The Whittlin' Lesson

While I was doing some weight-lifting in the room, before my exchange with Motel Owner Guy, there was a knock at my door. I thought it was the owner, so I wiped the sweat off my face and ran a brush through my hair before opening it. I pretty much stank, yet I figured if he could run such a shitty business, I could at least ask for a refund whilst smelling faintly of B.O.
But when I opened the door, no one was there. I chalked it up to the townies messing with the new girl, knocking on doors and running away.

There actually is an interesting dynamic that occurs when a solo young girl rents a motel room in a small town; I like to equate it to a nature documentary on mating habits of animals. The commentary: "...and once the female has successfully paid for the temporary habitat, she approaches the room with key in hand. The males, already aware of her presence by the scent of an out-of-state license plate, peer out of the broken venetian blinds of their own habitats. Upon seeing that the new arrival is female, they make their first moves. After a quick check of their Caesar haircut, gold chain and molester-mustache in the cloudy motel mirror, most will venture outside of their rooms pretending to talk on a cell phone. Others, not caring to shun subtlety, will simply stand in their doorway and stare at the female as she unpacks her car. The point of this sudden and collective need to be out-of-doors is not only to sniff out the female, but also to put oneself on display for said female, not unlike a peacock, should she become lonely during the night and find herself in need of a male companion. Unfortunately for the males, the female’s mind is not usually given to such extreme lapses of judgement, nor is her affection swayed by stained Tommy Hilfiger t-shirts."
The College Motel was no exception - when I first got there all the guys came out to stare at me like usual, and like usual I ignored them. But this was the first time I’d had a prank knocking. Especially a prank knocking that turned out not to be a prank at all.

I looked left and right for someone but saw no one. I scanned the parking lot and still saw no one. Then I stepped barefoot out onto the sidewalk in front of my door and felt something cold and soft under my foot - it was a red rose in full bloom, obviously plucked from a bush. I felt so bad for stepping on it, although the damage was minimal. I picked it up and whispered a tiny, "Thank you" into the dark before starting to close the door.
"You’re welcome!" chirped a big guy, popping out from behind a car in the parking lot. He’d been watching me.
"Oh my god!" I gasped. "You scared me!"
"Sorry," he said, sheepish. He was young, but his girth and height made him look older. His hair was short and dark under his NASCAR baseball cap and his eyes were nearly invisible behind the glare on his wire-rimmed glasses. I recognized him from the New Female Doorway Parade. "Whatcha doin’?" he asked.
"Working out. And you?"
"I’m just chillin’. You wan’ come out and sit on the porch wit’me?" He pointed to a folding chair outside a door two rooms down from mine.
"Maybe later. Thank you for the flower. It’s beautiful." I stepped back into the house, closing the door as he shouted after me, "I’ll be up all night if you wanna come over!"

He seemed very young, probably not even 21, and I hated to shoot him down considering he had picked me a rose from someone’s yard, but I wasn’t in the mood to get into an argument with someone over why they couldn’t sleep in my bed with me for the night. It’s happened so many times in the last four months that I’m sick of it. Besides, I had Justin Fever. I couldn’t get that damn kid out of my mind for anything. I hate to say it, but I disobeyed my cardinal rule and got attached. Please, wonderful readers, if you ever travel, never get attached. Never. That little blurb about Proverbs and motel room Bibles, I wrote that about Justin. I can’t even begin to explain the empty ache in my chest as I drove out of the Asheville rain. It was as though my heart was nauseous. It was more painful than when I left David behind in Chicago, because I at least knew that David cared about me back, and we’d always be friends. But leaving Asheville, I felt probably the loneliest I’ve felt so far on this trip. It’s been getting better every day (especially because I’m in Ohio and have a job now, both of which offer a lot of distraction), but for awhile there it was really painful.

Anyway, enough of the emotional bullshit. That having been said, I just wasn’t in the mood to hang out with a New-Girl-In-The-Motel-Documentary-Doorway-Stander. I finished my workout and took a shower. I shuddered at the idea of falling asleep between the sheets of the Booger Room, so I ducked out to the car for some blankets for the top of the bed and that’s when he caught me.

"Hey, you came out!" He was sitting in the folding chair.
"Uh, yeah! Yeah, I sure did. How are you?"
"Cain’t complain. What’s your name?"
"Jessica."
"I’m Joe. And you’re a long way from home. What brought you to Barbourville?" He actually called it "Barvull" in his thick Kentucky accent.
I explained the mission, the lifestyle. He was no stranger to being transient himself, being the son of a truck driver.
He and his father lived in the room two doors down.

"So if you’re here all the time, what can you tell me about the guys on the other side of me?" I asked. "There’s all this random banging going on over there, like they’re body-slamming each other."
"Dunno, really. They’re in town to sell some cars, that’s all I know. I think they’re tweakers, though."
"Is that pretty prevalent around here?"
"Is it what?"
"Pretty prevalent?"
"Huh?"
"Are there a lot of tweakers in this town?"
"Oh, hell yeah. It’s a dry town and people don’t want to drive all the way to the Virginia border for a beer, so they find stuff closer to home."
"Funny how everyone thought prohibition would mend the moral fiber of society, huh? It’s just making it worse, seems like."
He laughed. "I don’t really know what you just said, but I think you said it right."

"So what else ya wanna know ‘bout Barvull for your book?"
"Whatever you want to tell me."
"Well, okay. Let’s see... I’m 20. I’m gonna join the Army as soon as I lose some more weight. I was born and raised in Barvull. Southern boy, through and through! Mah momma lives on a farm ‘bout 10 miles on the outside’a town. Mah paw lives here in the motel. He don’t drive trucks no more, but I been all the way out to California wit’ him ‘fore he gave it up. I been to Michigan, Colorado. Never been to the East Coast, though. Ain’t never seen the Atlantic Ocean. But I love me some mountains! You seen them Blue Ridge Mountains today? They’s so pretty. Anyway, this town is boring. Ain’t no life here. You stumbled into the wrong place. I cain’t wait to get out."
"Is there anything you’ll miss?"
"Aww, fo’shure!" he cried with a big smile. "Mah momma’s chicken an’ dumplins’!"
I giggled. "What’s that?"

It was another record-scratch moment. His jaw dropped into his lap as he asked, "You ain’t never had chicken an’ dumplins? Like, you don’t even know what it is?"
I blushed. "No."
He threw his head back and laughed heartily, a huge belly laugh that seemed to start at his toes. The kind of laugh that can erase lonely or sad. The kind of laugh that says, "Take a breath, Jess. You just made a friend."
"I cain’t believe you ain’t ne’er had chicken an’ dumplins! Wait a second! Hold on! Dad! Dad, get out here!" He got up from his chair to call his father outside.
"What? What’s goin’ awn?" His father appeared in the doorway, a thin man with a blond beard and a matching NASCAR cap. He wore a blue t-shirt with cut-off sleeves and some denim shorts.
"SHE AIN’T NE’ER HAD NO CHICKEN AN’ DUMPLINS!" Joe cried.
"WHAT?!" his father screamed. "Well, I’ll be god-damned!"
I was blushing and laughing, growing redder every second from both. Joe’s father, Rusty, pulled up a lawn chair and laid into me, asking me if I’d ever had every food I’d never had before.

"You mean’a tell me you ain’t ne’er had no soup beans?"
"No, sir," I said, still laughing hysterically at my new, excitable friends. "What are they?"
Joe and Rusty began talking over each other. "They’s when ya boil the beans and mix in some bacon an’ onions!" "Yeah, yeah! An’ ya gotta soak them beans fo’ ‘bout a day or so!" "Yeah, then you git you some cornnbread and you sop dat up real nice!" "Yeah! You e’er had cornbread?"
"Yes, I’ve had cornbread! I’m not that much of a Yank!"
"Well, that’s good ‘cause I’s ‘bout ta say, if ya ain’t ne’er had no cornbread, y’ain’t no good a’tall! Ya gotta ha’you some cornbread in yo’ lahf!"

"Y’e’er had squirrel?" Rusty asked.
"NO!"
"Well, don’t knock it til’ ya try it, missy!"

The more they found out what a terrible Southerner I was, the thicker their accents got. It was quite endearing. Endearing until Joe told me about turtle soup.

"Y’e’er had turtle? Oh, mayn! A turtle’s got ‘bout se’en differn’t flavors on it! Dependin’ on what part ya eat, ya got chicken, fish, steak, porkchop, bacon, an’ burger!"
"Joe, that’s only six."
"Ah know! The other’s flavor’s the turtle!"

He gave me a verbal crash course on how to make the soup. "Ya get ya a turtle, cut the head off an’ stick a garden hose in the throat, raht? Then ya fill it wit’ water and wait for it ta’ bust out the shell! Or ya could just cut the belly an’ do it that way, but the hose way is more fun!"
"You know, I really don’t need to know how to make it." I said. "I’m not much of a cook."
"Ya shore?"
"Positive."

"Whatchoo gonna do ta’marraw?" Joe asked. "Stay annutha day or take off?"
"Well, tomorrow’s Sunday so I’ll probably go to church. I went last week and it was pretty cool. As long as they don’t say anything against gay people, I’ll be alright."
"Well, jist remember - this here’s the Bible Belt. People gonna say whate’er the hell they want to whether you lahk it or not. What church you goin’ to, anyway?"
"I don’t know. Prob’ly the Free Christian one down around the corner."
"That’s a pretty good one. The Baptist one’s okay too. An’ the Presbyterian one o’er on Buford. But whate’er ya do, don’t go to the one down past the gas station by the creek!"
"Why? Do they sacrifice animals?"
"Naw! They’s snake handlers! An’ you won’t know it neither, til you go in an’ they jist let a big ol’ bag’a angry snakes go, jist open it right there by the altar! They don’t warn ya or nuthin’! Their feelin’ is, if you’s in there, you better be a faithful person or else you shouldn’t be there. And if a snake bites ya, it serves ya right for not bein’ faithful an’ trustin’. An’ they don’t believe in doctors! Had one guy not too long ago, got bit by a snake at the church. His fam’ly done locked the doors and blocked the driveway so no ambulance could get to ‘im. Course he died."
"Jesus!" I exclaimed, my jaw gaping. "That’s insane!"
"Yeah, pretty much is."

Since then, I’ve done some research on snake handling and it turns out it’s actually illegal in every state but West Virginia, so the Kentucky church is technically not supposed to be letting angry snakes out of bags in the first place. And indeed, the parishoners do not believe in doctors, and there have been many cases of deaths due to snake handling. Interestingly enough, there have been even more cases where people are bitten but do not die. They may suffer flu-like symptoms until the poison exits the body, or they may experience permanent damage to the area bitten, such as paralysis of the fingers, but they do not die. In many more cases, people handle the snakes but are not bitten at all. Researchers believe this is due in large part to the frenzied state the worshippers enter into before touching the snakes, a sort of relaxed, softened dance that allows them to handle the snakes without fear and vice versa - the snake does not feel threatened, so it does not attack. Crazy, right? I would have liked to have seen it.... but from a distance. I don’t think I would have been able to get into that soft mental state once I saw live rattlesnakes darting at me in a church when I was only expecting a sermon. I was very glad Joe gave me the heads-up.

A wedding party drove past; tin cans and streamers tied to the back of a Chevy Cavalier. A Ford Bronco led the parade, a thin blonde girl barely visible at the helm, honking the horn and leading a convoy of pick-up trucks and sedans through the Barbourville night.
"‘Nuther weddin’" Joe remarked.
"Is that typical for around here?" I asked. "I thought they only did the tin-can-on-the-car thing in the movies.
"Well, whaddya think they do in real lahf?" he asked jokingly.
"Limos," I said, not skipping a beat.
He gave another hearty belly laugh. "Limos?! Mayn! Where’dyou think you are?"
I blushed again, a little embarrassed at sounding like an ignorant city slicker.
"I don’t know," I said quietly. "In New York City, or even Maryland, they always use limos. Limos for weddings and proms."
He softened a bit, noticing my embarrassment. "Naw, honey. No limos here. Ain’t nobody can afford ‘em. ‘Bout maybe the only time you see one is if a really rich person be gettin’ married. But ain’t none’a them ‘round here."
"How is the economy around here, speaking of which?"
"T’aint none ta speak of."

He continued. "Barvull’s a pretty borin’ town. You picked the wrong one to stay in if you’s lookin’ for fun. It’s a dry town, so they’s no real bars. People find other stuff’ta do. It’s ol’-fashioned. People’ll still sit on they porch an’ whittle–"
I cut him off. "No way! Whittling?! I thought that was only in the movies, too!"
"No, ma’am! We still whittle! I lahk it - get ya a good ol’ piece a cedar and just whittle it down all nice! Make ya a toothpick or whate’er ya want."
"Oh, man! That’s awesome! I wish I could whittle..."
"Hold on."

He got up and broke a thin branch from a nearby bush. Sitting back down, he pulled a pocketknife from his belt and proceeded to show me how it was done.
"Hold it raht here an’ just pull back on it. See how the bark comes off in one piece? Feel how smooth that is right there under it? Now you try. Use your thumb on the handle. Watch the knots, try ta carve around ‘em at first, get ‘em worn down..." He let me whittle until the stick was a smooth line, leaving piles of curly shavings at our feet. "That’s good!" he said. "So, you lahk whittlin’?"
I beamed. "Very much! Can I keep this?" I asked, holding the stick gingerly, like a relic.
"‘Course ya cain. Whate’er ya want."
"Thank you."

Joe’s father joined us again, having left for a little while to take a walk with a lady friend. They had strolled down to the town park to search for tennis balls lost in the bushes. That’s what I’ve noticed in dry towns - without the bars to while away hours in, dating becomes a lot like the days of middle school, making up stuff to do. I excused myself for the night, but before I could open my door, Rusty sat down and asked me a question I’ll never forget.

"So tell me - you’s drivin’ all o’er creation and whatnot, so how’s do ya not get attached ta people? How do ya meet folks - and men, right? - and not get attached?"
I took a breath. I could feel my face soften into a wistful stare. I leaned against the doorway, visions of Justin dancing in my head as I answered, "I don’t."
"Don’t what?"
"Don’t not get attached. I get attached all the time. Every place I go. I get attached to the places, the people. Sometimes one person in particular. Boston, Chicago, Asheville. I leave pieces of myself behind. I do get attached. I’m just really good at leaving, because I’d rather have that one day of awesome than try to make it last and know it failed. Plus I’m a notorious rusher, and guys don’t usually like girls who start thinking marriage after the first date."
"I do!" Joe piped up, eagerly.
"Well, most guys don’t. They don’t understand. Sometimes even I don’t." I thought about Justin, how I was ready to pick up and settle down in Asheville if he said the word, and how crazy that would have seemed to every other person in the world besides me, including Justin. "I rush in too much. I do get attached." I stared at the ground, still sprinkled with shards of my whittling-stick. "But I never stay. Just pieces of me do."

Joe tried to cut through my glassy stare. "Well, if you wanna go on a date and then git married, I’m free ta’marraw!"
I didn’t share the joke, too busy cursing myself for letting Justin get under my skin. I had left a more than a mere shard of myself at that old, bohemian house in North Carolina, two states away by that point. I felt as if a chunk had been ripped from my chest, a gaping hole echoing with questions, mainly, "Why’d you do it, Jess? Why’d you leave me behind? I don’t belong here."

"Thanks for everything, guys," I said as I stepped into my room.
"You gone be alright?" they asked in unison.
Rusty added, "Ah didn’t mean ta make ya sad or nuthin’."
"Oh, no, you didn’t do anything. Thank you for hanging out with me tonight! If anything, it’s me. It’s my fault my head’s in another place."
"Alright then, well, you sleep tight" Rusty said. "Don’t let the boogers bite! Heeeeheeee!"
Joe called after me, "I wasn’t kidding about a date! Stop by the room when you get back from church!"
"Maybe. Goodnight."