VIII. Deep in the Heart of Texas

It started in Austin, where we stayed in the luxurious Habitat Suites, for variety. It featured shade-grown coffee, lights that took a long time to turn on and were dim when they did, and rain barrels. They claimed to use green energy. Breakfast was all organic. And the garden, the garden! It had beets, spinach, chard, kale, rosemary, marjoram, sage, pomegranates, figs, lemons, oranges, and edible flowers as well. In fact, the garden was entirely edible except for the very poisonous and unlabeled laurel tree in the middle. When we were invited to "eat the garden," Micah beat out my "I'm never leaving this place!" with an "Oh great, I'm going to have to remove you from here bodily, aren't I?"

So we got a late start.






We headed out towards San Antonio and to the Alamo, and got waylaid by the largest natural caverns in Texas. We toured through the humid, rocky underbelly of central Texas, where water encourages rocks to grow, but ever, ever so slowly. It turns out that Micah knows a good deal about geology, possibly due to some unconscious push from his own name. What's in a name? Advertising, that's what.



And from there we took another side trip to Bandera, a town where it is said that cowboys still come in from the field for an after-work drink, and tie their horses up outside the saloon. It is said that this is the case; it is no longer fact. Bandera is a cute town where everything is cowboy-themed, stores bear names like "Jessi Jane's Outlaw Fashions," and there are John Wayne posters everywhere—except for the diner's bathrooms, which are wallpapered instead with kittens-in-cowboy-costumes. It may be that representations of cowboys are anathema to actual ones, so had there been some here, it was long ago.

So we were late, real late, trying to make time across the oil fields of Texas. We had half a tank of gas and were coming up on a gas station. I said we might stop for gas, just in case, but instead of his usual "It's a good plan. I like it. Let's do it," Micah breaks with tradition and instead says, "What are the chances we won't hit another gas station in 160 miles?"

"You're right," I say, because I am a fool.

One hundred sixty five miles later, we have staked our hopes on a point four miles off Highway 10 called Sheffield. And although we are in a town that exists only to produce oil, there is no possibility of finding gasoline when we finally have to stop. Oil, oil everywhere, and not a drop to pump.

If this has ever happened to you, you might know that you start feeling what distance means. In a car, you can cover ground too fast to even be able to describe it. Without gasoline, the only option is travel on foot, which is nigh impossible. Quick as anything, you can be outside the range of safety, especially when you are headed through west Texas with only a half a gallon of water in your possession. Two hours from our last known gas station, and we have nothing of use. No fuel, not enough water, no way to safely shelter ourselves. Nothing.



I begin to feel a bit blue. I start to feel like things aren't going to work out after all, and that I have failed us in major ways. It's cold, and dark for some hours yet. I lean against the car and try to take in the Texas sky through the dust. I try to think, but nothing comes.

Micah asks me if I'm okay. I reply that I don't know. I tell him I don't even know where we are.


He gets out his all-purpose map that he carries around in his wallet at all times for just such moments. He shows me where we are on it. It's a piece of paper that has the words "You Are Here" written on it, with an arrow that points back to the reader.

"You're right. I guess we are. Let's take pictures."

We do, and we laugh about everything, and things turn out okay after all.



Music: Still is Still Moving, Willie Nelson

VI. Mad Libs

Mad Lib 1, "Untitled"
Micah and Erica, 2009
Ink on Paper

"Don't make this a [truculent] Mad Lib™," I said to Erica. My [Islet of Langerhans] was [found], though, for I knew it would not end [artlessly]. Our days have been largely [sweeping] so far. Erica tells me things about birds that I never knew; for example, did you know that [Resplendent Quetzals] are in the family [Aestivalis], along with [Moas] and [Archaeopteryxes]? Neither did I!

We've just [equivocated] into [Nebraska]. It's still [oleaginous] here, which I find highly [festering]. Since I began this sentence, we [recited] over a time zone, making the amount of light [jocularly] more acceptable. Still, I protest on general principles.

Erica keeps [leap-frogging] me, saying I have [restive] [nostrils]. I maintain that making [screwy] facial expressions at someone who spontaneously breaks into an a capella rendition of ["Kiss"] is the only way to assert one's [envy]. Admittedly, I [twistily] joined in, and there's at least a [puny] chance that I started it in the [twelve billionth] place, but the logic is sound nonetheless.

Is it just me, or does everyone get [Billy Ray Cyrus] songs in their [cankles] when [poisoning] Mad Libs™? I can't [excite] the word "[gerund]" without hearing, "How do you say 'goodbye'? [Hauntingly]! [Hauntingly]! [Haunting]-[X]-[Z]!" Then it's the Masochism [Foxtrot], then the Elements. At that point, I get [arrogant] that I can't [Palinate] the elements, or even the tune. Then I [patrol] another [noun], and the cycle repeats.

Erica's [bunny-hopping] songs by [Captain and Tennile] now, and the light is gone, so I think it's time to end this. Until next time, [Godspeed]!

[Grindingly],
Micah, with [woodsy] assistance from Erica

---
Mad Lib 2, "__ the Alamo!"
Erica and Micah, 2009
Ink on Paper

From Austin, we have [17] miles to make before we hit El Paso, which is our [blithe] stop for the [eon]. To drive straight through will take us [6] [minutes], but Micah points out to me that I have [rooted] the Alamo. "[By Jove]," I declare, and we head to San Antonio instead, to see this [fiendish] historical [grackle].

The Alamo, for those who have not studied [Intermediate Truth and Beauty], commemorates the [pie-eating contest] between [the Hank Williams Museum] and [the Hall of the Mountain King]. The [blimp] began when Colonel [George Washington] [let slip the dogs of war] and denied the [rental agreement].

All at once, [Helen Keller], [Peter Parker], [Robert Downey, Jr.] and many other [bandoliers] history would one day make famous returned to the [bathroom] and defended the [rodents] and [zero-visibility dust storms] living there. When things started looking [frightening] for the Texan [clouds], [Madonna] cried out, "[Elude] the [Venezuela]!" which became a [hesitating] cry of the U.S. people for the rest of the [nanosecond].

Micah and I take [contrary] pictures of the site, tip our [ascots] to the [penurious] heroes of the day, and [congeal] onwards.

-Erica, with help from the ever [despondent] Micah

Music: T for Texas

V. Day 3 continued: Mobile to Big Thicket National Wildlife Refuge

[in which Micah and Erica trade off writing in a line-by-line fashion, starting with Erica]

They say "You can't get the hell out of Texas," and in fact, when we had driven over 880 miles and finally passed exit 1, only to then hit exit 0, this was proving, uncomfortably, to be true.

Our journey through Texas started on an inauspicious note, in Indian Springs Campgrounds on Holland Cemetery Road. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have camped in a haunted Indian Burial Ground, but your options in Texas are limited to the Days Inn and various approximations of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Some would say that the Days Inn isn't all that bad, but apparently those sorts were not in charge of accommodations.

So we arrived in Big Thicket National Preserve (it's delicious!), about which we discovered only that the name was accurate. We didn't explore the forest, on account of the unearthly stillness and the horrifying, bloody ghosts which no doubt populated it. Really, you're going to go that route? We almost died due to someone's camping decision, so yes, now it's getting talked about.

Well, the cabin we had been promised was no longer available to us due to the late hour and the fact that the proprietor did not remember renting us a cabin, or that he owned a campground at all, as I deduced from the "You're where?" when I called to alert him of our presence. He wasn't the only one alerted to our presence; as we discussed the stillness of the campground and the lifelessness of its RVs, I swear to you that the trees began to drip ectoplasm onto our heads. "If this turns out to be blood," says Micah, "I warn you I can run faster than you." Whatever, I'm not proud.

So one short quarter of a Texas-Ohio football game later, the proprietor shows up to check us into our clean, safe and relaxing accommodations. The initial relief that he was not carrying an axe quickly turned back to horror when he revealed the RV in which he expected us to spend the night. "Why don't y'all get yer sleepin' bags?" he said, while moving far too many DVD players from the stack of foam mats he implied would be our eventual resting place. Final resting place. That was implied! And now it's been said. Fine.

Anyway, so there we are in an RV full of trash in a campground apparently empty of any life but us. I began cleaning things up and asked Micah, "Do you see a trash around here?" to which he quite accurately responded, "Yes, everywhere!" The chill of the grave was seeping through the RV, possibly due to the unlatchable door, which rattled fitfully as if tried by a spectral hand. Perhaps even spookier than the rattling door, however, was Micah's complete inability to comprehend how the door-latching mechanism worked, but who am I to judge? The one who booked us in Chief Grinning Skull's Serial Killer Resort, that's who.

"So the business plan of this campground," says Micah, "is:

1. Buy an Indian burial ground

2. Buy RVs and fill them with trash

3. Keep no record of travelers in campground, and

4. Put travelers in RVs with trash?"

This model seemed a bit flawed, but perhaps it made more sense from outside of the recreational garbage cans. I stop quaking in my boots long enough to remove them, and as we climb into our beds, Micah, who has been harshing on this perhaps-not-entirely-reasonable place since we arrived asks if I think there might be turn down service? And a mint!

"You know," I say to Micah, "the only people who know where we're here are you, me, the creepy proprietor, and someone from online whose real name I don't even know." To avoid the terror engendered by that thought, I contemplate exactly what the proprietor's job description is; what range of unsatisfactory options he is authorized to offer people in place of the promised cabins. "Here's an overturned dinghy you can drag your tarp underneath!" Erica suggests a dumpster: "Y'all go get yer sleepin' bags while I move some of this garbage around." "We gave away your four star room, but you're welcome to this bed of nails. Hang on, I'll get some cobras."

So as the midnight hour approached, we attempted alternately to laugh and cry ourselves to sleep, and waited to see if we would wake up dead. Our alarm must have been set earlier than the serial killers', as we found ourselves unmaimed in the morning. The Camp (g)Host signs us out in the morning with a surprised "I didn't know that RV was ready for habitation! (--neither did we, I reply). We are given a piece of paper and some vague instructions to give it to the proprietor, but instead we peel out and never look back. In retrospect, this experience would make breaking down without gas in west Texas two nights later seem minor, but that was still in our future, which lay ahead of us as broad and as endless as Texas.

Music: You Can't Get the Hell Out of Texas