South Carolina is even emptier than Tennessee. Sometimes I ride for an entire day without seeing much more than a truck stop. I’m growing accustomed to distance. My naïve notion of distance as I planned my route on the roof in Detroit is laughable. The coast of South Carolina is ridiculously far from land-locked Detroit.
The nights are getting warmer. I spend most of them outside. I found a tent in the same store in which I found the bicycle and have gotten pretty good at setting it up. The darkness is less of a problem these days. After weeks and months of being alone, my childish fears are getting left behind. Or maybe it’s because, in all this solitude, I’m feeling closer and closer to you.
I still don’t know who you are. Or evenifyou are. I wonder sometimes if you’re some sort of fever dream. Or maybe I’m lying in a hospital bed and thisisthe dream. Wouldn’tthat be a hoot, if I was really just in a coma. And even funnier because being in a coma is sort of my best case scenario these days. I don’t think so, though. I talk to you as I ride my bike past subdivisions and empty fields. You don’t answer me. I’m not taking it personally. What purpose would it serve to be angry at you? Might just as well start yelling at a bar of soap.
Riding through the Sumter National Forest, I come upon a herd of deer grazing along the highway. I get off my bike and stand silently on the pine needles. I watch the deer until they wander into the forest and disappear. A few nights ago as I camped near a small river, I heard an owl. These noises are becoming the soundtrack of my odyssey. It’s much better than the sound of nothing.
Columbia, South Carolina sprouts out of the hilly soil miles ahead of the city. I’ve begun to learn the signs of an approaching major city. Small pockets of chain restaurants and discount motels appear after being announced on billboards several miles ahead. Then it’s hospitals or small airports or golf courses, and then the highway widens and I spot the city skyline in the distance. None of the cities I’ve passed have impressive skylines, most of them just clusters of office towers huddled together as if they’re cold or lonely.
I straddle my bike against the guardrail of I-26 overlooking Columbia. This is the last major mile marker on the way to Charleston. Three days left, if my new sense of distance holds true. It’ll be the end of the trip. For the past few days, my mind has started to venture into uncharted territory. What next? When the trip’s done, I’ll have to do something else.Doing is what’s kept me occupied. Being done is a scary prospect.
“I could just keep moving. Follow the coastline around Florida, over to Texas. Maybe head to California.”
Eventually, though, I’ll have to stop moving. There’s only so far I can go. What comes next, well, I’ll figure it out. I left Detroit to find the ocean. Whatever waits for me there is what comes next.
I’ve depleted my resources and need to resupply. And I need to do it while the sun is still high. Even with my bike, I won’t make it all the way through Columbia by nightfall. I scan the silent buildings that line the interstate. Mostly office buildings by the looks of it. I’ve had some success scavenging offices. Most have vending machines in their break rooms and, depending on how recently they’d been restocked, I’ve occasionally found Chex Mix or Oreos. But offices are never sure things. I passed a gaggle of shops and motels a mile or so back. I consider backtracking.
“There’s still time to go back there if nothing better shows up.”
In truth, I’m bored of the same stores and motels. I’ve holed up in so many Hampton Inns and Super 8’s that I feel like a traveling salesman. I kick-start my bike and sail deeper into Columbia.
I haven’t hit any traffic jams since Cincinnati. From time to time, I’ve come across a car that’s been abandoned by the side of the highway, and sometimes the parking lots of hospitals are full, but the horror show I saw in Ohio seems to be an isolated incident. I’m grateful. No, more than that. I’mdesperately grateful. My dreams continue to have a field day with those images. I tried my best not to look into the cars on the roads and on the bridges, but every so often I’ll catch a glimpse of some contorted, distorted body which my brain makes sure to scoop up and drop into my lap. In my dreams, the bodies sometimes wake up. Sometimes they talk to me. Their bottom jaws don’t work very well, and they often fall off in mid-sentence. I wake up screaming or crying or both. One particularly bad night, I wet the bed. But that wasn’t the worst mess I found in that Super 8.
The map shows I-26 skirting Columbia to the west, crossing over the Saluda River and then winding slowly but ever-so surely to Charleston. The coast. I have no intention of heading into Columbia, and have no reason to do so. But I do need to find supplies.
There’s a sign advertising something called the Saluda Galleria. I pull off the highway. Dodge some abandoned construction barrels and pedal into the mall parking lot. Glance up at the enormous unlit sign beside the entrance. Hardware stores, sporting goods, clothes, restaurants. Even a Bed, Bath and Beyond. I haven’t yet pillaged a mall on my trip. Hell, I haven’tbeen to a mall since before my family left Flint. We bought our clothes at thrift stores in Detroit, whenever we actually bought clothes.
I can’t tell which door is the entrance. It seems like there are a dozen choices. I ride up to a line of a half-dozen glass doors between a TGI Friday’s and Applebee’s. I prop my bike against a garbage can and start pulling on door handles.
The mall is locked up tight. I press my face against the glass. It’s bright inside, almost as if the lights are on. Skylights maybe, or a generator that’s still running. I consider riding around the mall looking for an open door. It’s a huge building. Nah. Plan B.
The sound of shattering glass has always made me feel a combination of terror and exhilaration. A broken milk glass, a baseball through a window, the dancing clang is like a warning bell. The garbage can lid I toss through the glass door makes an awesome noise. I half expect someone to come running. Nope. Just in case you were wondering, no one ever comes running anymore.
I kick out the rest of the door glass and carry my bike into the mall. I’m careful to avoid the broken glass on the ground. I’ve already had to change one flat tire.
A long, wide hallway leads toward a brightly lit central atrium. Enormous pots line the atrium. The plants inside are dry and dead. The stores are all gated. Metal grates cover their entrances. I walk my bike past jewelry stores and hip clothing stores, the kind Grace liked, all of which are locked tight. The mall is beginning to look like a dead end. I’m about to turn around and cut my losses when I find the mother lode.
I recognize Heusten’s from their TV commercials, back when we had a TV. The store has been around forever, and its claim to fame was that you could buy anything you needed in one place. A lot of other stores did that better, of course, but Heusten’s was the first.
“For your house, for your yard, you don’t have to look real hard.” The jingle is permanently etched into my brain. And I can’t help myself, I have to finish with the final, “Heu-sten’s.”
Heusten’s entrance has a similar metal gate as the other stores, but this one has only been partially closed. Climb on my bike and ride through the opening.
If I could’ve placed an order for the exact place I needed to find, it would’ve been this store. I’m in awe of the rows and rows of stuff. Camping supplies and patio furniture are on display to the left, clothes and shoes on my right. And straight ahead, food.
I comb the aisles. I’ve gotten good at this. Pick up only what I can carry. Non-perishable food. Fresh batteries. A change of clothes. Clean underwear and socks. The last two are crucial. It’s been quite a while since I showered in the waterfall. Changing underwear and socks regularly gives me the ability to keep moving. Rashes and blisters are the enemy.
Heusten’s is cavernous, extending from the entrance inside the mall all the way to another entrance that leads outside. The light from the skylights in the mall provides more than enough light to see. Find my necessities and gather them together in a pile beside a display of mattresses. The
bedding department is the ideal place to spend the night. In the morning, I’ll make myself an awesome breakfast.
I open a package of sheets and a comforter and make up one of the mattresses. Fresh sheets. Who knew such little things could made me so happy?
Make some dinner as the sun goes down. I light a small camping stove and have my first hot meal in a long time. Beans and canned meat. The warmth in my stomach is welcome and surprising. I light an LED camping lantern and lay in bed reading one of the trashy books I found near the cash registers.
Wake up with a start. The lantern is still blazing. It’s dark around me, beyond the range of the light, still night. The lantern casts a good glow.
I see the eyes first. They hang disembodied in the shadows. A low growl. The sound is deep.
The cat is enormous. Huge paws, muscular body. Its head hangs low and its rear haunches tense. As it circles the perimeter of the light, I see that it’s a cougar. The animal makes a low rumble in its throat. It’s hungry. The lamplight cuts deep shadows into the animal’s thin ribs.
A quick scan around my makeshift campsite. My leftover dinner lies discarded on the floor. Was that what attracted the cat? Or is it me? Fresh meat versus something second-hand? I watch the cougar circling. It’s still wary of humans. Whatever has brought it into the city, hunger or bravery or following prey, it still remembers how dangerous people are.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” I speak as calmly as I can, despite the fact that my heart is trying to leap out of my chest. I realize how ridiculous my statement is — I won’t be the one doing the hurting.
The cougar makes another low growl. It has now completely circled the camp. It has a lay of the land and has seen me from every angle. That means one thing.
As the cougar is circling me, I slowly but deliberately untangle myself from the bed sheets. I’m barefoot, and I’ve stripped down to a T-shirt and underwear to sleep. Getting comfortable has been a huge mistake.
Weigh my options. The cat is going to attack me. However it has gotten into the mall, through the broken door through which I’d entered or some other way, the cat has me cornered. I’ll never find my way around in the dark. My flashlight and the camping lantern are both on the floor. Even if I could reach them, I can’t outrun a cougar. And even if by some miracle Idid manage to get past the cat, find my way through Heusten’s and then through the winding turns of the mall without getting torn to shreds, I won’t get far outside in the dark outside, barefoot and half-naked.
That pisses me off. The image of me running into the night like I’ve just fled a house fire, it’s unacceptable. I haven’t come this far to run away. I found this mall. I broke the window. And damned if some oversized house cat is going to take it from me.
The cat senses the change in me. It stops pacing and sniffs the air. The tone of its growl changes.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” I mean it, too. Barefoot or not, I’m ready to fight.
I look around the perimeter of my makeshift campsite. The mattresses and bedding are next to several aisles of women’s clothes. Beyond that is the toy department, and way on the other side of the store is sporting goods. I’m a long way from anything useful. If try to run, the cougar will be on top of me in a second.
The cougar’s hesitation has passed. Its head is low to the ground, its haunches tense. It’s about to strike. I reach for the pillow beside me. Don’t take my eyes off the cat. The cougar and I stare each other down.
It leaps. The cougar is remarkably fast. I barely get out of the way. I throw the pillow and roll off the bed. The cat’s massive claws tear the pillow to shreds. I land on the floor beside the mattress. The cat is distracted. Pieces of sponge from the pillow fly like snow. Get to my feet and sprint the three yards to my backpack. I feel the cat before I see it. The smell of its breath is rank. The cat leaps through the air again, and I swing the strap of my backpack as hard as I can. The pack is full and heavy, and it makes a solid THUNK as it connects with the cougar.
The animal cries out and drops heavily out of the air. I’ve hit it in the leg, and the cat is limping. It makes a low, angry growl and hobbles away into the blackness beyond.
“I didn’t want to hurt you! I told you that!”
I’ve never hurt an animal. I’ve never hurt anything. I’m the one who raised a fit whenever anyone killed a spider. I was so persistent about it that my family routinely carried spiders outside rather than squash them underfoot. The cougar is wounded. I’ve wounded it. A part of me contemplates taking the lantern and finding the injured animal. What exactly I’lldo once I find it, that part of the plan is fuzzy. An angry, injured cougar? Yeah, that won’t end well.
Another part of my mind makes the decision to wait out the night. I have no idea what time it is. Daylight makes telling time a lot easier. At night, it’s just endless. But I can’t go back to sleep. Aside from the adrenaline flowing through my body, I now know there’s a cougar in the store. Whatelse is out there? I remember the bears I saw in Cincinnati. The mall is dark. The city is dark. If a cougar feels safe enough to come into the mall, what else is waiting in the shadows?
I grab the lantern and my backpack and inch my way out of the campsite. There’s an office I passed, an employee break room, located at the back corner of the store behind the sporting goods section. It has a door and it’ll afford me some protection. I sling the backpack over my shoulder. I pick up an aluminum baseball bat as I pass through the sporting goods section.
The break room door is unlocked and I slip inside. The room is small but appears to have only one door. I set the lantern down on one of the folding tables and then sit down heavily in a nearby chair.
As the adrenaline leaves my body, I feel weak and heavy. I’m crying without realizing it. Tears pour out of me, accompanied by wracking sobs. It feels like my entire emotional repertoire is exploding out of my body at once. I’m crying for the cougar, for my fear, my family and for me. My tears and sobs feel like they’re never going to end. When they do, I’m drained and exhausted. Despite my best efforts, I curl up on the folding table beside the lantern and fall asleep.
When I wake up, light is leaking through the bottom of the break room door. As with most mornings, I need a moment to remember where I am.
I climb off the table and pick up my things. Slowly, gingerly, I open the door. There’s nothing waiting for me except an empty department store. I pad barefoot back to the campsite. I get dressed, pick up a new pair of running shoes, and then wheel my bike out of the mall and back onto the highway.
JUNE
Charleston, South Carolina
The sand between my bare toes is like stepping into a warm bath. The tiny grains are soft and smooth and so densely packed as to be almost liquid themselves. The crash of the waves is a lullaby. Up and down the empty beach, the gentle surf advances and retreats. It laps at the beach like a kitten drinking a bowl of milk.
The heat has become desperate over the past few days. I’ve stopped keeping track of time. “A few” is as precise as I get now. The heat slowed down the final leg of my trip. By the time the sun rose high in the sky, it was impossible to keep riding. All I could do was find some shade and wait until the heat receded toward dusk. I still didn’t travel at night, although that probably would’ve made more sense. The cougar scared me. I wanted as much light as possible to see what was around.
It was the most frustrating part of the journey. I was so close, so infuriatingly close, but losing the bulk of the day’s travel time made the whole thing excruciating.
The beach, though, it makes everything better. The constant wind cools my skin and the hypnotic sound of the waves cools my mind. My bike and supplies lie abandoned behind me. I simply stand in the warm sand.
I stay the first couple of nights in a small motel beside the beach. The waves are constant and through their permanence I devour sleep. My body and my soul are both ragged. There’s a hole that opens between a journey and a journey’s end. It�
�s a strange hollowness where you’re neither here nor there. A breath between verses. My travels are over and I’m therefore no longer a traveler. But I have yet to arrive.
Over the next days, I explore Charleston on foot. Moving around, even if it’s just getting the lay of the land, helps eliminate my compulsion to move on. And move on to where? Keep riding my bike around the country? I have my plan. That’s been the point of the whole trip. My wanderlust frustrates me.
Charleston doesn’t look like any other town through which I’ve passed. Of course I ran the gauntlet of chain restaurants and nondescript offices along the city’s northern perimeter, but the town itself is unique. It looks perfectly at home in any of those deep Southern vampire love stories I used to read. Many of the buildings have ornate columns that seem to have no real purpose besides looking pretty. There are iron gates and lush gardens and most importantly, palm trees. I discover neighborhoods with normal-looking houses, but the most interesting are the colorful ones. Houses painted red and pink and blue and yellow, it’s like opening a box of crayons. In the southern part of the city, where the most interesting houses are, a tall church steeple rises like a beacon. Even before I get within two blocks of it, though, I smell death. I’ve smelled it throughout Charleston, of course. People are still rotting, even now. The heat isn’t helping. But the church, it’s downright rancid.
I wander east and find myself again beside water. Walk through a marina, past boats still covered for the winter, and sit on the edge of a pier. In the distance, the twin peaks of the Copper River Bridge reflect the sunlight.
I take off my shoes and socks and dangle my bare feet in the water. I suppose I’ve found paradise. Sun, water, palm trees. But I’ve also found a great big question mark.
“What do I do now?”
I knew I was coming to the ocean as a way to begin. But to begin what? The purpose of my journey was to end the journey — to travel the distance and to get there. I’ve gotten there. And waiting for me here are some very meaty questions.
The First Year Page 7
