Sheville Series

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Chapter 18: What a Long Strange Trip It's Been

Matty McEire

Part of a series. Read the rest of the series here.

Less than two weeks after the flood, there was a big send-off party at Verlee's trailer. We were packed and ready to go. What started out as a hypothetical conversation between Verlee and Spunk had mushroomed into a full-fledged entourage of five, bound for California . It was a group of traveling companions that I would never have envisioned. The only thing we all had in common was that we were lesbians, and as far as logical, cohesive groups go, this was a totally mismatched hodge-podge.

Spunk, the originator of the idea, was going out there to get her head together, and she planned to stay as long as it took the California mental health care system to do the trick. Perhaps “do the trick” is not the best phraseology here since I found out shortly before the excursion that she had been making her living doing just that – turning tricks. I had never personally known anyone in her profession before, and it completely blew my mind that a lesbian-feminist would do that. My after-college education in the school of life was continuing to broaden. I still hadn't figured out exactly what was wrong with her mental health. My best guess was that maybe it was some sort of anxiety disorder. She did get somewhat anxious in what she perceived as stressful situations, but aside from that and her unconventional line of work, she seemed relatively normal to me.

Verlee was pretty much just along for the ride as usual. She didn't know how long she'd stay, but since she didn't have any trouble at all finding someone to stay at her trailer and take care of Dizzy while she was gone, she could stay as long as she liked. She figured she could make her weekly visits to the unemployment office in California just as easily as in North Carolina . And she had one old friend in Oakland , someone she had worked with in DC years before, so she thought she'd look her up when she got out there. It would just be a grand ol' adventure for Verlee.

Marjorie decided if you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em – after all, she was in between jobs, the economy was very depressed in Western North Carolina, and surely she could find a better job and a better life out there. Plus she adored Verlee, so despite her original protestations, if Verlee was going, so was she. It was bound to be interesting.

And then there was Andrea. Andrea was a dark beauty – dark in a number of ways. She had perfectly straight, long, black hair; piercing dark eyes; and a shadowy, mysterious personality. She was very quiet most of the time, but it was an unnerving kind of quiet – like maybe she could suddenly blow a gasket at any time. I couldn't figure her out at all. I had never met her before the trip started to take shape although I had seen her riding her bicycle up Biltmore Avenue on several occasions, pedaling furiously with a look of fierce intensity on her face, not unlike Elmira Gulch in the Wizard of Oz . Andrea was one of Spunk's love interests. Spunk seemed to be doing just fine with the non-monogamy idea. She had taken Andrea under her wing and convinced her that she, too, could find mental health magic in California . I didn't know enough about Andrea to know what her particular mental illness might be, but she was a little scary sometimes - just the way she would be quietly sitting on Verlee's couch while we discussed the trip, and then she would suddenly jump up, jerk her head around and glare at some imaginary object across the room, and then just as suddenly sit back down without a word. I wasn't ruling out the possibility of schizophrenia.

I rounded out this bizarre entourage. Even if it was only in my own opinion, I felt that with Marjorie maybe running a close second, I was probably the sanest one of the bunch – depressed sometimes, but basically sane. I was just looking for a place where I could be more comfortable being me. I could always come back to Asheville someday, but I knew I needed to get away for a while to get a better handle on my place in the world. I might settle in California for a month, or a year, or the rest of my life. I didn't know. I'd always had a burning desire to go to San Francisco , so despite the crazy circumstances, this was my ticket to ride.

Before I made the decision to go, I made lists of the pros and cons. There were plenty of cons. First and foremost, of course, was the previously described group of traveling companions. When it came down to it, and if I was to put it quite bluntly, I was about to spend seventy-two hours on a bus traveling over 2000 miles in the company of a sweet, but completely irresponsible alcoholic; an unemployed, chain-smoking nurse's aide; an anxiety-prone hooker; and someone I had known for less than a week who might possibly be motivated by voices in her head urging her to kidnap Toto. That alone should have outweighed all the pros.

Other cons included my mother's voice harping in the back of my own head insisting that this was an utterly ridiculous thing to do, my friends possibly being upset with me for leaving town yet again and so soon after returning from the Philly debacle, knowing that I would sorely miss Asheville and these mountains again, the fact that I knew no one in the Bay Area (although I knew I had distant cousins in Santa Cruz), and the matter of my finances since I had very little money to tide me over until I got settled out there.

On the other hand, the pros were quite enticing. Just the thought of finally seeing San Francisco after all those years of longing was almost enough in and of itself. Given my newfound lifestyle, it was even more appealing. It was a gay Mecca . I had recently found out that Olivia Records had relocated to Oakland . Holly Near's Redwood Records was out there somewhere. Many of the lesbian recording artists lived there and surely there would be concerts or bar gigs all the time. It would be an inspiring milieu in which to hone my own musical talents. The East Bay was crawling with dykes. Berkeley was a hotbed of radicalism. There would be all kinds of intriguing stuff going on. I didn't have a job anyway, and I knew I could find one out there. I was young and relatively carefree. Those were my reasons for going! It would be worth the risk.

I made the final decision to go just three days before I actually went. In those three days I did the things I thought were most important in order to prepare for the journey. I pulled all the remaining money out of my savings account, which did not amount to much. I bought a brand new pair of Frye boots – calf high, blonde leather with squared toes and solid heels. I took my two guitars, the Goya classical that I bought in high school and Milo'sYamaha steel-string that she had given me before she left for Kentucky, and traded them in at Pick and Grin for a really nice Takamine with silk and steel strings.

I whittled down everything that I had hauled back from Philly to Asheville in the Buick to what would fit in a footlocker and a backpack. Special items I couldn't part with, the stuff of my life that was too cumbersome, numerous, or impractical to take with me - bundles of old letters, fragile clay art pieces made for me by old friends, piles of songbooks - I carefully packed in boxes to store in Angel's basement. I loaned my stereo and cherished record collection to Janis for safekeeping and enjoyment until I could retrieve it some day. She was thrilled at her sudden musical wealth. Lugging the crates of LP's up the porch steps and in her front door, I felt a huge wave of emptiness, like I was leaving half my heart and soul in her tiny apartment.

I went to the bus station and bought my one-way ticket. I had forty-two dollars left. I tucked it into my wallet and slid the wallet into the hip pocket of my jeans. I parked the beloved but battered Buick in an out-of-the-way spot behind Angel's house where it would stay until she sold it for me. I was ready to go.

The members of the send-off party at Verlee's formed a caravan of vehicles and the party continued at the downtown Trailways station that late November night. I was awash in a sea of emotion by that point, with equal parts of great excitement and deep sadness bobbing to the surface. I didn't want to cry, but it was inevitable as I hugged my friends goodbye and boarded the bus. I had no idea when or even if I would see them again.

As the bus pulled out of the light of the gate and into the dark night, I kept waving out the window at Janis and Angel and Temple and all the others who were there to see us off until the bus rounded the corner of the building and they were out of sight. I took a deep breath and made the first entry in my journal.

Pre-trip gathering at Verlee's trailer – twelve people, four dogs, two cats, some smoke, and a six-pack. Big bus station send-off. If I ain't ready now, I never will be. Sad goodbyes, but if there wasn't any sadness, there wouldn't have been anything that mattered leaving. I'm leaving. I'm beginning.

Then I settled back against the headrest and fell asleep.

I woke up in Knoxville , TN , where we had to disembark and then transfer to another bus after our first layover. This was also where I first realized that bringing a foot locker was perhaps not my brightest idea since I had to schlep it around myself, along with the guitar and backpack, every time we changed buses. I amused myself during the layover by propping my spiffy, new boots up on the damned footlocker and doing some people watching in the waiting area of the bus station. My favorite subject was a very round, very black woman in a bright red, broad brimmed hat, dressed in her Sunday best and wearing an orchid corsage. In the wee hours of a Tuesday morning, she was a vivacious, scarlet poppy in a sea of tired, drab weeds.

Once we loaded our baggage and found our seats on the second bus, none of us had any trouble getting back to sleep. I woke up briefly when we stopped in Nashville , long enough to catch a glimpse of the Ryman Auditorium as we swung past. It was still pre-dawn, and a cold, heavy fog hung over the city. The streets were gray and deserted. I imagined them populated by the ghosts of those who had performed at the Ryman – Hank Williams, Elvis Presley, Patsy Cline. I drifted back to sleep with the chorus of “Crazy” floating in and out of my dreams.

We traded seats every once in a while. Since there were five of us, one of us was either sitting alone or next to a stranger. From Asheville to Nashville I had an empty seat beside me and was able to sprawl out a little. Somewhere between Nashville and Memphis we all woke up, and I sat with Verlee a while and then with Spunk. When we reached Memphis we had a two-hour layover. Verlee decided that there was plenty of time to make her required weekly visit to the unemployment office. She and Marjorie set off to find it. Spunk, Andrea, and I decided to go over to the riverfront area. We walked along a brick lined street with many fountains, through the cotton district, and ended up on Front Street at the Mississippi River . There was some kind of Marlboro promotion going on there, and I scored the equivalent of almost a carton of cigarettes. This was the catalyst for my conversion to becoming a non-menthol smoker.

We got back to the bus about ten minutes prior to departure and found Marjorie there but not Verlee, who had told Marjorie to go on and do a little sightseeing instead of waiting in line at the unemployment office with her. We boarded the bus, waiting and watching for Verlee. Five minutes before departure she still wasn't there. We were all beginning to get really nervous. Marjorie was beside herself, and Spunk was getting that disquieting, anxious look in her eyes. I didn't even want to look at Andrea in case it was gasket time. When Verlee still hadn't shown up with only a minute to spare, Spunk asked the driver if we could wait just a little longer. He gruffly stated that he had a schedule to keep, but would wait two minutes. We were trying to think of anything to stall for time. By the time the driver said we had to go, we had made the decision that we would all get off the bus; we were in this thing together. Then just as we were explaining to him that we had to get all our luggage out of the hold, Marjorie let out a whoop and a holler.

Verlee, red-faced, bangs matted to her forehead with sweat, her jacket tied around her waist and flying out behind her, was running down the sidewalk toward the bus. I had never seen her move that fast. Actually, I don't think I had ever seen Verlee run at all. She breathlessly climbed up the stairs and into the bus. All of the other passengers, who by then were aware of our predicament, actually clapped and cheered. Marjorie stood in the aisle with her hands on her hips, and all I heard was “Ver-lee-ann” in her sternest voice before the bus made the whooshing noises of departure and Verlee sank into her seat, her head hung low like a bad dog and prepared for the worst from Marjorie.

Day one had provided us with just a little too much excitement. Luckily, the rest of that day's travel was uneventful. I dozed most of the time, waking up when we stopped: Little Rock, Texarkana, Dallas . We had to change buses again in Dallas , and as usual, had a lengthy layover. I washed my hair in the women's room sink and felt semi-human again after over twenty-four hours of traveling. I even felt brave enough to take a walk around downtown with Andrea, whose main motive was to find a liquor store or a bar. Although it was well after dark, the streets were brightly lit, as were many of the windows of the skyscrapers towering above us. I could see janitors moving past the glass pushing cleaning carts and going about the business of their nightly work. It was after nine, so all the liquor stores were closed, and we never did run across any bars in the blocks where we walked. Despite my worry, it didn't seem to faze Andrea at all, so all was well, and I was relieved that her gasket was still intact.

After we stowed our luggage in the hold, the five of us boarded our new bus and moved down the aisle toward the rear where, in those days, there was still a smoking section. That's where we found Colandis – six foot two, ebony-skinned, made-up, bejeweled Colandis - flaming queen extraordinaire. Lesbian feminists that we were, none of us were particularly keen on spending much time with men, but this guy was a hoot and a half. Dressed in tight, black designer jeans and a hot pink blouse with flowing sleeves, he made grand, graceful gesturing motions and invited his “sistahs” on back to the “fun part of the bus.” He reminded me of a black, male version of Carol Channing, and I expected him to break out in an exuberant, soulful, lisping rendition of “Hello, Dolly” at any moment.

Colandis adopted us, and we adopted him. He was funny as hell, and there was no sleeping in the back of that bus for several hours after we departed Dallas . He entertained us all non-stop. Spunk ended up sitting next to him. I was sitting next to Verlee in the seats in front of them, listening to the show. As we crossed into Fort Worth, Verlee and I turned and looked at each other, wide-eyed and sniffing the air simultaneously. Spunk and Colandis had given the back of the bus the sweet smell of the weed. The rest of us, in such close quarters, were getting the benefit of the contact high. After much giggling and general silliness in the last few rows of seats, things eventually quieted down and the hush of sleep again descended upon the passengers.

When I woke up Wednesday morning, we were still in Texas . I knew Texas was big, but I had never crossed its breadth before. It was endless. I thought I would be in Texas forever: Big Spring, Midland, Odessa, Pecos, Van Horn. All the towns were beginning to look the same, and the dusty expanse between them, with a ramshackle house here and there, gave me a feeling of desolation. I was glad I was only passing through. We stopped at a truck stop cafeteria in Van Horn for lunch.

After lunch, Colandis, who had been sniffling a little bit, re-boarded the bus and sashayed toward the back, waving a bottle of Jack Daniels Black Label in one hand and a bottle of MD 20-20 in the other, declaring, “Cure that cold, honey! Cure that cold!”

“Here,” I said to him as he passed my seat, “I'll trade you one of these for a hit of that Jack.” I handed him one of the special brownies I had made for the trip.

“Ooh honey, did you use your herbal recipe on those?” he sang.

“Sho did, darlin'. Sho did. Happy trails.” I smiled at him as he took the first bite. Then I offered a brownie to everyone else in the last three rows. No one refused. It made the excursion much more interesting as we moved through West Texas – barren desert land; distant mesas against a big, blue sky; tumbleweeds; oil rigs; and at last, El Paso.

We had another layover in El Paso , where across the Rio Grande , not far from the bus terminal, lay Juarez , Mexico . I had never been to Mexico and wondered if I had enough time to walk there and back during the layover. Now it was time for my grand adventure! Andrea decided to go with me. We walked the blocks to the bridge at a quick pace. At the border crossing we were required to pay two cents to enter Mexico but were not required to show any I.D. at all, so we walked right on into Mexico .

The narrow, brown streets were packed with shops, vendor carts, people, dogs, and even a couple donkeys. Colorful piñatas hung from storefronts, luring in American tourists. Brown-skinned, broken English-speaking hawkers approached us immediately, trying to sell us cigarettes and rings. We bypassed them and went into the first two stores we came to – a leather goods shop and a liquor store. We looked around but didn't buy anything. We were hardly there any time at all before we had to turn around to get back to the bus on time. We paid our two cents to get back across the bridge, but the customs area to get back into the U.S. was a lot tighter, requiring I.D. and answering a series of questions. It took longer than we had anticipated, so we had to run like hell, even faster than Verlee did in Memphis , to make it. I was ready for Marjorie's glare, but I didn't care. I was elated. I had been to Mexico – for fifteen minutes!

The ride into New Mexico , past miles of green chili fields, pecan orchards, and ghost towns napping under an azure sky, was relatively quiet except for the sounds of Colandis and a few other wild boys in the back that we'd picked up along the way. I sat with Spunk and talked for a while. I enjoyed her company, but I felt like I was getting some really mixed signals from her. When she was with me, she was very affectionate and told me how attracted she was to me, but most of the time she seemed to be much more focused on Andrea.

After a supper break somewhere in southwestern New Mexico , I sat by myself again, legs stretched out on an empty seat beside me. I thought about Spunk. I was attracted to her, too, but I wasn't at all sure I could handle her polyamory. I had to admit that even though I'd only known her for a couple weeks, I was feeling jealousy about her bond with Andrea. I thought about Asheville and wondered what everyone was doing back home that night and what they'd be doing the next day - Thanksgiving. I thought about the other attractions I'd had since I came out – Red Clover, Z, Holly, Angel, and Janis. I wondered if I'd ever find the right one. I stared out the bus window at the plethora of stars in the black, night sky. One very bright one had to be a planet, probably Venus. I made a wish on it and fell asleep.

I slept great that night, waking up only briefly as we stopped in Tucson and then in Phoenix , AZ. When the morning sun came up blazing behind the bus, I opened an eye to figure out where we were, and, by damn, we were in California ! I was jazzed. I had finally done it. I was in California ! I could not stop smiling. When we pulled into the Trailways depot in San Bernardino , a middle-aged black woman boarded the bus and sat down in the seat beside me. She reminded me a little bit of the woman who had caught my attention way back in Knoxville . She introduced herself to me as Delores and struck up a conversation. She was from L.A. and was on her way home after having spent the previous night alone, gambling in Las Vegas . I was really impressed with that – a woman who can go alone to Las Vegas , or anywhere for that matter, and have a great time all by herself. I wanted to be more like that – to be able to enjoy my own company, to be alone but not lonely. I smiled at the idea that wonderful bits of inspiration can come from just about anywhere, even from a complete stranger on a bus. We talked all the way to L.A.

As we got off the bus in L.A. , I wished Delores well and then got a big hug from Colandis, who was off to a new life in West Hollywood . I gave him the last of my special brownies as a good luck present. We had a brief layover before changing buses one last time, so I walked out of the terminal and into the bright sunshine of the place Joni Mitchell had called the “city of the fallen angels” just to see if I could see any of them falling.

Our last bus was bound for Oakland . I settled into a seat beside Verlee. Shortly after leaving the terminal in L.A. , we passed through Hollywood . The two of us were totally freaking out. First I saw the Capitol Records building shaped like a stack of 45's and then Universal Studios. Verlee spotted the big “ Hollywood ” sign up in the hills. We were squealing and jumping up and down in our seats and acting like a couple of excited school kids. I had such great fun with Verlee. She was just so genuine and totally without pretense. What you saw was what you got with Verlee. We shared a wonderful, uncomplicated friendship with no game playing. It was refreshing.

My only disappointment was that even though we were in California , I had yet to see the Pacific Ocean . For some reason I thought I'd be able to see it from the bus. Silly me. I saw a lot of buildings and palm trees and traffic, but no ocean yet. Once we got onto Interstate 5 heading north, the scenery started to change and become more rural. The hills and mountains surrounding us were very brown and barren looking. Hazy, brown hills folded up to meet a hazy, blue sky. It was weird to see rolling hills with no trees on them after being surrounded by the lush foliage of the Blue Ridge Mountains for so long. The rainy season was late starting, and almost all of Califonia had been experiencing drought conditions. I had traveled from East Coast to West Coast and from flood to drought. The only sign of water appeared when we passed a tiny, blue lake where a small boy stood in a rowboat fishing. Eventually, the hills faded away, and we were traveling through miles and miles of flat, irrigated farmland. Verlee and I both nodded off.

Spunk woke us up hours later as we were coming into the Bay Area. She was the one who had made arrangements for a place to stay once we got to Oakland . The original plan was to stay at a women's shelter in Berkeley , but when Spunk called there earlier that day from L.A. to confirm our arrival time, she found out that someone had gotten their wires crossed and the shelter was full. She was frantic at the news and made a whole battery of phone calls to find somewhere else to stay. Through a series of referrals, she was directed to a place in Oakland called the More House where we could stay for free if we didn't mind all bunking in one room. We didn't have much choice. Someone from the More House would meet us at the Oakland bus terminal as soon as we called to let them know we had arrived. And they did, a man and a woman dressed like sixties hippies and driving an orange VW van.

The house itself was a very well-kept, large house in a nice part of town. It looked promising. The other people living there were cleaning up all the dishes after their Thanksgiving feast that evening when we got there. They seemed friendly enough at first, but after only a few minutes I realized that one of them, a guy named Joe who seemed like he was maybe the head honcho there, was repeatedly making fun of Verlee's Appalachian accent and soon started laughingly referring to all of us as the “hillbillies.” He showed us to our basement room, which had nothing in it except for three double-bed mattresses on the floor.

In an insultingly mocking voice, Joe said, “I guess y'all are tired tonight after y'alls long trip, so we can talk more tomorrow. We don't have an outhouse here, so y'all can use the bathroom down the hall to the left.” He handed Spunk a sheet of paper. “Here's the house rules. Look ‘em over and we'll discuss ‘em in the morning.”

“What an asshole!” Marjorie exclaimed as soon as she heard Joe clomp back up the stairs.

“Yeah. Welcome to California , huh?” I added. “I think we better start looking for another place to stay first thing in the morning.”

“You're definitely right about that,” Spunk agreed, looking over the house rules. “This will be our first and last night here. You guys won't believe what kind of place we've landed in here.”

“What do you mean, Spunk?” Verlee asked.

Andrea just stood in the corner and glared at Spunk.

“Well, ladies.” Spunk cleared her throat. “It appears that we are staying in a sex commune!”