Can’t You Smell That Smell?

I had just left the local Wal-Mart (unfortunately the only thing open at midnight that sells both beer and cigarettes.) and was heading up Hwy-74 back to the house, gently patting the case of Budweiser Select (again, unfortunate. I’d much rather have a lager, but I’m on a budget here.) when a most foul odor pierced my nostrils with overpowering vigor. “Skunk,” I muttered to myself. I drove along half expecting to see a monochromatic corpse bloated on the roadside. Somewhere between four and six miles down Hwy-74 yet another overpowering stench invaded my nasal cavity. Except, this time I was jamming out to For Those About to Rock, muttered “opossum”, and instead of scrunching my nose, I started laughing at myself. I laughed because of my ability to distinguish the source of the different… aromas. And I thought about a week or so earlier when someone said they smelled cow shit and I corrected that they were smelling chicken shit. And Jeff Foxworthy came to mind. You might be a redneck… If you can name any animal by the smell of its feces.

I guess what they say is true, you can take a man out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of a man.

Who you gonna call?

I’m thoroughly convinced ghosts exist, and that I have seen them; different occasions in different locations, sometimes recurring. One such recurring location was in the house where I grew up. It was built near an old Native American burial ground. My friend, Andrew, used to find an arrowhead in the horse pasture behind our house every time he came over.

Our home was a small rectangular basement house. The rooms on the back side of the house didn’t have windows, as they were completely underground. This was great for sleeping; with the lights off and the door shut, they were completely pitch-black. My parent’s room was on the front of the house, and had one large double window. There was a hallway with two doors on each side. The first door on the front side of the house was the bathroom, and the second was my parent’s room. The first door on the back side of the house was my room, and the second was my stepsister’s room.

From time to time when I looked down the hallway, I would see something moving from my stepsister’s room to my parent’s, or vice versa. You might think it was just the dark hallway and my imagination playing tricks on me. I know that’s what I chalked it up to for the first dozen-or-so times I saw it. But I started to notice that I could usually only see them when there was enough light coming through my parent’s window to illuminate the hallway. I saw them more and more, sometimes from closer positions too. I won’t lie; they scared the ever-loving-shit out of me. For the most part, they were colorless, like a shade of grey. But not grey. I don’t recall them being translucent. They were usually out of focus, blurry. They were kind of short in stature, and when they were clear enough to make out, they looked as though they were a person walking somewhat hunched over. Sometimes they were clear enough to make out; it seemed their clarity grew exponentially the closer I was, but they were never close enough to make out intricate details. Mostly it was just one wispy image sneaking into either room, but sometimes it was two, and on rarer occasion there might be three. They never turned to look at me, or even seemed to be aware of my presence. I was sure-as-hell aware of theirs though, and sometimes I would break into stride and run through the hallway to my room, where I would shut the door and dive across the room into my bed. I saw them less often once I moved into my stepsister’s larger room at the end of the hall, but I still saw them. They continued to appear, ever sporadically, until my last day living in that house.

On a few occasions, I did awaken in the middle of the night to find someone in my room. I had poor vision and wore coke-bottle glasses every day past the third grade, so everything in my room, without my glasses, was blurry. Once I awoke to find my mother standing beside my bed, leaning over me, watching me sleep. The next morning, my mother was no longer wearing a white nightgown, and I asked her why she changed. She said she didn’t own a white nightgown. I asked her why she was standing in my room the night before, and she swore she had never set foot in my room that night. I was petrified. My mother wasn’t one to lie about things like that to scare me. I started sleeping with my bedspread pulled over my face, and to this day I still sleep that way if the temperature permits.

When I was in my early teens I spent every other weekend at my stepmother’s house. I had a stepsister there that was only two months younger than me, so we got along pretty well. It was in a really small town, one of those one-stoplighters, and there wasn’t really anything to do. So we rode out bikes around town a lot. There was an old broken down house on the opposite side of our block. And elderly couple had died there, first the husband, followed about a year later by the widow. We used to see someone staring out of the window to one of the rooms upstairs. I saw her, my stepsister saw her, and if we happened to have a friend with us, they would sometimes see her as well. We we’re all pretty convinced that it was just something sitting in the room, something on the wall, or the glass, or some drapes. So one day we all got the bright idea to go check it out for ourselves; a little innocent breaking and entering. When we found an unlocked window on the side of the house, I was boosted inside and went to open the front door and let the others inside. We all got pretty nervous because the entire house had been cleaned out. We found the room, and the window, and both were empty; nothing to reflect the light, nothing to show through the window. We all got pretty freaked out and bolted out the front door, never to look back. We never rode out bikes around that corner again; all certain the old widow would be pissed that we had been in her house.

There were some other occasions, but the details all seem to escape me right now. I never believe something until I see it, and sometimes I don’t believe it even if I do see it. Yet I still believe what I saw, and I’ve always believed in ghosts. I don’t know what else they could have been, so until I’m proven otherwise, ghosts are real.

There’s a new sheriff in town

The first life lesson I recall learning was the permanence of death. When I was four years old, my step-dad took me downtown and picked up a Daisy Red Ryder. It was magnificent. Real wood, lever action, even a little metal loop with some leather tied to it! Oh, how I adored it so. I was finally a real-life, shoot-em-up cowboy.

With my little rattlesnake-skin boots, my red bandanna, and my Red Ryder, I was the new sheriff of Perry’s Yard. Watch out. I spent day after day with my glorious Red Ryder. I showed every tree, bush, fencepost, coke-can, and beer-bottle who was boss, one BB at a time. No single inanimate object dare step out of line with me in town. Then, when I had shot everything, and shot everything again, and shot some stuff I wasn’t supposed to and got yelled at for it, and then shot some more stuff, I started to get bored. These lifeless entities were no match for my superior marksmanship. I needed a challenge.

So I set my sights on moving prey. I shot at squirrels, and birds, and pretty much everything that I could get away with. My favorites were the birds who often settled along the barbed wire fence in our back yard. They just lined up, sat there. It was like a row of coke cans, without the effort of setting them up. They would sit. I would shoot. They would fly away. I was, once again, the supreme ruler of my domain. All was grand, until one fateful afternoon, when a hoppy-toad (yeah, I called it a hoppy-toad. get fucked.) decided to test my rule. And by test my rule, I mean he just kinda… hopped… across the porch, but let’s not get caught up in semantics here.

So there I was. And there he was. It was high noon, and we were having a draw. I informed the town inhabitants (my parents), and gathered them outside. My mom and my step-dad warned me, “Are you sure you want to shoot that toad?” “You know, if you do, he’ll die.” Of course he will. That’s why I’m shooting him. He’s challenged my rule, and for that, he must suffer the consequences. I take aim. I pull the trigger. My BB gun clicks. The hoppy-toad just sits there. What a sham?! Shouldn’t he be grabbing his chest, and flipping all around saying, “Oh. Yuh got me.” Again, I take aim and fire.

This time, something is different. The little hoppy-toad looks flat. He’s just sitting there, not moving. Something is oozing out of him. What’s going on here? Hoppy-toad, what’s wrong? I kind of poke him with the barrel of my gun, “hoppy-toad?” I reach down and pick him up by one of his little hoppy-toad feet. His tongue rolls out of his mouth, and I can see it’s covered in blood. I totally freak out. Mom, fix it. The hoppy-toad is broken. I start crying, and run to my mom. They explain to me, that the hoppy-toad is dead, and he’s not coming back. I killed him. I cry some more. How could this happen? My step-dad says, “Well, you killed him. I think you better go bury him.” I cry some more. But I do as I’m told, and I go put my little hoppy-toad in a shallow grave, just into the edge of the forest that lines our front yard. What had I done?

Neither my mother, nor my step-dad seemed very concerned with this tragic loss. This wasn’t the case with me, however, and I would not touch the cursed Red Ryder for months to come. The vision of that dead little hoppy-toad is still so fiercely emblazoned in my mind that every time I think if death, I see him. I see him sitting on the porch, and I see him hanging lifeless as I carry him to his grave. To this day, I have yet to shoot at another animal.

I have a need… a need for speed!

I blame NASCAR. Growing up in North Carolina, you’re raised around it. It doesn’t matter if you watch it, because the other 95% of the population around you does. With its roots stretching back to bootleggers running moonshine in Wilkes County during the prohibition, more corporate offices in N.C. (4 to be exact) than any other state, and the fact that Charlotte N.C. is home to more racing teams than anywhere else in the nation, it’s part of Carolinian culture. To quote the great Lt. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, “I have a need… a need for speed!” and for this penchant, I blame NASCAR.

Now, a lot of people like to go fast. This is apparent every time you drive – anywhere. There’s always some asshole behind you, riding your bumper, and you’re already going 10mph over the posted limit. Where it gets sketchy, is when it’s coupled with a strong tendency toward competitiveness. That’s me.

So I’ll set the scene for you. I’m with my high school sweetheart, heading for an ice-skating rink in an adjacent town. I take a road that was initially built as a by-pass. It cut out the stoplight-to-stoplight driving for those traversing from HWY 127 into uptown Hickory. That was, until some asshole (smart guy, actually, and probably rich too) bought a huge strip of land down the said by-pass and tossed up a ton of duplexes. The area gets zoned as residential, and the speed-limit drops from 55 to 35. So here we are, driving down this gloriously wide road, in a pack of cars, going somewhere from 50 to 60 mph. I’m somewhere in the middle, making the occasional lane change, winding my way to the head of the pack. I’m almost to the front, when I get cut off by some inbred hick in a 5th generation Celica. I compensate for his jackassery, and then continue my pursuit for the pole position. But, to my dismay, the Celica is diligently keeping me boxed in.

Eventually, we both arrive at the front of the pack, and this is where the fun begins. We’re both accelerating down the road, slowly gaining our speed as we weave through the slower traffic. The speed is picking up, and neither of us shows sign of backing down anytime soon. We approach a pair of cars that are side-by-side and we have no way of getting by, without slowing down, of course. (Slowing down wasn’t much of an option at this point, anyway. The last time I check my speedometer it was reading something like 97mph). I, being to the Celica’s left, opt for the suicide lane (or turn lane, depending on where you’re from) to circumvent the blockade. Not to be outdone, the Celica drops to the shoulder and zooms past them as well. We’ve just passed the National Guard Armory, a sign that we’re about to lose our wide, open road for something smaller, slower, and filled with stoplights.

We decelerate, fall into the rear of another group of cars, and start stopping for our first red-light. We wait, it turns green, and traffic crawls forward to the next light. This one is red as well; rinse, repeat. The rush has faded, adrenaline levels are normal, and the moment is over. I’m carrying on some pointless conversation with the little lady in my passenger seat, and we play red light-green light through two more intersections. We come to our final stoplight, at a larger, 5-way junction. This one takes a while, our conversation is over, and the mood is rather boring. The light turns green, and traffic starts creeping forward. The direction we’re heading, you’re blind to traffic coming from your left, so every goes kind of slow up to the intersection, then scoots through – myself included. Well, that’s how it usually goes. This time, however, is a little different, mostly due to the police car that comes screeching by, sliding sideways through the intersection, blocking all traffic.

As if that weren’t enough to get my little heart pumping, the fact that she was screaming something unintelligible, staring, and pointing at me the whole time definitely was. I freeze, just sitting there, all slack-jawed. Screech, screech, screech, screech; four more police cars come barreling into the 5-way junction, surrounding me. I’m two of them are barking some form of garbled, spit-language at me, pointing at a small side road. I interpret this as, “get your fucking ass into that road and stay there, you son-of-a-bitch!” and do just that.

I’m pulling into the road when I see the Celica parked there too. That’s when I’m like, “Oh, shit.” I know I’m in deep trouble. *click* That little thing in my head goes off. Focus. Ditch the Opeth CD for some Temporary Christian radio. Turn your hat back back around. Think about that bird that fell out of a tree when you we’re 4 years old; the one that you fruitlessly tried to resuscitate, for what seemed like hours; then ended making a coffin out of a shoebox, and burying in your aunt’s back yard. Yeah, that’s the one. There ya go. Those puppy-dog eyes are looking good and ready. You’ve got those little puddles going on under each one. Let’s do this shit. I say to my girlfriend, “Alright, just don’t say anything.” The cop comes up to the window, and asks for my license and registration. Shaky handed, I give her both, “O-okay, here ya go, ma’am. Oops, I-I-I j-just kinda tore my registration, I’m nervous.” “That’s alright,” the lady officer says. (That’s right, another female cop. I guess I’m just lucky.) She’s off at her car, doing her radio thing, and I’m watching everything else that’s going on. They’ve got their 5 cars boxing us in, and the side road we’re on is, for the most part, rendered impassable. Two of the cops are having a back-and-forth with the guy in the Celica, one of them is directing traffic, and one is hovering around the back of my car. Your bird is wearing off…think ’sad’. Shit, no time. The lady is back already, “Do you have any idea how fast you we’re going?” “No, ma’am.” “Well I didn’t have my radar on, but I know you we’re going at least 70.” No radar? YES! “Your buddy almost hit me. I was pulling out of the Armory.” That was when we we’re four lanes wide, passing the two cars. “Huh?” “You don’t know the guy in the Celica?” “No, I was just trying to get around another car, and he kept speeding up. Wouldn’t let me by.” “And you couldn’t just let him by and wait? Where we’re you going in such a hurry?” “Church. We’re supposed to meet our youth group, and we’re running late.” Hot damn, I’m good. We’re going ice-skating, and we still have 20 minutes to burn. “Alright, sit tight,” she and the 3 other officers meet up between me and the Celica. They talk for a while. Then they talk some more. One of the guys that was talking to Mr. Celica starts getting red-faced. I can’t hear them, but he’s pissed about something. They talk some more. What’s all this talking about? I start to doubt myself a little, rightfully so. I mean, she should have yanked my sorry ass out of that car, threw me on the pavement, tore my license up in front of me, and sent me packing. Speed competition with another vehicle, ~95 in a 35, halfway in the oncoming traffic lane. Yeah, I could seriously be fucked.

The cops all go to their cars for a minute, then start walking back. I see the red-faced cop writing a ticket, and that’s when I start getting really nervous. My mom is going to kick my ass. And that’s if I DON’T lose my license. She’s back at my window, and she’s looking more serious, and scarier than she has before. Shit. In a most hateful tone, “Can you give me one good reason not to cite you right now?” Damn, this had better be a damned good one. Like,’ you we’re on your way to save a bus full of nuns that had flipped over onto a group of orphans’ good. Nothing. I stammer, “B-b-because I pay my own insurance, and if I get a ticket, the rate will go up, and I won’t be able to afford it, and I’ll lose my car, and I won’t be able to get to my job after school, and I’ll probably lose my car.” Some crap like that, “I didn’t mean to go that fast, I was just trying to get to church.” So then she starts in on this boring, long-winded lecture about how churches have been here for thousands of years and they weren’t going anywhere. I’m not about to show an ounce of disinterest, and I punctuate each of here sentences with a nod and a, “Yes, ma’am.” She finishes up her spiel and says, “I’m going to give you a warning.” Oh fuck yeah. “But if I catch you around here again, I won’t hesitate to cite you.” “No, ma’am, you won’t.” I nod at her. She writes up the warning and sends me on my way.

I fold it up and hide it in my owner’s manual, then go have a blast ice-skating with my girlfriend all night. I walk away unscathed with some bitchin’ bragging rights to tell my friends tomorrow. All in all, a good day, I’d say.