Helena West continues the chain of down-and-out towns. Arriving after dark, wishing we were here at any other time. Cars swerve across the roads, not inattentively, but instead playfully. As a teenager does the first time he gets to drive a car with his friends. Stoplights are roughly obeyed, and one seems to be delivering its last few, dim red lights. Finding a food mart, Wes waits outside as I venture in, hoping for dinner materials. No go. Returning outside, an ungrateful man, in which Wes already helped out with food coupons, has tried to stealing from Wes' backpack. Creating diversions through conversation and another man, Wes' backpack is unclipped.
"Let's go anywhere but here." says Wes.
It may be hard to imagine, but there's areas of our country living below the world poverty line. People living on a couple dollars per day. Crime is a means to an end, and it becomes a career. It consumes a place when all else has left. It separates classes even more, creating a cycle which perpetuates itself. Although we've steered clear the entire trip, a brightly lit Walmart was recently built in town. Wes' turn to gather groceries. My bike magnet is engaged, but luckily attracts friendly attention. Hunter walks by, dressed in camouflage, and shows me a picture of a hog he shot today. It's black, plump, has small tusks and is hanging from its feet above a bloody pan. I tell him it's a big boy.
"Big girl! She weighs 250 pounds." he exclaims proudly.
I notice the man isn't as friendly to select others. As he talks to another by the door, he spits on the ground in front of every black person who walks by. Racism is delivered differently by specific people and areas. This man carries racism on his sleeve. It's there for all to see, despise, or unfortunately admire and encourage. I want somebody to spit back at Hunter's feet, but none of them do.
Pretty near my height, with dark wrinkly skin, a short scraggly beard, wearing a baseball cap and clean fleece. Older and thin, he's still handsome. Probably a charmer growing up. Handsome Man starts asking me about my bike. I'm distracted by a stutter he has when trying to speak certain thoughts. I'm not distracted by the specific act of it, but instead to how similar it is to my brother's stutter, primarily during adolescence. There are entire thoughts without any interruption. Others making it only a few words until he hits an audible wall. It's effected by his comfort and excitement. Similar to my adolescent brother, this man has created physical movements to help, or simply accompany, his stuttering. "Let me tell ya somethin'" and "aye" are used whenever he has difficulty with a word or phrase. He says them well over fifty times during our conversation, sometimes repeating it five times in a row with pauses in between, yet never has trouble doing so. They're placeholders for the words he's trying to find. He snaps his fingers, in a long whipping motion, as he says them. It makes him comfortable with a conversation. Sometimes he fights through it by clicking his lips, rather than using his safety phrases. My dear brother dealt with this first-hand, but it therefore became a big part of my childhood also. Being patient, frustrated, understanding, pushy, and standing up for him.
Handsome Man can tell I'm a bit nervous about my possessions after the recent food mart encounter. He wants to clear the air.
"Let me tell ya somethin'...aye...aye...let me...I'm not gonna ask you for money, food, or anything. I simply wanna hear your story...
...let me tell ya. It's not very often somebody like you comes through this town."
He holds out his hand.
"My name's Jerry."
My eyes find moisture once again and I smile at Jerry. I want to explain the depth of this experience for me, but we both seem to equally enjoy the casual nature of the conversation.
"We gonna be eaten by hogs camping out here?" I ask.
"Ah man! Aye...we got WILD hogs down here! Let me tell ya...they'll eat yo ass up down here!"
"ARG ARG ARG ARG ARG," he makes a hog's chomping noise as I laugh.
"Aye...let me tell ya somethin'...aye...the only way I'd go to sleep out there...aye...is with a shotgun in both my damn hands!"
"I ain't lyin'!"
He makes me laugh repeatedly and makes a few circles in disbelief as I tell him more about what our days consist of. He puts a fist up to his mouth in exaggerated shock. Wes has returned from the store and joined the conversation. Jerry's friend Curtis has now walked up to join the commotion. Curtis is in his early 70s, thick, wearing a burnt orange fleece, paired with leather shoes and hat. Both born elsewhere, I ask Jerry what brought him to Helena West.
"A woman! The destruction of most men!" he responds with a laugh.
"What about you?" I ask Curtis.
"The Devil! That's about the only thing that'll get anybody into a town like this!" roars Curtis.
"Aye...aye...ain't they the same thing?" Jerry questions his friend at a higher volume than the statement.
Both men laugh wildly as they slap each other's shoulders and hug. I can tell both these men laugh their way through life, regardless of the reason. I envy them for it.
We bid them farewell, keeping our eyes on our back, as suggested by Jerry. Finding a well-kept rail trail, we camp about a hundred feet off it. Hammocks are hung in trees more closely resembling vines in shape and curvature. After dinner, an armadillo pays us a visit and walks within ten feet of our camp, regardless of both our bike lights shining it down. It looks and moves like a tank. Somehow they still seem to be the most common road kill. I guess these tanks move slow and cars weigh more. In the morning, I climb the wriggly trees and read for a bit, only drawn back down by water boiling for cocoa.
Arkansas is divided into two definite regions. Three, if you want to consider the Ozarks a separate region. Two regions are greatly distinguishable though. The flat expanses of the Mississippi delta flood plain, and the forested hills west of Pine Bluff. Flat days consist of taking turns drafting as we rip across the countryside. Views go nearly as far as one can see, interrupted only by strips of trees separating different plots of acreage. Occasionally, large farming equipment ends up coming down a road towards us and we pull over to let them by. We're a bit more durable than hay, but still wouldn't have a chance. Roads occasionally turn to loose gravel and we realize this is the point where we might have to start following car directions more often.
We hit days of rain, although they usually burn off to provide a little sunshine in the later hours. One day it's relentless though and soaks us thoroughly during the entire ride. Cold day of riding, followed by cold camp, and holding similarity the next morning. My Achilles' tendon has been acting up since the day before Memphis. I simply tried to "be easier on it." Finally, after doing a little research, I've lowered my seat a single centimeter and all the discomfort has ceased. One of those times in life where I realize a 1-minute action would have prevented a whole week of distress. Knowledge for next time. It always is.
Pine Bluff is a big town, with the liveliness of a small town. Dividing the two regions, it's the central hub of the area, complete with a university. Streets and homes are lonesome, lacking attention and usage. Old Victorian-style homes hold onto their last supports. Curfew signs remind teenagers they must be indoors after 10pm. Pedaling lightly, we coast through the entire town, even riding uneven sidewalks for sections of it. We stop at a gas station to fill up on water. As we ride further south, the more word travels like wildfire everywhere we stop. One person asks us a question as we load up our bikes, then tells everybody inside about it. Cashiers must have the story memorized by the time we leave. My favorite two questions of this stop are:
"Y'all been on the news?"
"Maine...what's that?"
Pine Bluff puts another section of the trip behind us. Back to rolling hills in Arkansas. Throughout the days, I ponder the area I'm in, and my thoughts keep leading back to the laughs of Jerry and Curtis.
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