the door. “How’s anyone gonna shoot pool with your ass sprawled over the table?”
“You forget how to tell time?”
“It’s the King’s birthday, wanna go to Memphis to celebrate?”
I considered this invite a long moment before answering. “Where can a guy get a hearty breakfast?”
“You hungry too?
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
Al took me to the local café, introduced me to the old cronies, which he dubbed the “think tank.” He later told me, “the only thinking done in there, is how it used to be. Those old fools drive the truck by looking into rearview mirror.”
After breakfast, Al visited the bathroom. I threw a fifty on the table and slipped out the door and followed this alley way and that until I found the tracks.
By late afternoon, I jumped a flatcar and rode the freight towards Chattanooga. The temperature was pleasant; the skies overcast as I sat back and enjoyed the countryside. In Chattanooga, I rode the train into the DeButt’s yard, east of downtown. I ‘autographed’ the nearest boxcar before walking about town. Being Saturday, I looked for the best place to wave my sign to auto traffic.
Downtown, I settled for the corner of Market St. and E. Martin Luther King Blvd, just southwest of the University of Tenn.-Chattanooga. I enjoy waving my sign; most people ignore me, most thinking it’s just another bum begging for money. Some give me a double take; others will honk a horn or give thumbs up. The activity born in Buffalo, grounds me to the calendar. I considered doing this in every city I visit, but I doubt the tactic’s effectiveness. Though, if I were driving down the busy street and noticed what appeared to be a bum waving a vote me for president sign, I would remember the image as I stepped into the voting booth.
I packed in it and headed for Buck Wild. Last time I was Chattanooga, I had a memorable time. Tonight, I’ll quench my thirst and try to campaign over the jukebox.
There’s a spirit in this town that I can’t quite finger, but it calls to me. Maybe because it is the gateway to the deep south. Whatever it is, when I thought about this campaign, there was never a doubt that I would swing through town.
I barely had a chance to pay for a drink. “I don’t know if you’re legitimate or not, but someone who is barhopping across country under that guise of running for president is a genius, and I ain’t gonna let them buy no drink,” a poly-sci grad student told me.
“I assure you that I’m for real. I used to ride the rails for fun. Now it’s all business.”
I rode the lad’s coattails all night and managed to campaign while having a good time and introducing the local’s to a Robertini.
At closing time, feeling good, and with some extra change in my pocket, I checked into a decent Hotel, showered, turned on the TV and fell asleep to the Olympic recap.
Recent Comments