Another Day: A Step in that Long Walk Towards Death

***Originally Published June 30th, 2023

It was a hot day–one that I could already feel from the inside of my tent. 

I begrudgingly rolled out into the muggy afternoon a little before 12, trying to be grateful that I slept well rather than annoyed at how late it was already. 

My sleepiness was a little justified. 

I was still recovering from two long bouldering sessions, a couple of weeks with long hours of driving most days, and a couple nights of poor sleep in the car. 

I still had the dishes from last night to do–which no bears were interested in thankfully–and my car was totally unpacked with the seats covered in a white powder that needed vacuuming. 

A couple days ago I noticed my crotch and backside were covered in over 30 red bumps the size of dimes. 

I’d slept in the car a few times recently, once in the woods, and after finding a little dead bug in it (which I later found out was just a stinkbug) I figured it musta been fleas or bed bugs that got in. 

So I pulled everything out, got some diatomaceous powder from Walmart, and covered the car to hopefully kill anything that was in there. 

Before getting to work I prepared for breakfast: strong coffee, a hand rolled cigarette, and a sleeve of 8 double stuffed oreos.

I didn’t usually eat cookies, but my friend’s girlfriend works at a snack factory in Atalanta and would come home with sleeves and sleeves of product. So I got a little bit when I was there visiting.  

As I was waiting for my coffee to boil, a white National Park Services truck pulled up to say hi. 

I called over to him,

"Hey! How ya doin?" 

"Pretty good! You look like you're doing better than me though!" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, you're camping and I'm working!" 

He let out a little laugh and smiled at me. 

"How long are you planning to stay here?" 

"Uhhhhh maybe a week or so?" 

"It's great here! Right by the big Summersville dam, and the river just down the hill." 

"Yeah! I'm a climber, I love camping so close to the Boulders by the river down there." 

"You know, you can stay for up to 14 days. And you can just move campsites then too. Like that guy down there did—moved right up here yesterday." 

"Alright, cool, thanks! I'm Andy by the way." 

"Bill." 

We shook hands and he went off. 

The entire time we chatted I was worried about my coffee boiling over in the moka pot. If you let it go at full power it'll start spurting boiling hot water out the top like a pinched hose.

Blessedly, It wasn’t ready yet.

The sun was hot. The damp air made me feel sleepy and muggy. 

I sipped the hot liquid with more reluctance than the usual peaceful enjoyment it gives, munching cookies between sips and taking slow drags of my cigarette.  

It took a bit but after sitting down with Steven King’s The Long Walk for, I was able to work up the gumption to wash my dishes, put a few sparse things away, and get myself ready to get out for the day. 

The first stop was Kate's Car Wash in Summersville, the sole car wash in town according to Google maps. 

The vacuum took quarters and was $1 for a few minutes, and it only took three goes on it to vacuum up most of the powder and some other dirt and small rocks that had piled up. 

Right down the street was Snow White's laundromat where I washed my sheets and clothes that were loose in the car along with a small bundle of dirties I had saved up. 

In there I talked briefly to an older man with a beer belly protruding out a red shirt with black Horizontal stripes on it, loose denim jeans, and a small gray peak of hair on his head—like the peak of a sharp mountain or tuft of a proud bird—he suggested that 6 quarters was the amount typically needed to dry a whole load. 

I thanked him and went back to my book, feeling a little guilty for not striking up a conversation. 

I could tell he'd be interested in chatting. He was sitting there alone waiting for his laundry to finish and had a slightly sad and searching look on his face when he talked to me. 

There was also a big woman in overalls and few tattoos on her back (one looked like a school logo, a block letter D with some animal inside), eating a slice of chocolate cake out of a plastic container. 

"We all need chocolate sometimes!" she laughed gregariously at me, clearly enjoying her treat.

"Amen." I replied in agreement. 

After finishing my laundry I looked for a coffee shop to sit in and do some writing, work, and some thinking on copy for a motorcycle repair and customizing specialist I met at the campground, Marcus.

Gad Dam Brewery was open late and less than half a mile up the road: a brewery and coffee shop with what looked like nice views. 

It was a big place, all wood. You had to walk up a little hill from the gravel parking lot to get to the entrance. Up the top side of the hill were some outdoor tables with umbrellas. A single family I didn’t spent much time looking at were out there.

The inside had high ceilings and plenty of tables that looked cozy to hang out at. No one sat at the bar. There were a couple of old guys sharing a table near the back.

The bar was right at the entrance with a wide area for the one employee there at the time. 

The girl working looked around twenty, with straight black hair past her shoulders, and a sharp nose on a longer face with wide eyes. She was tall and dressed in a simple purple t-shirt and short black shorts that barely covered her bum. 

The point of sales was right by the door with an espresso maker on her left, and the beers on tap behind her with a big menu right above. 

I got there just past 4 so I opted for a beer and a pepperoni roll instead of coffee. 

She was cute, and I tried talking to her a bit, but all I got out of her was a little mention of a tap handle stuck behind another that spilled for the second time today when she pulled the beer I ordered. 

I went to sit on the patio on the other side of the building 15 yards up from the gravel parking lot overlooking the edges of the woods. 

When she brought my food I tried smiling at her again but she didn't meet my eyes. 

The pepperoni roll was hot and buttered and came with a side of marinara sauce. A far upgrade from the lukewarm ones I usually had at gas stations when I was hungry. 

I started by tidying up my blog post about the PlayThink festival in Kentucky I worked at a couple of weeks ago. I also wrote a couple features and benefits for the bike repair flyer but was having trouble turning the features Marcus described into specific and enticing benefits–I don’t know much about Blue Collar Bikers and what they need, it turns out.

I called my buddy Jimbo for 45 minutes, telling him about my last couple weeks and latest business developments, and listened to him tell me about the new job he’s applying for and his summer and fall plans.

I left there around 6:15 to drive 25 minutes south to oak Hill where'd I play DnD at OK Chinese Buffet, sneakily (although I told the manager I do this) connecting to the wifi at the gym next door. 

I piled on a plate of lo mein with chicken and broccoli and beef with peppers and onions. I went to load it up even more with chicken skewers, pork rolls, and donuts, when the woman working started motioning to me that she'd take it and I could grab another plate.

She didn't speak English very well, but I could tell she recognized me and what she meant. 

I had been coming there for a couple weeks to play DnD and always sat at the table in the corner where there was an outlet. I also always got multiple plates of food. 

I hadn't even put my bag down yet and she knew where I was headed, and the owner even wiped the table down for me. 

I always tip $3 on top of the $12 to get in, so maybe that helped them like me a little more, I figured. 

That's why I tip anyways, to get people to like me. 

I didn’t fully realize this is why I did it until I came across the following passage in The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway, 

“I overtipped him. That made him happy. It felt comfortable to be in a country where it is so simple to make people happy. You can never tell whether a Spanish waiter will thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France. It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason. If you want people to like you you have only to spend a little money. I spent a little money and the waiter liked me. He appreciated my valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me back. I would dine there again some time and he would be glad to see me, and would want me at his table. It would be a sincere liking because it would have a sound basis. I was back in France.”

(Hemingway, 208)

The United States is a similar country, I think. And here too waiters will pretend to like you even if you tip poorly. I wonder if they’re openly disgusted or try to shame you in Paris. 

Either way it’s nice to be able to make friends so easily. 

I feasted on Chinese food, cast bass boosted psychic lances, slapped my old pirate crew across the face with a tentacle from the depths, and attempted to look courageous facing my old dastardly captain The King of the Black Water. 

The restaurant closed at 9 and I left around 8:45 to finish DnD at the gym. 

I always feel a little awkward just watching people workout as I cast spells and say silly shit, but DnD is cool so it’s okay. 

Afterwards I was unexpectedly energized, or at least felt like moving, and I hadn't been to the gym in over two weeks so I figured I should do something. 

I followed the general outline of a PT routine I’d been doing to fix my posture and balance myself out. Shoulder press, good mornings, rotator cuff work, reverse Curls, overhead triceps extensions, Upper back mobility, weighted clamshells, and some stretching. 

I got a nice shower in and drove back 30 minutes in the dark to my campsite outside of Summersville. 

Fed, worked out, stretched, and clean, I was ready for bed. 

I chatted a bit with my neighbor Marcus who was doing some late night work. 

And by chatting with him a bit I mean saying hi and listening to him meander to and fro this story and that for about twenty minutes.

“It’s been a hell of a day man. We’re up at the flea market now. We didn’t make it up the hill this morning. I looked in earlier at the tank, and I could see the corner on the far side. But I thought it’d be just enough to make it there. You know the two diesel tanks on the buses are different. The other one is taller–”

He put his hands out shaping in the air a drum similar in width to a propane tank you’d get at a gas station and a little taller.

“But this one is shorter and way wider. I figure they hold about the same amount. You see what I’m getting at? But yeah man I thought we had enough. Did you see the bus on the way out?”

“Yeah I drove past ya on the hill,”

“Did you see Pam by it or somewhere around,”

“Yup I saw her sitting in the bus on her phone.”

“Hah! I was probably sleeping in the back there, man. I was getting all frustrated and pissy calling people who say they’re ‘ride or die bro’ and not even picking up. Not even calling me back to say ‘no.’ So I just went and passed out! But man Pam pulled through…”

They had two school buses: one was a home, and the other held all their equipment. Motorcycle parts, part art, driftwood art, and a variety of other cool looking creative creations they’d sell at the flea market this 4th of July weekend. 

The campground we’re at is down by the Gauley river, and there’s a big hill up and out of it.

The bus with all their stuff had run out of diesel halfway up and they had to sit there for some hours until one of Pam’s friend’s came by with fuel. 

I then helped him move a big truck exhaust that someone left behind the dumpster. It wasn’t too heavy, but long and awkward to carry alone. He was gonna turn it into a little charcoal oven. 

He showed me these little pieces of driftwood he was collecting at the last campsite he was at, right by an eddy after the New River joined with the Gauley and calmed down. 

One piece looked like it had a vagina, and the other looked exactly like a human ear. 

Same size, shape, and all.

That was it for the day. Both an interesting and mundane kind of day.

I went off to bed, reading a bit more of The Long Walk, and smoking a couple of spliffs.

Alas, sleeping in till noon means ya don't get tired till pretty late. 

I thought that sleeping in a tent outside would readjust me to the natural rhythms of the sun, but I'm here writing the first draft for this at 3 in the morning.

Old habits die hard, I guess.

Good night my brothers, sisters, and non-binary siblings,

-Andy