Madness, the crawling lizard-skinned
monstrosities screaming infernal chaos are slithering across the floor. It’s
gelatinous orbs, massive tentacles, and cavernous maw are fixated on its next
meal........ YOU! Cursing and fighting you somehow manage to twist free only to
be confronted with a fate worse than.......... Running, dreaming I’m running
wind in my lungs full throttle leaning into it I run. I run down the trail with
sweat streaming leaving only footprints behind me. I know I’m dreaming. Fog misted
trail, muddy, sandstone worn, and gravelly my feet crunch and dig I pound
forward. Free to run, soar, fleet like deer I’m almost unhinged from
gravity.................dare to fly.............. I’m dreaming.
 |
| Mighty Cthulhu |
I notice,
camera like - Drops of silver/crystal/rain clinging to pine needles the clean
fragrance fills my lungs/body. I am refreshed . The wind blows, fog swirls
enveloping everything. The wind sounds like a tidal ocean vast unseen. The
world has become surreal, beautiful. I
run, the trail winds along the rim of a densely wooded plateau. Mountain
Laurel, Hickory, Poplars, and Sassafras............see there’s Striped Winter
Green poking through a bed of pine needles on the forest floor. Partridge
Berry, Mosses, Lichens all abundant. Up and down hills, through and over
creek/stream running it’s all silence save for the sounds of wind and my footfalls.
Peace unbounded fills me. Lightening Flash Thunder Cracks and I jolt upright
drenched in sweat, grinning this is better, much better than most dreams I’ve
had.
 |
| Stripped Wintergreen |
PART II
I wake, its work time. Five AM and it’s up
and at it. Used to be mornings were a blurry/bleary hangover haze. Leftovers
courteous of previous evenings round of binge drinking. It’s not much fun
waking up in your front yard with slugs crawling all over you, with the fresh
taste of hamburger vomit in your mouth. Motrin, Gatorade and Sun-Drop were my
early morning trinity, to calm the pounding. That’s behind me now, I hope.
Nowadays, mornings start well before the
crack of dawn at 401 Maple Loop Road. Stumbling into the kitchen, flipping
light switches, radios on with the NPR blaring the latest election news which
is really neither. I fire up the “Technivorm Moccamaster”. A coffee machine of
the gods, every morning I stand before its austere european bauhaus styling and
make my morning libations. I grind the beans, presoak the filter, carefully
measure out the filtered water. With
exactitude I measure out the tablespoons to obtain the perfect divine ratio of
freshly ground coffee beans to water heated to 195F to 200F. As the website
says,
“The brewing quality of our coffee makers is
beyond dispute and guaranty a first class beverage due to the fact that brewing
temperature and water/coffee contact time as well as holding temperature are in
accordance with the critical requirements of the European Coffee Brewing Centre
and the Specialty Coffee Association of America and Europe. Needless to say
that we are proud to carry their seal of approval for all our coffee makers.”
Uhhhh yeah whatever, all I know is that this
thing makes a mean “Cup of Joe”. It makes a mediocre bean average and great
beans even better. The “Technivorm Moccamaster” is the Coffee Maker to have
hands down. All you people with your Cuisinarts, Bunn, and what have; you can all
just forget it because despite it’s goofy name ( thanks Netherlands based
company) it is truly glorious.
“The Technivorm-Moccamaster factory is centrally located in the
heart of the Netherlands and serves customers all over the world. Every single
product meets the electricity requirements of the country they are destined for
and are produced under the ISO 9001:2000 regulations.” - YEAH THE FACTORY IS
ACTUALLY CALLED THE TECHNIVORM FACTORY. AWESOME!
This is still the best coffee maker hands
down, and if this is the way a more sober Garry W. Shores RN prepares himself
every day to go and do battle with the angels of death, his brother
disfigurement, his other brother “Hey watch this”, and his little nephew “I’m
all out of my Percocet 10’s and my teeth hurt soooo bad right now, and hey” in
a Level One Trauma Center caring for about 80,000 people a year. You can bet
your sweet ass this is definitely the way to start your day. I’m just saying
you could do a lot worse.
Next,
it’s oatmeal, always the oatmeal, with dried cranberries and honey. Not just
any honey mind you, but honey that is reared, gathered, and lovingly bottled by
Blount County’s infamous son Mike Shoppe. A heavy set, thick jowled, handle bar
mustached fellow with his hair slicked back “greaser style” he is indeed a
sight to behold. Mike is an old hand in the ED at UT Medical Center. Before
Mike was married and got straightened out he forged his birth certificate; went
got his driver’s license when he was fourteen years old. A few months later his
license was revoked for disorderly inebriation and conduct unbecoming a Son of
Blount County. No worries, thought Mike, he just forged his Birth Certificate
again and got one under another name. Mike is one of those folks that’s good to
have on your side of the fence during a brawl. One night, working a mid-shift
we had an exceptionally ornery young man whom we were attempting to
subdue/persuade/cajole into complying with various treatments we were
attempting to inflict upon him. Suddenly, an arm gets loose, a punch is thrown
and Mike is standing there with this guys fist in his big meat paw of a hand.
Mike chuckles, and drawls “Now boy you know that ain’t gonna win you any
friends around here.” Quickly he is subdued and patient compliance is soon
flowing like warm blood on a kitchen floor...........So anyway, now-a-days Mike
is an amazing Bee-Keeper/Apiary Enthusiast and I buy 4 quarts a year.
During
the summer months when it’s warm I mix my honey and oatmeal with Yogurt. It’s
sooo good. When summer heat gives way to the cool chill of Fall I prepare my
oatmeal the old fashion way. To this I add a simple boiled egg. The humble egg
is a perfect protein and I love it. This has not always been the case, for some
reason my trip to Afghanistan drove me to love the boiled egg. For starters,
it’s no fuss, no mess, no grease, and no trouble to make. Throw a little pepper on and its downright
tasty. The perfect protein that is the boiled egg is low calories
(approximately 82 calories). Unfortunately, the egg has gotten a bad wrap due
to it’s cholesterol content. I say to hell with that, our species (Homo
Sapiens) has been eating eggs since we climbed/crawled out of the primordial
soup 6,000 years ago. As long as you don’t overdo it a boiled egg is good for
you. I hate those folks (yes hate) that stand around and scream about their
“Egg White Omelets” and “Oh that’s so bad for you, how can you eat that???? You
should try to be healthier.” They look down their nose at you just because you’re
not into all the latest and greatest trends. I just want to take these people
out back and beat them to death with a Grubbing Hoe or maybe a good old
fashioned Kaiser Blade, while drinking a glass of whole milk. So needless to
say, I’m savoring my boiled egg, and sharpening my machete for the many
unbelievers.
BREAKFAST
MENU AT 401 MAPLE LOOP ROAD - SOUTH KNOXVILLE TN 37920.
·
OATMEAL
WITH CRANBERRIES
·
MIKE
SHOPE HONEY
·
YOGURT
(OPTIONAL/SEASONAL)
·
BOILED
EGG
This is what I eat, it’s good for you. I
recommend you eat it too.
PART III
Hurrying
out the door, I head out into the early morning, it’s still dark outside of
course. Gotta get to work by 0645 no exceptions. No quarter is taken or given
in regards to tardiness, our management team refers to it as the “McDonalds
Approach” it’s meaningless to me. I just gotta be there on time. Turn the key,
engine roars into life, crank down the window the cool air feels good, almost
Fall, almost Fall. The heat of summer is almost gone. Smiling I back up and out
the driveway, the transmission stalls then catches and I’m off. It always does
that in the truck, like clockwork.
The summer heat is near, dear, and
unbelievably relentless. A force of nature that we of the South endure with
pride and style. I’ve learned to embrace it. Embrace the Kudzu, the yard sales;
embrace the scantily clad obesity laden ass cracks hanging out, waddling around
the parking lots of whatever god forsaken steaming asphalt urban tundra you
happen to find yourself struggling with. I listen entranced to the steady orchestral
drone of cicada’s, sitting on the front porch as evening slowly creeps and the
fire flies twinkle and blink, I grin and drink another class of cold tea.
Listen to the silence that’s really not very quiet, feel the air, breath deep
get the smells. I embrace the gritty summer environment, wiggling down into the
hot muck of it all, what other choice do you have? Sit around and complain I
suppose but everybody does that.....................
Driving,
driving and thinking not paying attention I swerve from one train wreck
straight away into the next. I’m the worst driver on the planet. I literally
make my passengers sick with my “stop and go” and “oh man did you see that
abandoned trailer”. There’s only so much anyone can take from a rubber neck
driver like myself. It’s dark out so I stay reasonably focused. I’ve got the windows down the wind blows in
my face, forcing me awake with it’s chill. These are the mornings to cherish,
when it’s right in between things, not really summer anymore and its certainly
not fall; in-between-times.
It’s a gray, black, and white morning
awaiting the return of morning sunlight. Magazine Road winds and turns I pass
by Moreland Heights Elementary School, a huge Intercontinental Ballistic Rocket
has prepositioned itself strategically at the forefront of South Knoxville
Education. Painted in resplendent red and white hues, the Mighty Rocket serves
as a beacon of erudition and refinement to children yearning to breathe the
heady musky scented aromas of learning.
I
envision a young, clean shaven Werner Von Braun (former enthusiastic Nazi)
lecturing six-year-olds on gyro-stabilizers, liquid fuel propellants, and the
viability of National Socialist Doctrine in the Post War American landscape.
Imagine, a thickly accented thin young man with an oh so slight limp crisply
dressed in a manicured black suit lecturing the eager blood of our nation on
the importance of civic duty, patriotism, the superiority of this
God-Given-American-Way of Life and the ease of launching an intercontinental
ballistic missile at your enemies half a world away. I see this in my mind, the
eager faces; hands shooting up with questions too eagerly devoured by our
“guest lecturer”.
Mooreland
Heights Elementary the red bricked bastion of education is a welcome site on my
morning route. Reminds me of my own “alma mater” of Cowan Elementary. Built in
1921, Cowan Elementary School was where I learned to read/write do my
arithmetic, and form impressions / sensibilities that will follow me to the end
of my days. Three Stories Tall, indisputably the tallest building in town Cowan
Elementary was a place I loved and feared in equal measure.
Our
play ground was a horror show in the making. All steel, wood, rusty shrapnel
and concrete. Whoever thought it was a bright idea to play kickball in an
asphalt parking lot should have a mental evaluation. Skinned knees, blood, and
mercurochrome where the rule of the day. We ran and fought with little
supervision. Teachers turned a blind eye as they smoked and caught up on the latest
gossip. Everything on the Cowan Elementary School playground was used to punish
the flesh while strengthening the soul. As they say, “That which does not kill
us makes us stronger” so it was with the playground.
Lilly
Bonner, in second grade Mrs. Bonner who sold pencils at the little concession
built near the gymnasium had a class for some of us. Mrs. Bonner, a short round
chocolate skinned woman who smelled of tonic oil and shuffled when she walked,
of course she wore a dress ever day. As I recall, she was very fond of those
flowered dresses that all southern meemaws, meme’s, and naana’s are required by
southern law & tradition to cloth themselves in. She loved us children, it
was evident, all of us rich or poor, mostly poor. Miss Lily was kind to everyone,
no one would act out around her. A mere glance ensured complete obedience.
Taught us to memorize poems and spell “M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I”. Joyce Kilmer’s,
“Ode to a Tree”. Her favorite poem, we memorized for her and each in turn stood
at attention in her little pencil selling room turned classroom and recited it
in turn. She beamed with pride I remember clearly that day, now as I drive by
Moreland Heights Elementary hoping there’s a Miss Bonner in there making life
better, richer. Memories are like trees, experiences become roots growing deep
into the soul holding, grounding us to the Earth. Memories nurture our lives
letting our roots of understanding grow deeper into the Earth, strengthening us, suffusing our lives with
layers of meaning.
The
old McCarthy house is just down from the rocket school. Been a place of
pilgrimage for the literary inclined for years. A place of refuge for the
downtrodden and homeless for probably just as long. Two storied, two chimnyed
affair long abandoned, disused, and otherwise neglected, left to rot it became
the home of vagrants. My kinda folks in an odd way. I’m always amused by the drunks, usually
they don’t mean no harm and often have a very interesting tale of woe and misfortune.
The McCarthy house lies in ruin, an unfortunate fire has brought it into it’s
current fire-stricken state. I can’t help but think this is a fitting end for
one of the more interesting authors of the 20th century. Hell, he probably
burned it himself; I can see it now restored and fully refurbished and turned
into an artists retreat for some young sympathetic writer
wanting/yearning/pleading to the gods to get the right “inspiration”. You’d be
better off living in the ashes and ruin of its current state than anything
else.
 |
| The McCarthy house has seen brighter days. |
“
What once was a home became a veritable warren, rats nest of empty bottles,
cans, rotten piss soaked mattresses, and wasted lives. Long ago it had become a
breeding ground for vagrants, hobos, and other such ne’er do wells. Their
wanton recklessness and ill luck foreshadowed the inferno that left only
smoldering ash and forlorn chimney’s holding solemn congress over the memories
huddled in the confines of this transitory South Knoxville Geography.” -
Excerpt from the acclaimed novella “Old
Kirby” by acclaimed author J. A. Bordman. You want to learn how to write like someone
else, get your inspiration from the childhood home of whatever I think that’s a
lot of junk. You need to start this war where your standing because if you
can’t do it now you ain’t ever gonna do it. Sure you might be able to sit
around looking pretentious with something to say but the bottom line is you
done missed the boat and you’re out looking for scraps. I figure he was loathe
to see his home turned into the Kerouac Shrine they got going on down in
Orlando. The only good thing to come out of that house since Jack lived there
are a couple of travel logs. Hanging out at the McCarthy ruins with a couple of
cold PBR’s rummaging around, its burned down, down to the ground. Notice a
stack of whisky bottles melted into the fireplace. Rusty mattress springs lay
in abundance. The kitchen was over here, very odd and vacant. Privet, Kudzu,
and Bamboo have already begun to make their inroads. My friend Jill ( a
veterinary neurologist ) and I rummage
around talking about “The Road” and taking a pull now and then from our beers.
It’s an awesome wreck of a mess, shit is just everywhere. We spend several
hours just hanging around in the ruins and exploring. The tall brick chimneys
stand in mute testimony like a southern gothic stone hinge commemorating the
life of a child that would go on to write amazing novels of Knoxville
Decadence, Western Brutality and Post Apocalyptic Horror.
Now-a-days
they got someone living there in a camper to keep people like me from poking
around, but of course they’re a day late and dollar short. Done been there and
took in the feeling, the slow march of decay. It’s fitting eulogy ashes to
ashes and dust to dust. Sic Transit
Gloria - Glory fades...........glory fades.
I come to the stop light at the corner of
Martin Mill Pike and Ogle Street, my barber shop is right over there and King
Tuts is on my right. King Tut’s the name evokes fear and dread in my mind, also
confusion. If your gonna eat at King Tuts be ready, for screaming, yelling and
high-jinx. It’s a den where folks go to release their unbridled passions in the
form of alcohol/children’s musical instruments and karaoke. It’s BYOBooze. The
only things worth eating are: The Egyptian Platter (handmade/homemade) The
greek salad, a veritable burial mound of ice burg lettuce and feta cheese; a
daunting task for even the most battle-hardened foodie and for desert I always
recommend the Jack Daniels Pie. It is really super. How much JD is in the pie
and how much JD is in Moe is anyone’s guess.
Incidentally,
Moe or “The Pharaoh of South Knoxville” as I affectionately refer to the busy
man that is the brain child of King Tuts Grill. Moe’s and his family are
Egyptians who migrated to South Knoxville sometime during the Second Dynasty of
Ramses II. Adorned in a bejeweled white tunic and golden loin cloth Moe stands
Sphinx-like. He towers over his humble cinder block domain that is wholly his
own creation. He is Master and Commander.
While visiting King Tuts Grill be prepared to
“go native” drinking your sweet tea out of the large green flower vase is the
normal social ritual. Asking for a glass is at best unwise. Beheadings and
forced servitude are the norm at King Tuts Grill, not the exception. Be
prepared to wait a long time ( no matter how full/busy/what time of day there
is only Moe, his wife, and son (heir apparent?) to wait on you By waiting on
you I actually mean screaming/joking/asking you questions such as “Garry, why
is it that I haven’t seen you in six months? Why is it you only want Greek
Salad? Why not try my tasty Jack Daniels Pie? ”
Next
will follow an impossible card game or some inexplicable feat of magic/Riddle
Game of the Mummy whereby you are forced/bound by the Rule of Moe to buy
everyone at the table a round of Jack Daniels Pie. Word to the Wise, do not
engage Moe in feats of reason, magic, and/or cards on his home turf his
“Hoodoo” is too strong. Even the Mexicans fear him and you will invariably lose
and be bound to buy your group/friends whatever desert of the day Moe is
foisting on the great and many “unwashed masses” of true believers that flock
to King Tuts on a weekly basis.
If
you’re worried about health codes don’t go near this colorful cinder-block
excuse for a dining facility. It routinely scores low or outright fails
health/food inspections on a regular
basis. For example, the one bathroom is in the kitchen. Personally, my own
experiences there have flown the gamut from fairly decent to how did I spend
three hours here while holding an accordion.
Enter and Eat at your own risk, you’ll be
glad you did.
Turning
onto Ogle Street, my barber shop is on the left. The Ogle Street Barber Shop.
Little woman in elevator sneakers runs the show in there and she cuts hair
every day but Sunday and Wednesday. She’s been cutting hair in the same
building for the last 27 years. She drives a little white chevy four-door and
on the side of it is one those oversized magnetic stickers, it say Ogle Street
Barber Shop 573-7676, and there’s a little barber pole next to the name. For
some reason, this setup does nothing but break my heart. I go in once a month
to get my hair butchered. It’s good enough, they only charge $8, but I always
give $10. Always, wonder how can anyone make a living cutting hair for $8 a
head in South Knoxville. Occasionally, I see one of my favorite patients in
there. The guy with the Brain Stimulators is priceless. Scars and the odd bulge
to right of his forehead slightly over the Temporal Lobe. Elderly and
pot-bellied this gentleman is an infrequently-frequent visitor to our fine
medical facility. He always comes in to try and get admitted, usually in the
winter. For some strange reason, he always sticks out with his scars and high
pitched lilting voice. I always great him with a grin and a smile. “How you
doing today Mr. Talbot, what brings you in today.” “My legs are hurting, are
you gonna keep me tonight.” Curious, I pull back the sheets and look at the
swollen, skin tight appendages, they look like pink plump purple sausages ready
for the grill. Numerous scabs in varying stages of healing polka-dot his legs.
Grabbing him a pillow/ cup of coffee ( two creams ) and settling him in for the inevitable wait;
I learn that he’d been in jail for “violent acts” as he describes it. That’s
why he’s got his “Brain Stimulators”, as he tells it. I don’t really care one
way or another. I like him simply because he’s odd, one of those people that
not only falls between the cracks he lives in the cracks. Mr. Talbot tells me
how about needing a place to stay and how hard it is to find housing, he’d been
living in his car, that was about nine months ago. He’s sitting there now,
reading a magazine. I see him clearly as I drive slowly by. The woman is
trimming another gentleman's hair in the early morning fluorescence.
Following Ogle Street I pass
underneath an old railroad trellis, One afternoon I stopped in front of this
very same underpass to witness a man driving a mattress truck. He drove the
truck straight on through never mind the fact his overhead was much too tall for
the railroad trellis. Never mind the warning signs. The look on the mans face
was painful to behold. His mouth a nearly perfect “O”. I felt his pain as I
witnessed the roof of his truck crumpling and peeling back like a clumsily
opened can of sardines. This morning my passage is without incidence. At the
STOP Sign I make a left on old Maryville Pike. The morning fog clings
desperately to the ground on Maryville Pike. This road will take you all the
way into Maryville if your so inclined.
Across
the street is a chain link fence covering an abandoned 13 acre field. First
glance, you’d think nothing of it except for a few rusty NO TRESPASSING signs.
Turns out this where Witherspoon Recycling processed scrap metal. Most of the
metals were bought from Nuclear Weapons Production Facilities in Oak Ridge, the
White Wing Scrap Yard also in Oak Ridge and from as far afield as the Wilcox
Naval Nuclear Fuel Division in Lynchburg Virginia. Some of this “Scrap Metal”
contained unsettling amounts of highly enriched uranium. Can you say, “Dirty
Bomb”? The field over there behind the fence used to be nicknamed, “The Hot
Field”. That was back in the 70’s and 80’s. Stories circulate that a lot of the
extremely radioactive stuff “too hot too handle” was just buried out there.
Witherspoon Recycling employed locals mostly, uneducated folks working for
minimum wage grinding metal and breathing radioactive isotopes all day. In
2006, the EPA came in and spent about 6 months shaving off top soil and hauling
it off. Now it’s just grass and trees are starting to grow. Nothing remains to
let you know the horror that slowly unfolded in your backyard.
Across
the street, from South Knoxville’s very own super-fund site is the Candoro
Marble Works. Since 1914, they have cut and polished marble on this site.
Ownership has changed hands numerous times. But, marble continues to be a
business in South Knoxville. Numerous abandoned quarries, now popular with a
younger more aquatically inclined crowd now-a-days physically attest to the
importance of marble in South Knoxville’s economy. Condoro Marble was used in
the Smithsonian Museums and the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC, a
fine accomplishment by any standard (ALL TRUE). The real eye catcher though is
the Candoro Marble Works Show Room, this is one of the best kept secrets of
Knoxville in general and South Knoxville in Particular.
Built in 1923, by our own Charles Barber of
the firm Barber & McMurry this building smacks of Italian Old World
simplicity, Graceful columns, arches, and quality building materials give this
structure a timeless elegance that has more than withstood the passage of time
and fortune. It’s definitely a place that exists out of time and place I’m glad
it’s there. Completely unexpected it sits on the corner of Maryville Pike and
Candoro Avenue. Untrammeled by the decay and apathy that beat against it. Once
a year, South Knoxville gather in the Shadows of The Candoro Marble Show Room
for “Vestival” an open air extravaganza dedicated to the quirky-home-spun-debauchery
that makes itself at home in South Knoxville - “Git You Some”.
I
turn right, the headlights of my much loved 1990 Red Ford Bronco 4X4 illuminate
the chosen path and guide us to the next “Station” of my daily ritual. Passing
by such fine establishments as “Brownies Poolroom” and “Brewskis” I come to a halt at the Stop Light on the corner of Maryville
Pike and Eddington Avenue. Eddington avenue is like the Mos Eisley Space Port
of South Knoxville. “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.
We must be cautious.” Obi Wan Kenobi.
Doors locked and sheath knife safely tucked under the seat. Looking over at the
“Saveway Foodliner” store. A low slung decrepit sandy yellow brick and mortar
affair with “SAVEWAY FOODLINER” in big red letters. What the hell does that
mean anyway? I see mostly drunks and
those soon to be drunk or wish they were drunk entering and leaving. A large
percentage of the groceries that come out of that place are of a Liquid Variety
that you must have a fake ID to purchase. Back in the day, this store was a Cas
Walker Store. Today Cas is an unknown largely forgotten fellow who’s vaguely
known to be the third husband of Dolly Parton. Honestly, Cas Walker was a mess;
the kind of man that can only thrive and survive in the Cut Throat Jungles of
South Knoxville. Why in the 50’s and 60’s his stores were worth close to 60
million dollars annually. In 2012 Dollars, that’s more money than you can
easily stuff into the bodies of the four bloated opossums you’ve found in the
sink-hole behind your house. Arkansas may have Sam Walton and the Walmart
Empire and the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, but we of South
Knoxville have Cas Walker “The Old Coon Hunter”. He may be dead and most of you
don’t know who is, and that he was frequently referred to as “The Old Coon
Hunter” and that he was briefly Mayor of Knoxville (removed by recall
election). I’m O.K. with that, really it’s fine; Now really now leave me alone.
In Cas’s own words he recounts, ““She
just rared back and hit me in the mouth and knocked out three of my teeth. She
was strong as a bull. I started fighting her then, and Lord a’ mercy, I just
kicked her on out the door. Then, I went over to the jail and made bond. The
next day, some of them tried to say I broke two of her ribs, but where I kicked
her, her ribs wasn’t near. I planted me a boot factory, and that never did cost
me a cent. She was trespassing. She was an awful good woman except when she
took these mad spells.” Sam Walton couldn’t do crap like that and get away with
it.
Looking
over at the Old Cas Walker Store with nostalgia that was at least a decade
before my time. Would have liked to seen it back in the day. Cas chasing
shoplifters down the street with a cane/shotgun and/or machete............
whatever. It would have been a sight to see. “Thumping Good Watermelons!”
Accept no Substitutes. And of course his sons wasted all his hard earned money
on vice and sin. That’s the way we roll.
Carefully
driving down Eddington, I pause at the Railroad Underpass, this one’s made of
concrete and dirt; off to the left is a hobo camp. I see folks walking in and
out at odd times. Occasionally you can see a blue tarp back in there a bit, and
the occasional smoke from a campfire. It’s been there forever. Talking to homeless
people, they tell me there’s lots of “campers” along the tracks and up around
Fort Dickerson. Supposedly, there’s a big camp up on the wooded side of Fort
Dickerson. I haven’t seen it, YET. I pass through the tunnel and drive slowly
down Eddington. Roosters crow and Hen’s run across the street (I’m not joking).
Long before it became “cool” for hipsters to raise chickens they’ve been
running wild on Eddington for at least the last Seven Years I’ve made my daily
pilgrimage to UT Medical Center. I always drive carefully down Eddington a
little girl was killed in a drive by shooting here just last year. This are is
well known for Robberies, Meth, prostitution, and just about any other trouble
you care to name.
I turn left at the next Stop Sign onto
Cherokee Trail. Its a downhill hill glide past
all this newly constructed high end college housing horror show that I
desperately hope will just go away somehow. Cherokee Trail used to be this
awesome little road with tree branches interlocking, forming a canopy over the
road. No more, it’s all clear cut land grab and build it up while you can now.
The urban jungle has given way to the Keg-Stand. South Knoxville died a little
bit when this chancre of high-end-luxury-mom-and-dad-buy-all-my-shit college
lifestyle was forced upon us.
PART IV
I
pull into the parking lot. Luckily I’m in early enough so I don’t have to park
out at the “Body Farm” / “Death’s Acre”/ or as I fondly call it; “That bit of
land that’s enclosed with double layers of fencing and razor wire where they
study the decomposition of human remains for science and forensic anthropology”
It smells something fierce in the summer like a bloated up/ rot gas filled dog laying on the Cowan railroad tracks with
it’s heads taken clean off. I mean it really stinks. But today, I’m lucky and
don’t have to park out there. The body farm is the Brain Child of Dr. Bass a UT
Anthropologist who is known the world over for his work in Forensic
Anthropology. With the proliferation of his fiction-works and the huge
popularity of such shows as NCIS, NCIS-Special Victims, NCIS - oh man this is
just too easy to parody so I wont for a change. Everybody and their
ex-mother-in-law wants in on the action. My fav are the nursing students who
say shit like, “ I want to be a forensic nurse specialist”. They’re young,
bubbly, full of optimistic hope, and the joy of learning and helping simply for
the sake of humanity. Cruelly, I reply in kind with something to the effect of,
“Oh by all mean YES! I hope you enjoy doing rape kits on drunk college girls at
three in the morning” Forensic Nursing used to be called Sexual Assault Nurse
Examiner, it’s all about comforting the victim, paying close attention to
“chain of custody” and collecting swabs from your different orifices. I think
I’ll pass.
Walking
into the job, the job I’ve had for the last seven years? This is the last
station of my morning journey. Funny how
time flies, you look back over it all thinking the good, the bad. I’m a study
of missed opportunity and wasted chances. Clocking in late, calling in sick,
when I was really just too hung-over/life spinning out of control. Like a cat
with nine lives I’m lucky in more ways than I’ll ever hope to understand. Folks
had faith in me. I’ve finally gotten over the drinking/abusing my body to the
point of disfunction. My Charge Nurse told me one day, “Shores, your a really
great Nurse, but you know it’s not always about saving lives, most of the time
it’s about showing up on time and being dependable.” I’m routinely the least
punctual most disengaged person, screaming and yelling about whatever comes
down the line. But the problem is when the chips are down and things need to
get done I’m the guy you want on your team. By hook or by crook I’ll get the
job done. I’ve already got the medications you need in my pocket. I’m arguing
about keeping a patient from being discharged and thirty minutes later she’s
headed to the ICU. I’m the nurse you want on your team, but I’m a complete and
total trainwreck. However lately, I’ve gotten to train a few of our new hires,
trying to teach them how to think for themselves, work without much
supervision, and show up on time. Because, when the chips are down you’ll look
around and maybe you’re the senior with everyone looking to you for an answer;
you best have one quick. Finally, I got some answers, and today I’m ready to go
toe to toe with whatever comes through the door.
First,
lets look at the Peanuts Christmas Story. I was raised on this show. I missed
it once, and I cried so much, and there was nothing mom or dad could do; it was
horrible. The Peanuts Christmas Story is near perfection. It still amazes me on
so many levels. How did “they” allow this subversive message out? The networks
must have been insane. This is one of the things I absolutely love about
Christmas. Charlie Brown is one of my heroes. In spite of certain failure and
disaster, he muscles up and gives it his all. Charlie Brown is like us, he’s
got no money and is caught in large world that’s hard nearly incomprehensible to
understand. This makes his struggles seem not only real but epic. His efforts
to find the perfect tree for the Christmas Play are akin to the Labors of
Hercules. If Charlie Brown had a tatoo it would probably say something catchy
like, “Don’t Give Up the Ship”. Christmas and Peanuts go together like pecans
in pie. 
