Chapter 2

 

 

2

 

 

 

    

 

      It was some man’s image of paradise to go somewhere where everybody knew his name. They called him a “local” or “regular” and would immediately greet him upon seeing him. They were always delighted to talk with him and when they spoke of him to others, they would say quaint things like, “Oh, that guy, I’ve known him forever. He’s a good guy, someone you got to know.” My image of paradise, along with possibly a great deal of misanthropes and vagabonds, was nothing like that man’s picturesque dream.

     I wanted to go somewhere where no one knew my name. If I was to tell them it, the moment I left there sight it was as good as forgotten. I wanted to walk among unfamiliar streets and see new sights, and to everyone I crossed I was a stranger. They would call me a “visitor” or “drifter” as I moved around and traveled onward instead of settling in one place. All the friendships I made would be lovely experiences but temporary because I could not take them with me when I left. My only everlasting friend would be the immortal sky as it followed me where ever I may go. The splendid wonder of the sky would be my true travel companion and together we would venture with only the goal of observation in mind, similarly to the way God uses the sky to view humans and to examine their ways and daily activities.

The word “go” was my only focus and the reason I got up in the morning. That word was the breath in my lungs and the steps under my feet. To say that the lost generation was only a phase after WWI was a sharp understatement, the lost generation was a way of life and there would always be people who accepted its challenges and promises. I guess in this world, people are either one of two things �" a drifter or a settler. This label doesn’t just affect their living status but affects everything the person thinks and does. Whether a person is a drifter or settler would affect their friendships as the drifter would make many friends but never keep them while a settler would hang out with the same select group of friends for all of their life. This label would also affect a person’s relationships and their ideas of love.

A drifter would have brief affairs, nothing lasting longer than a few months. Within those few bonded months, the drifter would already find their self anticipating an ending date. They knew even when they met the person that the relationship would not last. A drifter’s sense of love is fire. It burns up and goes bright very quickly, the flames strong and passionate as they rise and gather everything around it. Eventually �" the fire fades away and goes out with nothing but ashes to remember it. Once again the night is cold but sometimes the fire was more destructive than warmth bringing anyway. Sometimes the fire would burn down too much or even burn the drifter or their partner and the drifter would be left resenting even making it. Everything would be okay though because the drifter would simply leave and forget it ever happened. However, even if the drifter couldn’t forget, perhaps the burn marks left on their skin was a constant reminder of what occurred; it would only cause the drifter to make sure to never build a fire that big again. They would go on to contain it and make sure it never got out of hand. It is this image of fire that a drifter applies its thoughts about love to.

A settler would be very different. They would have long relationships that spanned over years. Within those bonded years, the settler would already find their self anticipating a marriage date. They knew even when they met the person that the relationship would last. A settler’s sense of love is ice. It takes time to freeze, but when it dose �" it stays in place and doesn’t move. The ice is hard to break and can last forever if wanted. The thing about living in a cold night is that there is never a fear of it suddenly becoming warm. A settler would always be thankful for making it as it never strayed from its place. However, even if the settler suddenly started to see the ice thaw, perhaps for some reason a warm day did occur; it would only cause the settler to make sure to take the ice somewhere colder. They would go on to freeze it further and make sure it never went away. It is this image of ice that a settler applies its thoughts about love to.

So in this world, most people are either a drifter or a settler. Could it be safe to wonder if a settler could one day become a drifter or if a drifter could one day become a settler? Is it possible for them to suddenly switch worlds? I don’t know what to say to that but I can answer this. On a few occasions in life, a drifter will find itself jealous of the settlers and wanting to be more like them, as a settler would some days wonder what its life would have been like if it was more like a drifter. This is because there are pros and cons to any lifestyle, a list of good aspects along with a list of bad. Once someone has experienced both the pros and cons of one thing, they look at the pros of another thing without really knowing what the cons are. Perhaps a few samples of that way of life will suffice enough to control their curiosity, but whether or not this is provocation enough to cause them to cross to the other side completely is beyond me. Furthermore, is it possible to be a settler with a few drifter qualities and vice versa? I have no idea.

From an evolutionary standpoint, I guess the world needs them both. In ancient times, the settlers would stay in one area and further progress it as a society. They would build and establish and reproduce until a community and city were blooming. The drifters would go out and find new lands, locate new resources, and spread culture and therefore knowledge. In this primal scope of things, the idea makes more sense.

All I can say is at the moment I was a drifter required to live a settler life because of ties to my family. The stagnated lifestyle forced upon me would not hold me much longer and certainly not keep me from leaving my hometown of Cantey with its rural pleasures and then traveling fifteen minutes to the town next door, Woodbridge, to find a job. It would be here where nobody knew my name that I could be the stranger who had yet to form a lingering impression in one’s mind. I could be the visitor that I had always dreamed of. Of course, this was just a temporary stop until I could leave home and move on to better things sometime in the future. It would be then that my name, Anna Cohen, would be just a leaf floating around the air and moving with all the other leaves, not a name that would conjure up an image of a face in someone’s mind along with a lifetime of memories. 

 

I shall describe the terrain of the place that I had come to find as sanctuary from home. Woodbridge was located in Finch County, North Carolina. It was precisely forty minutes from the city of Asheville. The vicinity of Woodbridge itself was cradled near the Blue Ridge Mountains; from a mountain top, their rolling hills could be seen in the background as dark blue and then moving out further into fog and mist as the pale blue peaks endlessly progressed outward into the skyline. The proximity of the mountains caused the area to be filled with hills and winding roads with incline in many regions. A person accustomed to walking a flat landscape would quickly find their self outmatched by something as simple as a driveway. Vegetation was lush and plentiful among the slopes as it garnished the forest area. Trees climbed upward on hills like a crowd of people sitting on bleachers and most popular among them were pines, oaks, and spruce. Since it was summer, leaves hung up in the trees polished like emerald jewels. A southern breeze shook them restlessly and they shivered in the hot sun. It was over the valleys that one could see the sun shine down intensely over the trees and also the cool shade swim across when clouds suddenly moved in. It was a way of life to be in the mountains and the locals took pride in it as they breathed the thin, cool air.  

Also featured in Woodbridge was the crossing of the Dessin River. It was named from some historical figure’s last name but I found it pleasing to know that it was also a French word that served to mean a drawing, image, or picture. I had the word spoken to me only once by a foreigner from the likewise near river territory of Montélimar in France. He was traveling with his bilingually English speaking daughter upward through the leg of North Carolina that is tucked between South Carolina and Tennessee. The word “dessin” served to mean design in the context he used it in, all according to the translation provided by his daughter. It is this thought that has followed me because the Dessin River, quite similarly, drew its self around the landscape and stood out on the topography as some sort of weaving design. Its passages narrowed in places where the woods huddled around it as some sort of protective barrier; there the distance appeared to be only six feet from bank to bank. In other places, the river widened and offered its true deep glory as people gathered around it and drove their boats down its placid waters. Perhaps the width in these areas was close to fifty feet. Eventually, the river came to an end in Woodbridge and emptied out its currents into Lake Porter.

Lake Porter was a big, deep lake that served as a local hot spot. People wanted their houses near the inspiring feature so they could have docks and go fishing and boat riding.  Because of this need for scenic residency, one side of the lake (the west side) is completely surrounded by personal homes on a road called Harper Grove Avenue. Some of the people there were slightly pretentious, feeling superior because of their location and their ownership of ostentatious material items and speedboats. Others located there were more down to earth, simply enjoying life by fishing serenely along the lake or spending time with their family on a pontoon. Also on the west side of Lake Porter but further north so that it was on Wilson Street, was the Westport Complex. It was a gathering of apartment buildings that housed all kinds of people but offered a special deal to employees of the recreational park because of the owner’s connections to the park and also the proximity. Located on the northeast side of Lake Porter was the park with its offices. From this position, the park was also near the Dessin River. Further down south but on the east side of the lake was camp grounds for visitors where they could bring their trailers, RVs, and campers and access the lake. Finally, southeast and south of Lake Porter was nothing but forest area thick and uninhabited and also a highway that led out of Woodbridge if gone down one way but further into Woodbridge if gone up the other way.

Fortunately, thanks to all the beautiful surroundings �" Woodbridge Park had a lot to offer its visitors. There was a gift shop that sold historical goods relating to Cherokee Indians and hillbilly mountain men, along with all kinds of miscellaneous items. There was a restaurant called Country Kitchen that cooked up old fashion Southern food for tourists and locals. There were hiking trails for athletic sorts, biking trails for the adventurous kind, and horse back riding trails for like minded people. River rafting, kayaking, and canoeing were offered down Dessin River for a few miles before stopping at a lodge that severed as the ending point and had a shuttle bus ready to take riders back. Further on past that lodge was Camp Woody territory, a church motivated camp for youth and adults alike that had nothing to deal with Woodbridge Park. Every summer, the camp was visited by guests who stayed in the cabins for a couple weeks and engaged in Christian inspired activities before going back home for the year.  Continuing with the park, the lake itself offered an abundance of possible things to do. From swimming, to boat riding, water skiing, inner tubing, to fishing, the options were limitless as the lake waters dazzled in the sunshine. Further on were the campgrounds that were also apart of the park. Near them and their marked spots to set camp were an essential items store, an arcade, and a dance hall. All this together made Woodbridge Park seem like an outdoors man’s utopia. It was nature’s paradise.

Another breed of people who also enjoyed and derived a sense of fulfillment from the vivid scenery was the artists; or at least a person with an artistic eye. They would come at different times of the day and the year and notice how one setting could change and become a whole another place altogether just by visual approximation. It was indeed an impressionist’s way of perceiving things; to see how light affects color and atmosphere. I found myself many times sitting on the dock at sunset. I would gaze out and watch the waters of the lake tremble under the bold colors of the setting sun in the horizon. It appeared to almost be painted, each wave a different color as light glittered off of them. They eventually rolled in and hit the sandy dunes with their low punches - the waves always presenting to be a touch and go tidal mistress. Then came the blanket of night and so the fluorescent light poles lit up and shined a warm orange into the darkness. Such an inviting color orange is; it’s hardly my favorite hue but the friendly and social implications the color gives off are quite striking. The water now appeared black under a black sky and to a weak eye; there was no line to distinguish them. I sauntered out into the now cooler waters and let the soft sand bed graze my feet. I was greeted by a lingering marine scent that wafted through the wind and filtered through the trees as pine overpowered it once among the foliage. I knew then that I was meant to taste the world and observe its crannies but never claim them to be my own. No home could be my own when there was more to be touched. In a world where I have nothing �" I have everything, and that was potent enough logic for me.

 

I was hired at the park initially as a waitress at the restaurant spoken of before called The Country Kitchen. It was a cabin like building with giant thick logs stacked on top of each other as walls. The massive bay windows overlooked the lake and therefore; I never once had a trapped feeling or claustrophobia panging in my chest from being inside the building. I actually received comfort from the constant bustle of the job. The hum and drum of labor was a feeling I had never previously crossed and to me, it was practically the closest thing I had achieved to having a purpose. The many faces in and out were always sitting; always eating. Perpetual orders made and scribbled down, rushed off, cooked, and then returned on a plate. I also admired the white china and shiny silverware, clean out of the dishwasher and then muddied yet again. Even the aromas had a tantalizing effect on me as orders were rushed to table to table with the food hot and ready. But what made me feel the greatest about working there was the sounds. Yes, it was the noise and buzz of the restaurant running that made me feel the most useful of all. The sounds of people chatting, glasses clanking and being filled by a pitcher of sweet tea, forks grinding against a plate, people walking around in a hurried but professional manner, the doors opening and closing to the kitchen, the stove cooking away and grease sizzling, the hot water rushing from the sink as the dishwasher started his pile, the cash register pinging open and being shut closed after checkout, the hostess smiling and greeting a party of five and leading them to an isolated table near the window �" these were the sounds that became my muse.

“Like it here, Anna?” The manager asked me as she handed me my first paycheck. She was a plump woman but the kind of plump that gives off the impression of jovialness. She had big, pink cheeks that rose and tightened whenever she smiled or laughed and she had curly blond hair that bounced around her shoulders every time she moved. The most charming aspect about her though was that her Southern accent was so much thicker than anyone I had ever met. She spoke with a slow twang and pronounced the “i” sound in words like “white”, “ice”, “right”, and “try” with a drawn out lingering affect that seems to be common among rural North Carolinians. In all counts, she was a great manager and loved to joke around with guests. However, she was only the manager of the restaurant �" the manager of the park itself had more power than her and on many occasions we were reminded of that. “I love it here, Mrs. Bonnie.” I replied, possibly going further with the sentiment than what was truth but nonetheless, I appreciated the experience excessively.  She beamed at me, warmed by my approval of the establishment and the work. I could see the pinkish pigment rise in her cheeks and she thanked me and waved me good bye.

I really did believe that the Country Kitchen was my first moment of feeling like I had something close to a purpose. Earlier, when I was graduating high school, I wondered what was waiting ahead for me. A lot of my friends were going off to college. They were spending the summer buying items off a checklist and packing their bags to take to their new dorms. They all were going to leave home and leave their childhood bedrooms bare while mine was still occupied. Such promises and beautiful moments lied ahead for them �" they would meet new people and get acquainted to their roommate, scrounge to buy expensive as hell textbooks, rush off to their large classrooms filled to the brim with a hundred students, dine in a massive banquet hall where voices would mingle into one stentorian roar, and find themselves walking in on a Greek party or two. Yes, the education and the expenses would be a responsibility to consider but underneath it all, everyone knows that it would be a moment of independence and freedom that would make any previous memory of excitement pale in comparison to. It would be the greatest moments of their lives and even if it wasn’t, at least they would have four or more years of having a purpose ahead of them.

Unlike me, they didn’t have to wake up in the morning wondering if there was any point in getting up. At this point, the only things that I had to look forward to were work, marriage, children, and death. It was a bleak fog laying a head of me; a puzzlement on whether or not any human being truly has a reason from one day to the next. That’s why I needed this idea of destiny to work in my favor; otherwise I was truly in a prison created by my own mind and disappointments. I wanted to be somewhere on a campus, book sack across my back and a sly smile across my lips as I knew that I was in the heat of my youth and could conquer anything. There would be no such thing as a mundane day �" everyday would be an adventure. It is this image that burned in my mind as I glanced at the opened acceptance letters from different colleges and universities sitting on my dresser. The problem wasn’t that I hadn’t applied to them; no I had applied early and had already received a few scholarships to aid me at what ever school I may have chosen. I was a great student in high school, an academic puma asserting control and preciseness over every matter. Studying was a task for weaker souls, but for me it was unnecessary. I knew what I was doing.

The sight of those letters caused a lump in my throat. I was stuck here, abysmally I may add. My parents needed my paycheck, in fact, I knew as Mrs. Bonnie handed it to me that it was going towards groceries when I got home. I didn’t begrudge them and I didn’t blame them. I just waited and hoped destiny would have a position for me where my future was attainable. I needed this job; it was my reason for the time being. My days surrounded working here and nothing else.

The paycheck felt nice in my hand as I began heading out of the building in my sweaty uniform to make my way home. I stepped outside into the warm twilight and could see the outline of the dim blue sky tucked behind the silhouettes of trees appearing black in the darkness. I paused for a moment on the sidewalk to get one more look at Lake Porter before I had to return home to Cantey. My feet felt sore against the asphalt after a long day of work but I still couldn’t bring myself to rush home and relax yet. The only thing waiting for me there was sleep and I feared that a person my age shouldn’t go to bed before midnight. It would be depressing. A couple more waitresses appeared out of the double doors unpinning their hair and walking to their parked cars. They motioned past me wordless with personal matters of their own filling their thoughts. I continued to gaze at the lake and the pale white sheen that splayed across the body from the moonlight.

 It was then that I smelled it; the unique scent of a lit cigarette. Smoke curled past me and faded out with the wind. I turned to see the dark figure of a man leaning against the restaurant wall. His body and face was hidden in shadow but I could make out that he was wearing a hat of some sort and that he was tall; at least six feet but no more than six feet and four inches. The lit end of his cigarette was a brilliant orange and served as the only light prevailing from him. I wondered if he was another coworker or maybe a customer just leaving and getting a needed drag after his meal. Perhaps questioning him was too forward but I rather have an idea of who someone is when it’s just me and them standing in an abandoned area. “Hello.” I said shyly, not knowing how to approach such a conversation when the ultimate goal is ‘who the hell are you and are you dangerous?’ Maybe talking to a dangerous person would be not the best course of action but it was too late now, I was stuck in the greeting process and had to carry through with it. “Hello there.” He replied and blew out a gust of smoke. A moment past of still silence while he sucked in another inhale from his cigarette and gazed at Lake Porter as I searched him up and down. His face refocused on me and then he blew out another cloud that floated up and tingled my nose. Suddenly, he stepped out of the shadows and came to stand next to me under the lamp light. I don’t know why, but the action of him moving and coming closer didn’t frighten me, even though it possessed the quality that a hunter would have when seizing their prey.

We were still in dim surroundings, but I could now make out his facial features and clothes. He was wearing an ebony fedora on his head and he had thin black, wavy hair that was cut into a Caesar style across his forehead. He had thick eyebrows that suggested manhood, not boyhood, and full lips that were a washed out red color. His figure was lanky but strangely he possessed muscular arms that were solid like tree branches. I glimpsed at the cigarette tenderly held between his index finger and middle finger and noticed that his fingers and hands were slender and feminine like a woman’s. If there hadn’t been hair growing down the back of his hands, I would have sworn that they belonged to a young and indulgingly fragile girl. I held the opinion to myself because everything else about him screamed grown man. Besides, what captivated me the most about him wasn’t that; it was his eyes. They were the color of warm mahogany wood and they were bright and bold as they studied me. A daring expression formed the features of his face. He also had long eyelashes coming off his lids and a flutter of jealousy hit me that his lashes were more enticing and gorgeous than mine. His clothes were new but wrinkled as if he didn’t care for their appearance. I should have felt fear but I still didn’t.    

“What are you doing here? We just closed.” I asked.

“I’m waiting on someone.” He answered and his voice was smooth and refined. It was the voice of a man who knew how to use it to get what he wanted.

“Is it someone that works here? Everyone just left.” I explained and then noticed that my car was the only vehicle left in the parking lot. He shook his head no and then dropped his cigarette on the ground and scrapped it with his foot to put it out.

“How old are you?” He asked as his gaze fixed back on me. His voice was still well sculpted, his accent of no particular area but just of a man who knew the taste of pleasure.   

“Eighteen.” I bluntly answered and I watched as his eyes darted towards the lake again and his expression changed into one of no emotion.

“Go home.” He replied softly, not cruelly, and then started to walk away; his figure once again disappearing into the dark. The night felt heavy as I stood on the sidewalk; I tried to maintain a certain degree of apathy in me so that my mind wouldn’t get invested but I thought the entire experience to be odd and unexplained. I decided there was no use in wondering about it so I turned away. I got in my car and began the all too short drive back to my house; my paycheck still vital in my clutch. It was difficult to get my thoughts to return into the state they had been in before because the event was still peculiar enough to gather my interest, so I inevitably kept an eye out for him as I drove out of the park. It was at the front gate leaving the park itself that I saw the man again. He was walking into the front office with the manager of the entire park letting him in. I didn’t know what he was doing and I wanted to remain indifferent to his actions just in case I never saw him again. Maybe he was renting a spot at the campsite, who knows and who cares.