On The Road
WITH JOHN DRAKE ROBINSON Read this and other stories in John’s latest book, Souls Along the Road, and more road tales in his first two books A Road Trip into America’s Hidden Heart and Coastal Missouri, available at Left Bank Books. More of his stories are at johndrakerobinson.com.
His & Hearse: Mother Warned Me
I
t was lonely on the road.
A music tour had kept me away for weeks, mostly deep in the Ozarks. Home was on my mind. My own bed. Home cooked meals. Hugging my
grandkids.
But home was still miles away.
John Barleycorn’s reserves, I paid my bill, threw down a liberal tip, and walked out the door, ready to resume my trip home. Only one problem. In my condition driving home was out of the question. A hitchhike was my best option. With little thought about being kidnapped, murdered or held for ransom, I was all thumbs. The last time
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For reasons of good taste and legal advice, I’ll protect the anonymity of the driver and his pallid passenger. I have no idea who his passenger was, since the casket was closed. Suffice it to say the three of us had a pleasant ride to my destination, and two of us had a great conversation. “So long, buddy, and thanks for the ride.” I hopped out and he drove away in the general direction of his passenger’s final stop.
“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll never go in there.”
Soon I was immersed in the culture of the locals in the low light of this tavern, a delightful throwback to the days when the barroom was filled with rail passengers and conductors and brakemen and engineers laying over. Hours later, having dipped liberally into
I swallowed hard and leaned into the hearse’s open window, expecting to meet the Grim Reaper. Instead, I saw the familiar face of an old friend from high school.
“Son of a bitch!” I think I shouted, as a feeling of relief washed through my veins.
Johnnie’s Bar has been serving whiskey in downtown St. James since the Irish laborers built the railroad through here. Even from the outside, Johnnie’s looks foreboding, with its big neon Stag Beer sign over a doorway into cold, smoky darkness. It’s the kind of place that makes you hear your mother’s voice: “I better never catch you going in there.”
Or bring them out.
“John Robinson!”
“What are you doing way down here?” he asked.
And a high-noon layover at Johnnie’s had slowed my progress home.
But in life, a young boy’s perspective evolves. Moms just don’t understand that places like Johnnie’s have the elixir that can subdue frightful images of devils and demons and death.
its passenger, I showed no thumb, instead placing my hand over my heart and bowing my head. As the hearse passed, it slowed to a stop. Its backup lights told me that the hearse was coming back for me. Even significant whiskey impairment couldn’t dull my panic. As the hearse drew nigh to my startled face, the passenger window rolled down and the voice from the driver’s seat called out.
I hitchhiked, I was in college. But I quickly regained my collegiate form, throwing thumbs and smiles guaranteed to snag a trusting driver. Times have changed. Oh, there may be as many hitchhikers as ever. But when's the last time you heard of anybody stopping to give a stranger a ride? Oblivious, I walked to the edge of town, preparing to hitchhike home, when I saw a single car, a sleek silver hearse approaching. It was going my way, but in reverence to
And I'm left with the same nagging questions. Does my dear departed mother know I stopped at Johnnie's Bar? Did that decedent in the hearse ever pick up hitchhikers? She did on her last ride. That strange trip serves as a reminder that the next time a hearse stops to give me a ride, it’ll probably be my last. John's latest book, Souls Along The Road, is available on Amazon.com.
