THE LONG ROAD HOME
By Duncan
The road ahead is long, dark, and can be lonely.
Yes, the bright lights of Ybor City last night lifted my spirits. As I headed back home, it was time for me to join the crazies on the super slab.
It was 8:15 PM when Erik and I left the Irish Pub. His two-way was crackling with urgency and emotion; it was time for him to join the fray. He was like a dog on a leash that wanted to be free to run.
I’m sure there is a “10-something” for a young police officer who returns to work. In most places, 10-8 means "in service/available for assignment.”
Our dinner lasted about an hour, and it was over. Erik gave me a quick hug goodbye, and as I wrapped my arms around him, his protective vest was hard; my hands brushed his handcuffs, and my elbow scraped his service revolver. His protective gear separated us.
He smiled, jumped into his shiny patrol car, and took off down the street. I could see other flashing red and blue lights already on the scene. He loves his chosen path. Is it all about the chase? The emotion of the moment? I still worry.
I wound through the streets of Ybor City until I found the on-ramp to I-75. Once on the interstate, I had a thousand miles ahead of me. It was dark, and traffic was chaotic. I decided to go a few miles and look for a room for the night.
Headlights at night are a challenge. The newer cars have digital lights that blind me at night. My Mean Yellow is a 2007 model with light bulbs in the headlights. I strain to see the long and winding road ahead.
The glitter and invitation of flashing bar lights were gone. I had a ribbon of black asphalt as my reality. I needed a place to stay for the night. Tomorrow will be the beginning of the long road home.
In the darkness, I look for the tall signs advertising several motels waiting for late-night travelers. I pull into a parking lot. The outside looks clean, so let's talk to the night clerk.
“How may I be helping you?”
“Do you have a room available?
“How many?”
“Just me.”
“You have dog?”
“No, I don’t travel with a dog; it’s just me.”
“We have a no-smoking policy.”
“Terrific. I don’t smoke.”
“I offered my driver’s license and asked for the room rate.”
He takes a few seconds to look at his computer screens.
We have nice room for you, $109.00.
“Does that include tax and all charges?”
“It is “berry” nice room, jes, everything.”
I don’t normally look at the room before I say yes! I judge what I will get by the way the lobby looks. If it's clean and orderly, then odds are, the room will be okay.
Notice the lack of nightstand lights. One light bulb is in the center of the ceiling.
Notice the lack of a desk lamp.
Notice one light bulb in the center of the ceiling for light.
It didn’t matter; it was clean. All I wanted was to lie down and get a good night's sleep. As I looked around, I realized this was an old Red Roof Inn that had been remolded. It seems like a “minimalist” decor and is, I assume, easy to clean. If that makes this Quality Inn a few bucks a night, then more power to them.
The next morning was a little chilly, so I let the “Mean Yellow” warm up for a few minutes. Yes, this Quality Inn was an old Red Roof Inn. I noticed the signage over the front door. I tuned in my electronic key card to the front desk and grabbed an orange juice.
I also noticed the owner's car sitting outside the front door. It is a very high-end luxury vehicle. He engaged me at the front desk. Wanting to know if my room was satisfactory. I know he wanted me to say that it was a fabulous room. However, I could not give him the Gold Star he wanted. Neither was I going to complain. I thanked him for a comfortable and clean room for the night.
I parked my orange juice in my cup holder and headed for the interstate. I had a long way to go and a short time to get there. Reminds me of the Jerry Reed song in Smokie and the Bandits.
I’ve often been asked why I drive to Florida and not fly.
“It only takes a couple of hours to fly.”
Yes, I have been back and forth from Indianapolis to Florida several times on Allegiant Air Lines, and yes, it’s a two-hour and twelve-minute flight.
But look at it this way: I want to be “Shane.” I like my own company. I put my foot in the stirrup and mount my ride. I adjust my cowboy hat and mosey off into the sunset as I hear Joey’s refrains,
“Shane … Shane … SHANE.”
What you may not realize is … “Shane” rhymes with pain. There is a reason a man needs to ride the range by himself. Perhaps to clear my head, set new goals, different goals, adjust, weed out the negative, and replace them with the positive. Focus on why we are put on this planet.
I can push out the clutter of voices telling me what to think and what is important. There is no criticism, no radio, no social media, no politics, no one telling me what to think when I am on the road. Let me make the decisions. It’s my life, and I need the time alone to think.
DUNCAN
Sitting by the water is another way to evaluate my life. Years ago, I used to go to Tampa to visit Mr. Maynard. I would excuse myself for a day and walk the beach. I was working then, but I cherished that time alone when I was in Tampa. I would spend hours watching the waves move in and out on the beach, thinking it was the planet's heartbeat. Of course, the question is, will any tangible answers come to me while I sit and ponder?
Sitting in the “MeanYellow” for sixteen hours gives me time to think. Sure, the silence is broken by the signs that say you are leaving Florida or Atlanta ahead. Fasten your seat belt; the next hour will be a traffic challenge.
I pushed hard to get through Atlanta and beyond. I found myself in Franklin, Tennessee, just a few miles from Nashville. It was dark. I had to get off the road. I needed to get off my horse. I looked for a motel sign I could feel comfortable with.
The room was acceptable at $77.16. Next door was a Waffle House. I was in no mood to look for another restaurant in Franklin, Tennessee. So, I slipped into a booth and ordered my old standby. Two over easy, bacon, hash-browns, and toast.
The Waffle House always seems to have a young, pretty girl working as a waitress and a loud, poorly dressed younger guy who hasn’t had a haircut in a while trying to impress the young waitress with constant chatter. As I watch the other employees and the pretty young waitress ignore the guy, it seems he doesn’t get the hint.
This is where parents have failed the fine art of mentoring. I know this sounds elitist, and perhaps I’m guilty. But his “pick-up lines” are not working. As usual, he slithers out the door after a while. I finish my meal and head back to the motel.
This will be the last stop on my Florida Trip. I’m about five hours from the house. I need to make it through Nashville, which has become a major pain in the ass. The connecting road from I-75 to I-65 is Highway 24 through Nashville. As usual, it is an extreme traffic challenge.
The other hurdle for me is the Lousiville Bridge. Once I cross the Ohio River, I’ll be back in Indiana, which, at that point, means “HOME.”
I got through Nashville and decided I could use one more tank of gas. I was close to Elizabethtown, Kentucky. Years ago, on its last leg, my Oldsmobile couldn’t make it up the steep incline going south to Florida. The engine clunked out on me, and I had to spend the night in Elizabethtown. I called for help, and Bob Cheek came to my rescue. I decided to pull over and fill the tank for old time's sake.
As I filled the tank, I noticed a brand new White Castle across the street. I thought to myself.
‘When’s the last time I had a White Castle slider or two?’
So, I pulled into the parking lot and went inside to order. There was a crowd of people waiting in the lobby. I was trying to figure out if they had ordered and were waiting to order. I stood there for about ten minutes. I watched the young people behind the counter, overwhelmed by the number of people in the lobby and the crush of cars waiting outside the drive-through.
It was obvious that very young people were running the place. I stood there, looked around the restaurant, and tried to figure out how much money somebody had in this building. And the first figure that came to mind was … at least a million dollars for the building. Who knows if that includes the latest and greatest kitchen equipment?
I watched a young man standing behind the grill. How he handled the spatula and turned the burgers clearly indicated that it was his first day on the job. There is no reason to complain or get upset; I have just spent ten minutes realizing that stable employees who show up for work are one of fast food's biggest problems in Elizabethtown. I stood there and wondered where the shift manager was if there was one, and who was training these people, if anyone.
Amazingly, someone would put up a million-dollar building and then turn it over to young people who need more training or experience. So, this was a dose of reality for me on my trip home.
I turned and left the building without having lunch at The White Castle in Elizabethtown, Kentucky.
Well, this is the last story about my “Florida Trip.” I made it across the Louisville Bridge, knowing I would get a bill in the mail for a $5.00 toll. It’s one of my last expenses on this trip. Thanks for coming along.
