Tobacco Road

I drive the truck of a dead man. A man I met over twenty years ago. A man that became a second father to me. One that would fish with you by dawn, and tip back the whiskey with you at dusk. That’s where I met him, actually, at Woody’s Tavern down by the swamps. I was twenty-one and barely legal. He had just moved to the area, hearing the fishing was good and he was looking for a low-key place to retire to. Maybe low-key was the soul connection I was needing, what made us fast friends. We sat at the bar that night, him crying in his beer over lost loves, and me confiding in him, a stranger, about how I lost my parents way too soon. There was something in his eyes when I told him. Something that remained from then on out. As I park his truck tonight, I see his eyes and wonder what was lurking there all those years. Webber’s eyes are forever haunting me.

The voice came to me in my forty-eighth year. The whispering voice telling me to get back to Tobacco Road. To finish the business that was started there all those years ago. Funny, I’ve never been to Tobacco Road. And I sure as hell never had any business dealings there. Tobacco Road was a forbidden place for us kids in Southern Georgia. We weren’t allowed to mention it, discuss it, venture to it, or seek it out in any way, shape, or form. We were all poor kids, but this I promise you, if nothing else, the forbidding of Tobacco Road was one inheritance we all received, and early on. Just the mention of the place, would guarantee the stink eye of any adult anywhere around. My daddy was small and wiry, but I would never cross him. Like most teenagers, my friends would talk about driving there, creeping across the old iron bridge, trying to act tough, but in all actuality, no one ever did. When I tried to picture the place, it was always all grown up, and impassible to any daring vehicle. I never knew a soul who actually drove down Tobacco Road, but now I’m being called to it in my dreams.

When the whispering started, I was first able to dismiss it. Mid-life, I have a lot on my mind. I try to chalk it up to stress and not sleeping well. I blame it on nightmares that have tormented me my entire life. But now, the whispering continues throughout the day. Get to Tobacco Road. Find a way. Meet me there.

I really don’t want to go back home. I came to Washington for a reason, to get out of that god-forsaken place. Losing my parents at seventeen was bad enough, but when Webber came up missing and was presumed dead, I’d had enough. Webber came to Georgia with very little, and left with even less. He drank away his pension and gambled away his property. A one-page will was presented at his death. One that was written up on a computer right there at Woody’s by Sherry, the bartender, and notarized by Mary Jean down at the bank. Brooks Wyatt Cox, that’s me, was to inherit all of Webber’s worldly possessions upon his death. His worldly possessions at the time consisted of a few household goods, just enough to throw together a pot of ham and beans and lay his head down to go to sleep at night, his momma’s wedding ring, $243.06 cash, and his 1978 Chevy truck. I donated the household goods and took the ring, money, and truck and packed my own meager belongings and headed west. I drove until I could drive no farther. Everett, Washington. You can’t get any farther away from that without losing your good ol’ U.S. of A. citizenship. Georgia hasn’t seen my face in over five years, but this whispering, this whispering is killing me. Like a massive magnet, it’s pulling me. Pulling me to a place I’d just as soon forget about. The place that was forbidden to me, even as an adult, I never dared to venture there. A gnat in a Shop-Vac, I’m getting sucked in. The whispering is out of my control.

The poor ‘78 Chevy whines as I fuel it up. Somehow it knows. It knows where we’re heading. As I start rambling down Highway 5, Webber’s truck keeps pulling to the right, trying to cower in the ditch, trying to give me a way out of heading home.

The whispering continues down through Washington and into Oregon. Honestly, I’m getting aggravated. Can’t it see that I am heading that way? I rub my head though. What am I thinking? I lived in that swamp country for forty-three years. Not once did I ever venture anywhere close to Tobacco Road, and now, because there’s whispering in my head, I’m headed that way? I call Sherry and tell her I’m coming home. Without seeing her face, I can’t make out her reaction. Is she surprised, confused, concerned, happy, or pissed off? I don’t mention the whispering. She tells me my barstool will be waiting.

In the middle of Oregon, the whisperer starts new demands. I am to drive only in the dark. Stop and sleep during the day. When I try to ignore the demands, I’m faced with wrath. The first day of driving passed sunrise, the fuel pump goes out on the truck. An $80 tow bill and an overnight in a podunk town while I fix it on my own, is my first warning. I get the truck running and stay low until evening falls. The truck continues to balk and pull right as I drive along and I start to wonder if I am losing my mind.

I stop in an all-night diner around Redding and pat the hood of the truck as I head in. I need this truck to continue being my friend. I need all the friends I can get this time, I’m afraid. At 1:30 a.m., I am the only diner in the place. The waitress brings me my chicken fried steak and gravy and tries to make small talk. I tell her where I’m heading and her eyes go blank. I ask her if she’s familiar with the area and she says, “No,” and quickly walks away. When I go to leave and pay the cashier, the same waitress is rolling silverware behind the counter, she tries not to make eye contact with me. I’m not letting her off that easy. She was friendly and talkative until I mentioned being from swamp country. I ask her what spooked her and she ignores me, looking down with those blank eyes. Turning to leave, her order pad catches the corner of my eye. I lean down closer and then I see it, in red writing are the words, “Tobacco Road”.

I pat the hood of the truck again as I pass by. I’m starting to feel superstitious and silly at the same time. But by god, I need all the friends I can get! I hop into the truck and drive on until I know dawn is on its way.

I sleep for close to fourteen hours this time. The sun is setting when I get out of the shower. I pick up my motel room and as I reach for the keys, I have to sit down for a minute. Now, where am I going? I search my brain and it won’t come to me. Where am I now? On the night table, under the Bible, I notice a California state map. Am I in California? What am I doing here? I don’t know a soul in California. Maybe the last people who stayed here, just left the map. I gather my things and walk outside. Looking around, nothing is familiar. Then, a sinister voice is whispering in my ear… Tobacco Road. Get there. Finish the business.

I call Sherry again. It’s been five years since I left the place in a hurry. Sherry, never a lover, but always my best friend, was heartsick when I left. We kept in touch the first year, calling each other every couple of days. The days stretched into weeks, and then months. As the phone rings, I feel guilty. I probably haven’t talked to Sherry in close to three years. Now, I think I can just waltz back into Woody’s and my barstool will be empty and she’ll have my Johnny Walker on the rocks sitting and waiting for me? I don’t even drink Johnny Walker anymore. Too many memories. Memories of Webber and my daddy. Memories of the swamp. Memories of the hushed, forbidden whispers of Tobacco Road. I call Sherry and tell her it will still be a few more days. I ask her to have a Jack and Coke ready for me. She tells me she’s heard whispering.

I drive, night after night. I get blank stare after blank stare every time I mention going home. No matter if it’s a diner, a drive-thru, a gas station, or a rest area. Conversations come to a complete stand still when I mention returning to the swamps of Georgia.

I sleep all day. When I wake up, I’m never sure where I am or where I’m going. Every time I pass the hood of the truck, I have to pat it now, like a psycho, I’m developing these quirks, what do the city folks call it? OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? Once I sit in the driver seat and start her up, the whispering starts… Tobacco Road. Get there. Finish the business.

Tonight, as I drive, I notice every single billboard is black, except for the words, “Tobacco Road” in bright red, dripping letters. I strain my eyes, swearing I am seeing things. Every song on the radio is announced as being, “Tobacco Road” by Brooks Cox. I strain my ears, swearing I am hearing things. The lyrics are muffled, but the announcements are the same, the rhythm is the same, song after song.

As I get closer to the water, I can smell it, a smell I never noticed before. It’s strong and somehow evil. I look as the clock on the radio, 2:47 a.m. Whispering starts in my ears. I’m ordered to park along the country highway and to get out of the truck. What should be a panicked feeling, is actually one of comfort this time. I’m directed to lay down in the field, ten paces from the truck. I’m told to feel the earth beneath me. I follow the directions and after almost two weeks of a torturous drive, I feel like I am home.

Drowning in contrasting feelings, I search for answers. I’ve just crossed over the Georgia state line. Although the smell is that of death, I am comforted by the dirt. I’m ordered by the whispering to lay still and I am frozen. With my ear to the ground, I can hear hissing. I’m familiar with that hissing sound. I lived in the swamp country for forty-three years. The hissing comes closer and what once would have scared me shitless, I am now at ease with. The snakes surround me, but none touch me. The whisperer tells me the creatures are welcoming me home. I look up at the yellow moon and I see flecks of red blood in it.

After what seems like a few hours, I prop myself up onto my elbows. I hear whistling and look down the road. Approaching me is a man dressed all in black. Awfully hot for a summer night in Georgia, I think. Black jeans and leather jacket, black pointed boots, a black hat. From what I can tell he has short beard and a pipe in his mouth. I can see he has a lasso in his left hand. The smell of cherry pipe tobacco mixes in with the sinister stench of death.

At once, the whispering tells me to get up and get back into the truck. I stand, and quietly step over the snakes that have surrounded me. I walk calmly back to my truck and reach up and pat her on the hood. As I shut the door, the man in black with his lasso passes by. With the pipe still in his mouth, he whispers out the other side, saying, “Tobacco Road…get there…finish the business.”

Heading into town, I know the bar will be closed. I come in from the west and have to drive clear through since the bar is on the east side, right before you exit the burg. I’ve made it and hope I’m not in trouble with the whispering spirit for not finding a place to go in and sleep through the day. Surely, that rule is over, I’ve made it home. I’ll just finish the last couple of hours asleep in the truck and then find Sherry in the morning. But as I come closer to Woody’s, I see the lights are still on and Sherry’s old Honda is still sitting behind the bar.

The door is unlocked and as I walk in, Sherry is standing behind the bar and as promised, my bar stool is empty and a Johnny Walker is poured and waiting for me at my place. Odd, I hadn’t called Sherry ahead of time. I thought for sure she would have been in bed since it was after four o’clock. Sherry and I meet eyes and she tells me she smells something evil. That the whispering has kept her awake. How she knew I would be there soon. Sherry comes around the bar and kisses the top of my head, the way she always did. She then sits on the bar stool next to me and we sit in silence as I drink the potion in front of me.

As I finish the whiskey, I notice that at the bottom of my glass I can see my reflection. My eyes are now blank. The same blank eyes I’ve been seeing for years when it comes to this place. I look over at Sherry, her once beautiful brown eyes that could pierce a man’s heart mimic mine, blank.

This time, it’s I who stands and kisses the top of her head. I take her hand and we walk off to Webber’s truck.

We hold hands as we drive all the way out of town. As we come closer to Tobacco Road, Sherry squeezes my hand tighter and tells me thank you. The only words spoken the whole trip. As I had envisioned my entire life, Tobacco Road is all grown up. Years of weeds and muck have overtaken it. There’s a low whispering in my ears, no words this time, just a sweet whispering, calling me closer. The headlights shine on the old iron bridge as we approach. Tightly, I squeeze Sherry’s hand. With a jerk, the truck has a mind of its own, following the lead of the whispers as it pulls us hard to the left. We fly through the air and crash, dash first into the river under the bridge on Tobacco Road.

As the truck fills with water, we don’t let go of each other’s hands. In the bright green and yellow water I see their faces… Mom and Dad, and Webber. Surrounding them, I see a thousand souls. All from swamp country, I assume. All looking for something better, something more. I am home. I drove the truck of a dead man.