Read Online Bad Radio by Michael Langlois - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Langlois
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the reality of modern air travel. We spent the next five hours in a cramped flying bus full of people studiously ignoring the undignified accommodations and each other.
I received fifteen cents worth of soda in a tiny plastic cup while trying to keep my knees from rubbing the seat in front of me. It was like being in a dog kennel one size too small, but without the ability to lie down.
I remembered taking trips with Maggie back in the ‘60s to visit friends, and it seems like with so many other things, in my memory those trips were more elegant and comfortable. Of course, fewer people could afford to do it back then, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.
Coming out of the airport into the soft, fragrant night air of North Carolina was worth the ordeal. I took a deep swig of the heavy air and felt my shoulders and face relax right away. It was warmer here, as if even the seasons were more relaxed.
We had to take a shuttle bus to get to the rental car center, which was a quick way to get to a slow moving line, where I rented the cheapest SUV they had.
I’m not a fan of SUVs for most things, since I expect a truck to work hauling manure and hay on the farm and I’m not interested in sharing cabin space with a hundred pounds of cow shit, but I figured the extra room and ground clearance couldn’t hurt for what lay ahead.
It took over an hour to reach Henry’s place from the airport, much of it down dark and deserted blacktop roads, past the outskirts of the small town of Linwood. The lonely plot of land that Henry had purchased after the war was situated on the edge of a large stand of pine trees far back from the highway.
The only indication that someone lived here was a break in the endless line of trees along the highway and a massive brick mailbox with an iron plate on top with the word “Monroe” stenciled on it in white paint.
He ended up living on the backside of nowhere for the same reason that I had moved back to the farm after the war. Walking through the destruction of Europe, literally climbing over chunks of masonry from buildings five hundred years old, or around the smoking remains of a newly built café, had changed the way we viewed civilization.
Buildings looked like pre-ruins when we got back, and the teeming masses that inhabited them seemed fragile and temporary. Only the mud and trees and hills seemed permanent and reliable.
I turned into Henry’s carefully raked, quarter-mile-long gravel driveway and stopped after about twenty yards, leaving the lights and engine running.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Anne.
“Because we don’t want to get shot.” After a few seconds of sitting in the dark, a powerfully built black man in dark sweatpants and a black T-shirt materialized out of the shadowy tree line to my left. He moved in that classic easy trot that spoke more of military service than the M9A1 pistol that he was holstering. I rolled the window down.
“You must be Abe.” He was fairly young, but he had a deep, wide voice. Beads of sweat stood out in his scalp-close hair. “Expecting anyone else?”
“Nope. And you are?”
“Leon Moss.” He reached into the car and shook my hand. His grip was hard and quick. “Henry is my great-uncle.”
“Nice to meet you, Leon. Want a ride up to the house?”
“No, thanks. I’m gonna check the perimeter a few more times and see what might come in behind you.”
“Okay, thanks.” We started rolling slowly up the drive, the gravel cracking and popping under the tires. When I looked into my rearview mirror, Leon was gone.
The old place looked much like the last time I saw it, decades ago. A huge oak tree dominated the front of the house, now just a black fractal silhouette against the floodlight over the porch.
The gravel drive went straight up to the tree where it became a wide circle around its trunk. I drove around until I was pointed back down the drive and then shut off the engine. Yellow light from two of the front windows painted
I received fifteen cents worth of soda in a tiny plastic cup while trying to keep my knees from rubbing the seat in front of me. It was like being in a dog kennel one size too small, but without the ability to lie down.
I remembered taking trips with Maggie back in the ‘60s to visit friends, and it seems like with so many other things, in my memory those trips were more elegant and comfortable. Of course, fewer people could afford to do it back then, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.
Coming out of the airport into the soft, fragrant night air of North Carolina was worth the ordeal. I took a deep swig of the heavy air and felt my shoulders and face relax right away. It was warmer here, as if even the seasons were more relaxed.
We had to take a shuttle bus to get to the rental car center, which was a quick way to get to a slow moving line, where I rented the cheapest SUV they had.
I’m not a fan of SUVs for most things, since I expect a truck to work hauling manure and hay on the farm and I’m not interested in sharing cabin space with a hundred pounds of cow shit, but I figured the extra room and ground clearance couldn’t hurt for what lay ahead.
It took over an hour to reach Henry’s place from the airport, much of it down dark and deserted blacktop roads, past the outskirts of the small town of Linwood. The lonely plot of land that Henry had purchased after the war was situated on the edge of a large stand of pine trees far back from the highway.
The only indication that someone lived here was a break in the endless line of trees along the highway and a massive brick mailbox with an iron plate on top with the word “Monroe” stenciled on it in white paint.
He ended up living on the backside of nowhere for the same reason that I had moved back to the farm after the war. Walking through the destruction of Europe, literally climbing over chunks of masonry from buildings five hundred years old, or around the smoking remains of a newly built café, had changed the way we viewed civilization.
Buildings looked like pre-ruins when we got back, and the teeming masses that inhabited them seemed fragile and temporary. Only the mud and trees and hills seemed permanent and reliable.
I turned into Henry’s carefully raked, quarter-mile-long gravel driveway and stopped after about twenty yards, leaving the lights and engine running.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Anne.
“Because we don’t want to get shot.” After a few seconds of sitting in the dark, a powerfully built black man in dark sweatpants and a black T-shirt materialized out of the shadowy tree line to my left. He moved in that classic easy trot that spoke more of military service than the M9A1 pistol that he was holstering. I rolled the window down.
“You must be Abe.” He was fairly young, but he had a deep, wide voice. Beads of sweat stood out in his scalp-close hair. “Expecting anyone else?”
“Nope. And you are?”
“Leon Moss.” He reached into the car and shook my hand. His grip was hard and quick. “Henry is my great-uncle.”
“Nice to meet you, Leon. Want a ride up to the house?”
“No, thanks. I’m gonna check the perimeter a few more times and see what might come in behind you.”
“Okay, thanks.” We started rolling slowly up the drive, the gravel cracking and popping under the tires. When I looked into my rearview mirror, Leon was gone.
The old place looked much like the last time I saw it, decades ago. A huge oak tree dominated the front of the house, now just a black fractal silhouette against the floodlight over the porch.
The gravel drive went straight up to the tree where it became a wide circle around its trunk. I drove around until I was pointed back down the drive and then shut off the engine. Yellow light from two of the front windows painted
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