No. 160 - The Life of a (Reformed) Wild Peach Orchard Boar

I spend a lot of time on the road. Sometimes New York, sometimes Boston. Right now, it’s Austin.

I’ve been drinking my morning brew on Lake Austin or at a Communist-friendly coffee shop where the baristas have a hard time hiding their disgust for my Augusta National polo, slacks, and loafers (sans socks)—or in a historic building where scenes from Linklater’s Slacker were filmed.

I’ve taken to eating brisket by the ton, devouring cheeseburgers at Sandy’s, and enjoying my baptism into Tex-Mex (in the company of Karl Rove).

I’ve clocked over a thousand miles exploring Hill Country and recently drove in the opposite direction to College Station to visit another SEC newbie—Texas A&M—where I fell in love with one of the coolest college bars in America: Dixie Chicken.

Just today, I spent several hours exploring towns between Austin and San Antonio with a former Berkeley/University of Texas professor and a Mexican troubadour. We feasted on German fare in a beer hall and visited the oldest dance hall in Texas, where none other than George Strait got his start.

I’ve also had the distinct pleasure of playing Gentle Ben’s private golf course (in 106-degree sun) and a cooler morning round at a par-3 course in downtown Austin.

And if you’re into bookstores—I’ve been to a ton. I spend a LOT of time browsing used books, and even more time reading.

But it ain’t all fun and games. Life on the road is a lesson in trade-offs. For every enviable experience, there’s an equal pain in the ass—like living in a mobile home, rarely doing laundry (and when you do, never with detergent), and trading in rental cars every other week.

There’s also a lot of crummy meals, loneliness, and figuring out the odds and ends of a city. Anyone who tells you the life of a drifter is like living in a Kerouac novel is selling you a bill of goods.

That said, there is a romance to being on the road—no doubt about it. But it’s rarely a walk in the park. Even if it’s Central Park.

I was watching Kevin Smith’s Mallrats this evening, and I couldn’t help but see the parallels between it and parts of my life.

I’m hardly a mallrat, but just the other day I found myself sitting in a massage chair near the food court at the local mall in Austin.

My dogs were barking, so I put five bucks in the machine and enjoyed fifteen minutes of “personal care.” In no time, the internal hands of a black leather chair were shaking me back and forth while my calves got squashed.

I closed my eyes and got lost in a Tedeschi Trucks playlist while a heavyset retiree next to me fell asleep—his bulbous gut gyrating all over the place. His belt buckle, about the size of a license plate, started making a figure-eight pattern.

This is the reality of life on the road—finding anything that brings you an escape, short of spending your evenings with a bottle of George Dickel.

Years ago, I spent a few nights in southwest Georgia on business. I had dinner in an old diner, smoked a cigar on the Flint River, and was terribly lonely by the time I got back to my motel room. So I bought a six-pack of beer.

I proceeded to get drunk with Tom T. Hall, eventually passing out to That’s How I Got to Memphis, but not before singing a bunch of duets. Tom and I sang Fox on the Run, Ravishing Ruby, and Shoeshine Man. I’m sure we kept the folks in the rooms next to us awake, but they didn’t care.

A bass fishing tournament was being held that weekend on Lake Seminole. The parking lot was full of pickups and expensive boats, and all the good ol’ boys in Bainbridge were drunker than we were.

But that was then—and this is now. I’m sitting on a bed in a one-room place on the University of Texas campus, chewing tobacco and spitting in an old coffee mug, lonelier than a tick on a tree branch.

There isn’t a six-pack in the fridge or a bottle of Dickel in the freezer. I’m doing my best. I’m no saint, but I ain’t the son of a gun I used to be. I’ve slowed down—damn near to a snail’s pace. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself, but I’m told this version of me is easier to be around.

Those who love me prefer predictability over chaos, whereas I prefer running ’round like a wild peach orchard boar. Though I gotta admit, I enjoy singing hymns on Sunday mornings more than waking up to the black dog snuggling up under the sheets.

Life on the road is littered with enticing distractions. There’s a reason why Kerouac died at 47, and Cassady at 41. If you’re a born drifter, keep your wits and try to be pragmatic—a tall order for hopeless romantics. We’re not wired to care about consequences. But only a fool would fail to recognize the pattern: the literary highway is littered with the souls of loners.

Tonight I’ll enjoy the only vice I have left—chewing tobacco. It ain’t the bolt of lightning I’m looking for, but it’ll have to do. Who knows… maybe I’ll swing by the mall for a massage tomorrow.

Truth is, I’m as confused by the guy in the mirror as those who knew me in my wilder days—only they got the upside, and I’m left waxing poetic about a life of decadence.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX