THUMB WRESTLING by Jonathan Byerly
Chapter Six: Thank You, Cricket
So here I was in Tennessee, one quarter or less on my way to Alaska where I was to meet up with my cousins and spend a month in the bush. I had decided to hitchhike, because I felt my twenty-three year-old life needed some shaking up. On this hot July day, I just wanted to get out of the burning sun. I had been standing in one sun-baked spot for three hours. Perhaps it was my long beard and ponytail, maybe the cars looked at my smiling, friendly face and saw Charlie Manson. I had no idea.
An old Impala station wagon zipped by, slammed on its brakes, and backed up in a wavy dance of over-corrections, stopping ten feet away.
The Impala was white with blotches of orange rust. A rear door swung open with a fragrant wave of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat. It was the July fourth weekend and even though I sensed that getting into this car might not be a life-enhancing move, I did it anyway.
As I climbed into the car, a paunchy, bristling man in a mealy T-shirt sucked at an empty fifth of Jack Daniels. The Impala jerked through gears as it climbed back up to speed.
"My name's Charlie," mealy-shirt said after he wiped his mouth. Charlie had scruffy blond hair and pawed with his left hand at a rather plump, unmoving, dark-haired woman sitting at his other side.
Charlie looked at me and said in sloppy voice, "This is ma woman, Myrna, she let's me play her."
I'm sure he meant 'play with her,' but then what did I know about the good ol' boys down here in Tennessee. Charlie poked at her with the bottle of Jack Daniels like it was a cattle prod. Myrna barely registered consciousness.
We drove in silence, while Charlie and Myrna produced a predictable array of back seat foreplay. After ten minutes, the woman in the passenger side front seat turned completely around, held out her hand and announced with a piercing gaze, "Hi, I'm Cricket."
Cricket had short dark hair and delicate features. Looking right into my eyes with her blue eyes, she giggled, "This is my boyfriend, Glen, and his car."
I looked at Glen, perhaps expecting a 'Hello' or a handshake. Glen had long hair and a bushy beard with a joint poking out of his mouth like a bathroom fixture. Glancing at Glen's glazed and dilated eyes in the rear view mirror, it was obvious that he was at the level of pure maintenance; we werent going to get much out of old Glen.
"Do you want to hear my poetry?" Cricket was still staring at me. I stared right back at her; we were mutually riveted.
"Absolutely!" I said. She was clear, present and beautiful.
Turned around and holding our gaze the whole time, Cricket recited stanza after stanza of deeply wounded verse from memory. I was mesmerized. After ten minutes Cricket asked, "What do you think?"
I was speechless. Her poems reflected themes of light, flight and stirrings deep in the heart. They didn't belong here in the land of Jack Daniels, bathroom fixtures, and blurred backseat fumblings.
"They're incredible. What are you doing here?" I blurted. It was blunt, but I knew she would understand. Cricket smiled and turned back around.
For a moment, the five of us drove along in silence.
"Where 're ya from?" Charlie struggled with the words.
"I'm from Connecticut-" I started.
"Damn, Glen, we got ourselves a yank," Charlie had no trouble with these words.
Charlie screamed a rebel yell. Myrna burped the phrase, "All right, Charlie," then she swallowed and closed her eyes again. Cricket rolled her eyes and turned around.
Charlie was energized. He said with great enthusiasm, "More Jack, Glen. This calls for more Jack!!" Glen's head bobbed like a broken shower nozzle, and he muttered "More Jack" as he turned off the highway.
Soon we were in the busy center of a small town, where everyone got out of the car to get more liquid refreshment. I quickly refilled my water bottles and returned to the car. Charlie arrived with more Jack and bounced into the back seat next to me. He leered close to my face, "Yank, ya wanna see somethin' really cool?"
"Sure!" I answered, ever eager to please. Charlie reached behind the back seat and to my horror, pulled out a rather large Colt revolver.
"This' ma best friend, never let me down; check it out," Charlie clicked open the cylinder. It was loaded with massive, brass-shelled bullets.
"I've got five shots left!!! " Charlie exclaimed like they were tickets to the lottery. "Oh, lookie..." Charlie clicked the cylinder shut and pointed Colt at a lanky cowboy hat standing at the door of the liquor store. "I popped him in the thigh two years ago." Cowboy hat walked inside the store with a slight limp. I gulped and blood began to drain from my head.
"And him, I shot off that sonofabitch's thumb off for messin' with Myrna," Charlie sighted down the barrel at a man who had the same shape as Myrna. I imagined that Sonofabitch and Myrna had been quite happy together, at least until Sonofabitch got shot. Sonofabitch actually waved to Charlie; sure enough, he was missing a thumb.
"Oh, well have some fun to-night," Charlie laughed in my face in a way that screamed ingrown gene pool.
I could hear a loud crinkling sound as the snapshot of my world began to crumple. My violent death suddenly felt strangely immanent. I could read the headlines: "Hitchhiker found dead, shot in the thigh and missing a thumb. Sonofabitch testifies..."
My mouth ran dry as I complimented Charlie on his shooting skill. He twirled the gun and began tossing it from hand to hand. Cricket returned with sandwiches and drinks.
"Charlie, put away that gun," Cricket scolded. Charlie shrugged and put the gun back under the seat. Cricket turned to me and leaned over the seat, "Here, I got you a Pepsi."
Soon we were cruising again. Then Myrna moaned the words: "I gotta crap." It was a pithy statement.
Glen drove onto a smaller dirt road that led to an abandoned tobacco barn. The car stopped and Glen and Charlie carried Myrna, lurching heavily, thirty yards into the tobacco barn and waited for her there.
With everyone else gone, Cricket turned around again and looked right into my eyes. This time she was not smiling.
"You have to get out of here!" Cricket said, suddenly quite serious, "At the liquor store, Charlie was talking to Glen about taking you to a lake in the mountains and messing with you. He's shot people with that gun."
I gulped hard.
"I need to get to Route 40, so I can get out of this area. I have no idea where I am." I pleaded.
Cricket agreed and we quickly worked out a plan that would save my butt and get me back to Route 40.
As the poop detail returned, I whispered, "Thank you, Cricket", and carefully positioned my heavy pack between my legs, making sure I was next to the passenger side back door.
Soon we were underway and Cricket chimed in "Let's get to Route 40, it's much faster to the lake."
We turned onto Route 40, which was bordered by a broad, full river on the left and a very high, thickly wooded ridge on the right. Cricket soon announced that she had to pee really badly and begged Glen to stop the car. Glen pulled off onto the narrow gravel shoulder and slowed the car to a halt. In a flash, Cricket whirled around, looking at me and yelled, "NOW!!!"
Yanking open the passenger side back door, I pulled my pack with one arm and leapt the guard rail with the other, sprinting straight up the steeply inclined ridge.
As I heard Charlie's shouts of "Where's ma gun, where's ma gun?"
I ran up the ridge and jumped behind a large rock outcropping. Through the dense foliage, I could make out Charlie, strutting around the car, waving something in his hand, either Jack or Colt.
"I'm gonna come up an' getcha, come up an' getcha!" he angrily screamed. But I knew Charlie couldnt come up and 'getch' me. Charlie continued to fume and stamp as the voices from the car admonished for him to "Give it up."
Finally, Charlie relented, got back in the Impala, closing the door as it peeled out back onto the highway. I trotted along the edge of the highway, feeling truly scared, spotted the white blazes of the Appalachian Trail. I quickly hiked in three miles to safe spot on a cliff over a small stream. I put up my tent and went to sleep to the sound of the crickets.
