Pieces of Iowa Pt. II

Josh's house was down the street and a block away from the town's axis road. I pushed my bicycle into his garage while he took two bottles of beer from the fridge, passing one to me as I set the bicycle against the wall, and we went inside with them, wiling away into twilight with beers and wandering talk. I fell into asleep on the couch around midnight as the music stream flowed from the ebbing speakers, or Josh strummed on his reverberant guitar to a vast invisible undulating audience, me a member listening from my quiet kaleidoscope dreaminess. And upon sober early morning, I left a thanks note on the kitchen table and the town behind, into an off-white haze of fog and intermittent blankets of vapor rain falling, and to what would have been a bleak day.

After a couple miles down the Amish country road, a truck pulled into the shoulder ahead and stopped my riding. A man opened the door and stepped out from the truck-side into the haze. “Heard you got a little drunk last night,” he said with raised eyebrows and a grin, throwing me for a loop. A girl of her early twenties came from the passenger side, around the truck and stood next to her father, akimbo, “I'm Amanda,”. They knew Josh and asked if I wanted to hang around town a few more days for the weekend ride they had planned. “This town you're just leaving is actually a really big biking community,” she told me.

All I knew was I didn't want to ride in the rain, so without resolving any plans we put my bike into the truck bed, went to Amanda's dad's house and dropped it off. Then in the truck I was taken into Cedar Rapids where they were moving Amanda's sister Laura Lea's things into her new apartment. We hopped through town picking up some chairs, a table, a recliner. “Betcha didn't think you'd be doing this today,” as we lifted a round glass table out of the truck, “Needed somebody to help out. That's just why we picked y'up, you know.” Nothing they ever said was serious. Afterward off to a dim restaurant for dinner, them conversing in family sarcasms through an appetizers and meal. It was indeed a day of work, but was more comfortably spent than in suspense riding under threat of rain.

When we were back to Independence, Amanda and I rode on bikes through the fogged empty streets a couple of blocks from her dad's to her house. Her covered front deck space was lined by broad window panes, looking onto the lane. We took seats in the hanging canvas chairs, rocking forward and back as the dull, shadowy sky turned a deeper gray. The neighborhood was empty and quiet and calm with early evening stillness as we swayed, talking about what to do, which itself became something to do. A vapid, indecisive moment for the quiet contemplation of nothing, or passive hearing of the hushing sound of a raindrop mesh drifting over the wooden steps and grass carpet, all of it originating from the kind circumstance of Amanda's company.

Eventually we went across the lawn to the neighbor's garage. A bunch of guys were drinking inside. The place had been fashioned over time into a sort of beer den. They talked, sitting on extracted car seats up against the walls, and yellow light bulbs hanging on tethers from the ceiling like a makeshift lounge, amusing themselves with nothing in particular, delaying tomorrow. “Just a low-key night,” sipping, bottle in hand. They were friendly with a natural, unsullied, middle-western friendliness that would give to the end of giving, given a recipient in honest need. They were genuinely happy simply to be, if things would be maintained and remain undisturbed. After a while Amanda and I returned to her house over the damp dark lawn and went inside, sitting down before the television, the billowy recliner and alcohol-fog lulling me soon to sleep.

At waking, the television still flickered idly, but the room was empty and I sat watching cartoons awhile. Soon, though, I lost patience, scrawled another note, and took off under the new day's old gray sky, onto the two-lane highway stretch west to rumble along against the wind with fury, being pecked by raindrops. I donned my gray sweatshirt, pulling the hood up over my hat, and knotting hood-lace in a bow for warmth and shield against the wind and rain. A dark, bitter hour slowly turned by, schlepping away incrementally into the windy, rainy blaze. Miserably wet and cold, with no shelter, I kept telling myself it could be worse, but was relieved when a white pickup slowed down beside me, and through rolled-down window the driver yelled out, “Hey, are you wanting a ride?”

“Yes, please!” I said looking over through blurred squinting eyes, nodding and smiling. He pulled off ahead and helped me load my bike into the truck bed. I lifted the front end, he the back, and I pulled it in by the handlebars, laying it down. The shoulders of his polo and the front of his his khakis were shaded by the spatter of rain when we got into the truck.

“I figured this is no weather to be riding in,” he said, shaking his head. The seats were comfortable and warm. He shook my hand. His hair speckled gray, he looked the part of a burly blue collar who'd labored his way behind a desk. Then we took off, zipping on fast down the road. Seeing everything go by so quickly made me somewhat uneasy, so I mostly watched northward as the perpendicular plains passed in the window. The blanket of clouds' tattered edge broke against a thin sliver of blue, settled on the horizon like oil at the bottom of the watery sky. He went on a bit about where I was headed if I were going west, about Waterloo and then Fort Dodge where he'd be stopping.

We were flying down the road, 80 miles an hour, and he switched the conversation, “You find many kinky girls along the way?” I brushed his question off with a laugh. Then he threw me off, “How about any guys, then?”

I laughed again in hesitation, then,“What do you mean?”

“You know kinky guys trying to get with you. I only ask cause I get like that once in a while.”

The truck became a bit uncomfortable, “Uh, nope.”

“Would you ever?”

“I'm just into girls, really.”

“How about for fifty bucks? You know, I just want to rub it a little.”

My eyes were broad and staring down as the road continued by and, though chuckling avertedly, I grew a pinch nervous now and squeezed out a weak “No thanks.”

Wise to the tension he'd made he graciously wiped the slate clean, “Well just thought I'd ask. Gotta respect it, when somebody says 'no'. That should be that. It's just... a guy like that gets lonely out here,” trailing off. He couldn't call himself anything but 'a guy like that'. There was a shame in him. 'A guy like that' would get lonely in this part of the country, and while I was still uncomfortable I couldn't grudge him and actually grew a little sad for him behind a recomposed facade. He grew quiet and fading, and in his blank blue eyes staring ahead I saw his own sadness, his remorseful mourning from loneliness sadness.

He dropped me off shortly after, taking me a little past the town and away from the traffic, leaving me at a little park with a concrete table underneath a tree where I could keep partly out of the rain, and then he left. The rain soon slowed and ceased, but the pallid spread of clouds remained, keeping all in dull shadow, and the shriek of wind continued, howling against me throughout the day as I pedaled on to nowhere.

More pictures for you on Facebook Albums 1, 2, & 3. Just click on the numbers. Currently in Phoenix at my parents' house for a couple weeks of total meditative rest.

Pieces of Iowa Pt. I

And into Iowa, where the people are kind, open, sympathetic, and inviting all around. Just outside Cedar Rapids I, on a hot day, stopped at a highway corner and opened my map for finding the way forward. A lady in a van pulled slowly by, slowing and halting, and called out to me from her open window, “You need help? Know where ya are?” so I dismounted my bicycle on the shoulder and went over, map in hand. She showed me with her finger precisely how to get where I was going, passed on a cold liter root beer gift, and parted with farewells.

By these directions finding my way past the little towns surrounding, I came into Cedar Rapids, from the east, and got in contact with some people living here who I'd found through a travel network. All afternoon I rode through the big town's stretch of summer heat and construction, with shoulders all torn up and the street signs gone, trying by might to get to the outdoor shop on the west side where I'd get a new can of stove fuel, as mine was long ago empty. After finding this I retrod my long hectic path to arrive at these peoples' place in the late day. I had got good directions from them over the phone to the middle of town where they resided, but managed to make myself thoroughly lost anyway. Like I've said before, highway navigation is one thing, but cities are a different beast, especially Cedar Rapids in the disorienting swelter of summer. They charitably decided to come pick me up instead, finding and stopping lost, confused me as I was ignorantly pedaling into the north-of-town countryside.

Teresa was the mother of the house. She showed me into the room, where she said I could stay as long as I needed, and asked me if I'd want a shower or to eat first. Also met Joel, a kid in the upper years of high school. He was taking time off from everything in his preparation for upcoming travel to Israel with his brother, a medic in Afghanistan. Joel was reserved, but kind and easy to be around, and made a deliberate effort to host while I was around. Josiah, the little brother was around shortly, with his good mannered young charm. The father, Jerry, who had picked me up in their truck, wanted to hear all about the travels, and to tell how proud he was of the kids and their own adventures.

I got a quick shower and ate a late dinner at their table (mashed potatoes ribs, and veggies) being further introduced to the company. With a belly full and a plate finally emptied, one of Joel's friends came over and they wanted to smoke pipes. I was happy to join for a post-meal smoke. We went out all barefoot on asphalt with our pipes, tobacco, matches, and lighters to walk the streets in the yellow lamp lit dusk. We went into the neighborhood night, sharing all fashion of our traveling pasts, Joel telling of his times from beginning in Jordan, to the ancient mystic Petra, Israel and his brief stint in Paris in the end, with impromptu explorations and the chance fortunate acquaintances that travel necessarily introduces.

Next day was without much event, morning writing, then got out in the late afternoon, Joel treating me to a burrito, and then off to a bookstore for more writing and back for dinner. I'd gotten sunburned a couple of days before from riding with my shirt off too long in the unimpeded peak heat of summer solstice, so my back now looked like the swollen ripe inside of a watermelon, and all this rest time was greatly appreciated by me. That night it was back to the soft, quiet bed to sleep a long, dreamless, pristine sleep, meaning for morning departure being entirely rested and recomposed.

Awoke and had a breakfast, saying goodbye to everybody as they left off to their chores, except Teresa who was staying in for the day. I busied around the room gathering my things and tidying the bed. After getting my bags together, and pulling my bike to the living room to go, Teresa sat me down in the wooden chair for a final goodbye talk. She reclined beside me in a padded armchair with the yellow light from the lamp between us falling golden on her face. Noon light blazed behind from the patio's glass door, circling around her figure in a bright, radial, glowing blaze like Our Lady of Guadalupe as she squashes the serpent underfoot. She told me her story of a sullen, godless childhood and the revelations revealed to her in the time of need, imparting to me the root, the source, of all her eternal immortal joys, being all concerned about my afterlife, and reaching over to touch softly my arm as she discoursed. I took it all in quiet confidence, sitting enthralled, and listening about the myriad miracles, and angels, and tongues. When she'd finished the memoir she said to me, “Now I've fire-hosed you before you go on continuing your adventure.” I recognized the reverence in the story and was glad to hear, but in my mind I thought, “Am I the only one not so worried bout my soul?”

I thanked her for everything as she'd really given to me more deeply than I could ever have asked, and she said she was glad and hoped I had gained from it.

After a midsummer's ride north I was in Independence Iowa while a storm blew in, pattering rain falling down through the air, each bead refracting a late white sun against dark blue balloon clouds rolling from the east. A pickup truck pulled up by me while I was riding through a park looking to get out of the rains. A thin old guy smiling in its window, from a big wild beard, called out and motioned me over. He asked where I was from with a bike so packed and I told him my story in brief form. The building right by us was his repair shop, he said. He invited me in, pulled his truck around, lifted up the garage door from the entrance, and then he introduced himself to me as Hoskie. In this little town, home of all his life, he did tree trimming and stump removal, and all other various handyman tasks for all the folk. The side of his truck declared, “We get high legally!” in reference to the tree climbing.

“Like that? I thought it was a good one.” he laughed. I asked about the town and if he had any place to recommend for camping free since it was getting late. “If you're out on a ride and like to see interesting things, you know there's a whole clan of Amish people just north a-here, if you want to go out that way and make a quick stop for some sights.” I was interested and he said he could give a brief tour of the route to me via truck drive and then I'd know the way. He was incredibly amiable so I hopped in the passenger seat.

We pulled out along outside town dirt roads as the sun was lowering dangerously in the west meaning I'd have no time before full dark to ride here after the return drive. Throughout the drive Hoskie introduced me to the nuances of small town Independence life, talking about the locales we passed and inserting his dirty jokes and anecdotes from a bottomless supply. In courteous Midwestern manner, he'd lift up two fingers from the wheel to wave to every car going in the other lane.

He pulled out a menthol, lit it, and cranked his window down a crack. “Hafta watch for cops round here. They really got a stick in their ass, but I've gotten away with some crazy stuff. Oh, now here's a story for ya: I got drunk once and saw the chief's car was unlocked, so, naturally, I decided to take a little joyride in it before anybody'd caught up with me,” He took a drag off the cigarette, ashed out the window and chuckled with a grin, “I told 'em, 'I was just checkin to make sure it ran alright, guys.' They know me well, and somehow I got away with it without any trouble, too. Can you believe that?” I did believe him. Then seeing the town cemetery on the left, he pointed it out with habitual sarcasm, “Oh, everybody's just dying to get in there.”

We came to the Amish country road and then began retracing our path. On the right Hoskie saw a couple guys out front of a house who he knew, slowed, and pulled down their dirt drive. Sitting in the truck we each had a couple beers with the company of the two farmers, who were both already evening drunk. With flowing upward inflections punctuating every sentence in their native Iowan dialect, they exchanged their own dirty jokes and weekday current events among us. A little dog and kid pranced around each other in the front yard under the dimming dusk light, and the farmer's wife yelled out from the yellow-filled front window, “Supper's ready!” so we started out the driveway and back toward town again.

No light remained in the sky. Stepping out from the truck into the shop, Hoskie apparently recognized the predicament I was in and in a moment had invited me to follow down the street to his house for a grilled dinner with the family, which I did. I felt somewhat stuck and was anxious, still being bedless in a dark town unknown, but was grateful all the same for his hospitality. We sat in the living room after dinner watching TV, me tentatively resting my bones. His son Josh, who earlier I'd been introduced to cashiering at a gas station, stepped into the flickering light through the square door frame of the living room and asked if I wanted to stay the night at his place. Outside my own intention, the night's events flowed seamlessly from one to the next and I now had a couch for the night, all my restless worries instantly dissolving like tiny salt grains in a vast uncontrived, recalcitrant sea.

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