Austin

(This is another short piece I wrote way back in 2018, when I was trying to find my voice and write about my first epic hitchhiking trip around the country from summer 2017. Unlike the other pieces from that time, Escape from LA and Albuquerque, this one includes a bit of fictionalization, in the Neal Cassady-esque character. In reality, I didn’t learn about Janis Joplin until 2018. This piece is also unfinished, since there is more to tell about my time in Austin; but this section is the most solid one. Again, forgive my juvenile writing from 4 years ago; I haven’t edited it a bit, and I like seeing how I wrote back then.)

Robert jackknifed the truck into an open spot in the large parking lot of a Petro truck stop, raving about the breakfasts at its ubiquitous Iron Skillet restaurant. I told him I had to get on to Austin right away, as it was already late morning, and the sun was getting more relentless by the minute. He offered me more Gatorades for the road, and I grabbed one, giving him my gratitude as we said our goodbyes. An entire day and night together broke quickly into a lifetime of forgetting. I repacked my bag and descended with it from the high cab, and was reminded of its heavy blue gravity when I dropped it to the ground. The thought of hoisting it onto my back, weakened as I was by a full 24 hours of unnatural sedentary containment, made my first movements reluctant. I stretched gratuitously in the parking lot, drawing stares from a few gruff truckers who turned to each other, no doubt commenting on their imagined knowledge of my sexuality. Feeling finally fully awake I planted my right foot, lifted my bag onto the knee, swung the bag onto my right shoulder and, standing, wriggled my left arm into the tight strap. Two clicks later I approached the minimart in the parking lot to inquire for cardboard. The indifferent attendant told me they had none. I went out and around the side of the tiny building and found some of the supposedly nonexistent cardboard in a bin, then sat in the hot sun writing my Austin sign, sweat already tickling down to the small of my back. It would be my first time hitching in real Texas, and I was apprehensive.

There was a grassy area next to the generous shoulder of the frontage road that ran by the Petro and into I-10 East. The road had a slow but steady trickle of traffic. My colorful tank top and my tattered cowboy hat probably sent some confusing messages to the Texans driving by, but eventually an older truck driver pulled over. He spoke little English, but was going to Houston and could drop me off at Seguin, which is where Robert had advised me to aim. Hopping out on the off ramp 20 minutes later, I shot some of the confused other off-ramp drivers some smiles and even threw a wink at one particularly entertained man before walking toward the Whataburger sign atop a pole in the distance, excited to try the last of the Great American Burger Chains. The air conditioning felt so orgasmic that I had to hold back a moan with a controlled exhale and a slight neck spasm. I was conscious of the looks of the other families in the establishment as I plopped my stuff down, went to the bathroom, and then ordered. A few strategically thrown smiles later and I could feel my local reputation increasing, especially once my food was brought to me and the locals realized that I, too, ate food. A kind lady came over and offered me money, and I refused it as kindly as I could and explained my deal, which launched a brutally nice long conversation about her own schooldays. After she left, I finished my meal, double checked my intended hitch spot on my phone map, had a brief conversation with the white men at the next table, and went on my way. Patting my pockets as I walked, I realized my pepper spray was lost. Fuck! I figured I would get a new canister later in Austin, and put it out of my mind temporarily, although the loss of that constant reminder was discomforting. 

While I was posted up at my spot with my sign, there were tons of cops around dealing with other matters. I gave them a few nods and smiles now and then, and they gave me no trouble. 

Just then, the lady from Whataburger pulled up in her car and rolled down the window. I didn’t recognize her at first and had a brief false flash of relief at finding a ride. “Hon, you’re in the wrong place over here.” I explained my plan of roads to her, and she shook her head. “No, no, you’re gonna wanna walk down that way, there, 46, New Braunfels, see? They got the biggest waterpark there you ever seen, plenty a cars headed there, trust me.” I wasn’t too sure her idea was better than my original plan, but I decided to trust her and started walking, sweating thickly. On a concrete bridge about 100 yards later a truck pulled over for my thumb and the kind lady’s local knowledge was vindicated. The driver was a bourbon colored man with cool sunglasses; he was on a phone call with some friend. While talking he pulled out a carton of gold Marlboros and offered me one, which I accepted too-gratefully and smoked out of the crack in my window, imitating him as casually as I could. We talked about travel, his and mine, and I think he got something out of it. That felt good. When we were talking about where he’d let me out (he wanted to bring me to a truck stop further ahead), I saw the most fertile frontage road I’d ever seen. “You can pull over right up here!” I got out. 

“Wait kid!”  I heard, and from the high window he threw me a limp burrito wrapped in aluminum foil. It was squishy and warm and awesome.

I knew I was in a damn good hitch spot. There was an absurd amount of traffic, plenty of time for drivers to see me, plenty of room for them to pull over, and they were all heading straight onto 35 North for Austin. A natural smile broke on my face and stayed locked against the wind of the cars rushing by. I knew I had it. Sure enough, a few minutes later I looked behind me and realized there was a gray car sitting there waiting for me. I ran over whooping and hopped in with a long haired old hippie driver. He told me he was a musician. Awesome! Austin!

He dropped me at my Couchsurf host’s house, where I dropped off my stuff. Marco was his name, he was a bilingual programmer from South Texas and a frequent traveler himself. I asked him for some insider Austin tips for someone who only has a little time. He drove me to the top of South Congress Street and let me loose with instructions to walk back towards the city in order to make it to the Congress Street Bridge for the famous bat exodus at dusk. I walked along the bougie street full of lucky affluent young people doing lucky affluent young people things, spending money. I fulfilled my obligation and bought a slice of pizza and a sugary coffee drink. The bats, though, that was really something. At dusk every night on the Congress Street Bridge over a million bats fly out from their upside-down home into the orangeing sky, becoming smaller and smaller black dots flying in massive clusters. You could see invisible forces at work very strongly in these bats; they’d flutter around and sense the other flutterers near them and fall into the same flutter, quickly forming large herds. This one bat caught my eye, though. He seemed to get separated far enough from the other bats so that he couldn’t attach any tether, and he flew around far above our heads for a very long time, a tiny tiny black dot that no one else even noticed. I watched him fly around alone for a long time, far too high, before he finally caught two other vagabonds and the three of them formed a small crew. That was nice.

As an Uber pulled over to pick up some girls, I checked my phone to figure out my next “Austin” endeavor. Barton Springs, apparently, was a local pond that had free swimming from 9-10 every day. I began my walk through the humid Austin night. I noticed bars and restaurants and outdoor hangouts, all cooled by these misters which sprayed mist softly over outdoor picnic tables and their inhabitants as they smiled and spoke under soft strings of lights. The whole city was misted, just wet enough.

The Springs were a treasure to find in the navy Austin night, and in my boxer briefs I leaped right in and cackled like a maniac upon emerging at the surface and whipping my wet hair. The people around must have thought I was nuts. I spent the next few minutes smiling and swimming and laughing. They were right! Afterwards, I sat for a long time alone thinking, drying. I loved being wet, I loved being dry. Eventually I began my walk back towards the city, taking a different route of course.

I was walking along the most dark lonely street I’d seen in a long while, nice houses on my right, trees and nothing on my left, when I heard some voices. They were to my left, below the nothing. “Hello down there!” I called over the cement barrier.

 “Hello, mysterious voice!” 

“How’s it goin, uh, wherever you are?!” A moment of silence. Then:

“Why don’t you come on down here?”

“How far is the jump?”

“There’re some stairs to your left.”

There were. I took the hidden unhewn stone stairs down to a little dark grove of trees and dirt nestled up against Barton Creek. Here, a whole gang of vagabonds was gathered. Goooood shit. A bunch were apparently sleeping on the ground closer to the river. Farther ashore, there was a guy splayed bellydown on the dirt ahead with his face in a jacket, a girl sleeping on a backpack nearby, and two dudes sitting on a concrete ledge talking. I introduced myself to the two who were sitting up, a young guy with glasses and a very old, addled-looking man. The younger was earnest, nerdy, brown haired and bright eyed. The older was a musician, and seemed to be impervious to external social forces; he interrupted us frequently to hijack the conversation while the two of us were too diffident and unwilling to do the same to him. He would ramble shamelessly, often uselessly, but I resigned myself to appreciate what I could from it. Drugs had clearly addled his brain over the long beat years. I was just beginning a conversation with the young man about the terrors of AI when we were interrupted again.

“Yeeeeees yes, nothin like a nice warm Austin night. You know how long I been comin back to this deelicious city?” He smacked his lips and didn’t wait for an answer. “Fifty three mothafuckin years man. That ain’t tell you then I dunno what.” He spoke very quickly, looking at the air slightly above and ahead as if there was no human audience. Maybe to him there wasn’t. In the close darkness, his pale head and scorched short white hair bobbed constantly, slightly nodding up and down as if to a worn-out yes machine in his head. 

As I tossed the young boy his conversational bookmark, the geezer picked up an acoustic guitar and began tinkering around. He was just alright at it. Midword he popped back in “I was here back when Janis was at the Ghetto over at 2812 1⁄2 Nueces, yaknow. That was a fuckin party man, that was a fuckin…” He was nodding harder, head now bowed.

“Janis?”

“Kid… you fuckin serious?” he said as he gave me a look that said Kid… you fuckin serious? “You don’t know JANIS JOPLIN?!” I knew the name, but not who and what she really was. He told me. He shook his head, went pfff, and then oh man did he tell me. As he spoke, I shared some of the Peruvian tobacco that the reggae guy had given me in Garberville, which we smoked in the young man’s tiny pipe. 

“Janis man, she was the real one. The real real one you know? The real one that the other “real” ones imitated. You know? Like, man… the 60s you know the hippies and all, specially the girls, the rebellious jeans, the bell bottoms, the braless, hoooo, uh, the comfy hip look you know? She did that first man, she just was that, she was the real fuckin deal, she just wore and did whatever the fuck she liked and didn’t give a fuck. Or, if she did give a fuck, she did it anyway! She was the first girl around here to really just not give a fuck, before people gave a fuck about not giving a fuck. You see? I mean she was just being comfortable and expressive and Janis, ah man, ahhhhhh, how can I make you understand?” He puffed on the little pipe and licked his lips after, forgetting to pass it. His eyes travelled, his lips stayed silent for a while. “Austin… Janis… yes! Yes, this gone little Texas girl, oh yes, she went through her shit for it, bullies in high school and whore and freak and slut and all the garbage that good conservative towns can throw at ya, those outside ho-mo-geneity enforcers, assholes, you know, I mean shit Port Arthur? A straightjacket. I didn’t know her then, of course, I only rolled here to Austin ohhh I forget, got real cold up North you know, and the Ghetto was just where it was at here, around UT. I mean, Texas, you know, the eyes were everywhere, McCarthy bullshit in the streets, you never knew which old white lady was watching. You smoked pot round here, you didn’t tell your best friend even, see? But all the beatest characters, I suppose they started calling them hippies later once they were a thing but back then they were still just people man uh huh? And…” He stopped abruptly, and we sat in silence for a sec. That natural desire to fill silence was absent. It would be wrong. I was happy in imagined reverie with him. I grabbed the pipe silently and as I reached I brought my eyes to meet his glassy ones. Light emanating from me reached him, I felt the invisible tether grabbed as his pupil dilated in the darkness, and he came back to us. “Yes, so, yes I found myself in Austin and a friend brought me to Nueces Street, what a scene! It was this old army barracks or whatever where all those restricted wild men gathered to do their things before going back to the school to lie to themselves all day. Not Janis, though, she lived herself true all the time, mhmm? That first night I got to the Ghetto, I don’t quite remember. I woke up on one of the hammocks in the lawn, they had a lot of people sort of in and out hehehe, and I woke up remembering remembering ahhh remembering an angel! A dream about an angel I had heard. But the memory of the dream didn’t fade like they tend to do, no man, I heard that angel singing to me all damn day. It was only that night, at Threadgill’s oh ho now that was a fuuuuuuuuckin SCENE man I mean for real, Threadgill’s, bunch of guys playing guitar, this one kid fucking kiHILlllling this harmonica, and there she was… My angel with an autoharp!” He moaned and grabbed his head and rolled his neck. “Ohhhhhhoohoho JANIS! She waaailed that night, baby. She wailed like I could never imagine, I’m serious now, all my powers of imagination could never think up a wail like she really truly WAAIIIIIIIAAIIIIIIIIAIIILD! That voice, kid. You ain’t never forget that shit. Wasn’t no trained perfect voice, nah it was wild free raw uncontrolled scratching unrelenting tender passionate whole stinging murdering beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.” He was standing now, having leapt to his feet during the speech. He was standing there, in the dark, and there seemed to be so much darkness around us all there in that little dirty grove, so much empty quiet darkness, and he was all dark save his pale hair reflecting whatever slight light was bouncing around invisible. I sensed something settle then below that hair, something sad and settled forever. He spoke again, into the dark. “She wasn’t a pretty girl sure, but she was probably the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” His voice cracked for the first time on the word girl. I hurt. “Something so special, just, created, and society, man fuck, they tried so fu fufuckin hard to crush her. They wanted to fucking smother her, her and every spark of her, her brilliant her, her brilliance! They wanted it dead. And she was beautiful. These fucking frat boys, they ran this whole campaign to nominate her ‘Ugliest Man on Campus.’ Oh man. I was livid, yessir, beat the absolute crap out of this one snotty fuck outside a bar, I mean I left him in a pretty fucked up sort of way, I had to skip town a bit later cuza that. God that night, that night I talked to her and she laughed her cute little snicker at me and I felt like a child, and I made her that night, God yes I made her and man did she want to be made, but she was one of the only girls that I ever made that I really felt really made me, you know what I’m sayin? You listen to her music, kid, you have to, and when you do, you’re gonna hear this wail. This free screaming release, she just lets it erupt, freedom escaping flesh, she does it like no one else man, wAAeaaAaaAAHHHHH!!!! That wail, kid, lemme tell you, that wail is the exact sound she makes when she cums, and eating that sweet girl alive, being responsible for that wail, kid, taat release of human heaven, that is, I swear to God, the greatest thing I have ever done for this world, because that wail is the truest sound a human being has ever made. I could have proposed to her right there, only I knew she was too free for that. Girl that free could destroy me, I knew that. Never saw her again. Shoulda appreciated her more while we had her, shoulda worshipped her really… damn. What a fucked up people we are. That voice… it erupted outta her, outta every little hole in her, screamed right on through every gag silencing her, and she mocked allathem gags by wailing through them, she did it you know? She put her ass on the line and did the brilliant thing only she could do and no one fucking listened.” He sat and held his guitar close, leaning his head over it, quiet now.

“Hey, shut the fuck up over there!” shot a voice from one of the prostate forms nearer the river. We were silent anyways. I had no voice. A girl I had never met had stolen it. My heart ricocheted around its rib cage. Time went by. The quiet creek murmured deafeningly.