Road Trips—In
Literature
Literature offers a plethora of road trip stories such as
the one Beowulf takes with his buds to save Geatland and earn honor. Homer’s “Odyssey”
is the great-grandparent of all road trips. (If you haven’t read Margaret
Atwood’s “Penelopiad” (“The Odyssey” from Penelope’s point-of-view), you
should. No one yet has taken up my story-telling challenge, so I am offering up
another story in the context of the previous blog posting, How
to Read “Beowulf.”
Road Trips—My Story
Back in the waning days of undergraduate school at LSU in the late
1970’s, I shared an apartment in Baton Rouge with two roommates. Our “friendkind”
consisted of a loosely-knit group—non-trad college students, fast food workers,
day laborers--just trying to get by. Its composition ebbed and flowed,
depending on the weather and the moon.
Late one Wednesday, my roommates and I were working on a
project due soon when a party materialized at our door. They informed us that
Buddy had recently met a chambermaid who worked at the Alamo Plaza in Biloxi.
Her day off was Thursday. A road trip to Biloxi was happening tomorrow so Buddy
could get to know his new acquaintance better. Departure time was late
afternoon so those with classes or day work could put in their day. Return time
was very early Friday morning so those with classes or day work could put in
their day.
Thursday afternoon we made the two-plus hour drive to Biloxi.
Buddy met up with his girl. The rest of us hung out on the beach, drinking
beer, eating shrimp, lolling about. Buddy and his girl got one room to
themselves. She could only swing one room for the rest of us. That night, as we
sorted out who would sleep in beds, in chairs, on the floor, in the bathtub, we
heard a thumping and whimpering from the room next door—and it wasn’t a radio
playing the blues. We decided to go as a group to investigate.
A disheveled fellow answered our knock. “You got a party going
on over here?” we asked.
Uncertainly the fellow replied, “Yeah, we having a party.”
“Well, we’re having a party, too,” someone piped up. “We
should all party together.” As we pushed into the room, I recognized the
whimperer as a girl I went to high school with, Thea. As we milled about their
room, I discreetly asked, “Are you OK?”
“No, I’m not OK,” she said quietly.
We put a plan in motion. One of our group just happened to
have some “pain killers,” which someone managed to administer to Thea’s male
companion. It did not take long before he was feeling no pain. We agreed that
the guys would sleep in their room, and the girls, with Thea, would sleep in
ours. No one had to sleep in the bathtub, after all.
Friday morning, we headed out a little earlier than planned,
taking Thea with us and the coil to their car. As we approached Slidell, we
realized that we had forgotten Buddy at the Alamo Plaza.
“Buddy’ll find his way home,” someone shrugged.
In Baton Rouge, we dropped Thea at her parents’ house.
Later, I called her mother, who told me that they had sent Thea to Arizona to
stay with an aunt. It was the only time I have ever heard of a girl going to
“stay with an aunt” when she was not unwed and pregnant. I never received news
of Thea again.