Saltwater in the Bluegrass (17 page)

I decided to take a chance and call a friend of mine, Brian Johnson. Brian owned and operated Johnson’s Trucking and Freight Hauling. He was an asphalt flyer. He ran the eastern part of the United States carrying mostly fruits and vegetables, a vast improvement over the contraband he had trucked back and forth in the 1980s. He was usually on the road but still left his boat tied up down in the harbor. It was one of the largest boats at the club, a sixty-eight foot Sea Cat cigarette boat he had bought after getting hooked on
Miami Vice
. It was not hard understanding the name Brian had picked for his bright yellow boat with green trim since he was an expatriated American who was still finding it hard to understand that fines are doubled when speeding through work zones. The boat was called
Miss Conduct
, and it is still the fastest boat in these parts. I wanted to get a hold of Brian. If he was heading north on a run, I was hoping to thumb a ride with him, save some miles on my new car. That was if his fifty-three foot tractor trailer had room in the back for my Corvette.

Brian owed me a big favor for getting him out of jail a few years back. I had preformed my own little stake out on the Gainesville Police Department. In turn, they were more than happy to let this long haired, dope smoking man, who was giving the mayor’s daughter a ride through town, go.

I thought it was high time I collected on the payback. If he could pull this off, I would call us even. I made the call, and he said yes. The trip was on. Tomorrow at seven I would be heading north with Brian, his dog, Truck Stop, and nineteen thousand pounds of crated oranges aboard a white eighteen wheel freightliner named
The
Chaser
.

It was going to be a long twenty-two hour ride, so tonight I made sure I slept.

Friday morning came early.

The night had gone pretty quickly as I prepared to leave. I had drifted in and out of sleep most of the night. By seven o’clock, I had driven my 1963 Corvette to the storage unit on the south side of the harbor club, locked her up, and then covered her up to keep the dust off. I had packed my belongings, my clothes, and my essentials, and my backpack was filled with tapes and CDs to help pass the time.
The Brenda Kay II
was ship shape. Still, I did another once around before leaving. I checked the mooring line, the spring lines, and the fenders on each side and made sure everything was buttoned up. As expected, she was closed up tight and secured. Then I activated the security system.

Connie and Joe had keys to the boat if they should need to board her due to weather, and they had my cell number. They also had a phone number to Texi Conover in Kentucky if they needed to get a hold of me for any other emergency that might arise.

I figured Texi and I would meet up after I arrived in Louisville. Even while out of state, Texi was still my partner in crime fighting. With her growing up back in Louisville, I knew how valuable she would be with her knowledge of the people and the area. Here I was leaving the over-crowded southern part of Florida and heading north during the two busiest weeks of the year in Kentucky. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Every now and then I would just like to get away from the crowds. Is that too much to ask?

Working with Texi had rubbed off on me.

To people from the bluegrass area, Derby fever is more than an event. It is a state of mind, and even though I was already missing the beach, I figured I could handle a few weeks away from home.

As usual, Brian Johnson had no sense
of urgency. It was something he found to be emphasized far too often. He liked stopping and talking to everyone he saw, especially those on the docks he knew. He always liked bringing up stories about his boat, his truck, his women, and the fortunes that slipped through his fingers time and time again.

This made it that much slower in getting us packed tight and ready to go.

I had written a little jingle about Brian and his ex-wife a few years back and the thought of it was bouncing around my head most of the morning:

“He was down on his luck, out of dope in his truck, heading south before the smoke had all cleared. His wife had run off with a salesman from Utah and left him just drinking a beer. He was a child made from loving; she was a child raised in fear. They met one night at a single’s ward site, and it lasted just seven years.” Well it went something like that.

Finally we were on our way.

Brian drove seventy most of the way north though Florida. This was the first time I had spent any time in the cab of one of these large rolling monsters. It had all of the comforts of home, cruise, air, stereo, power seats, power everything. This machine was loaded. Still, I felt restless being confined this high up on the road.

Traveling north, it was pretty much a straight shot through Florida. By early afternoon, we were seeing signs for Georgia. In time, the smell of the ocean was gone. I was already missing it. For the first few hundred miles, See Stuckey’s signs were everywhere. Now they were being replaced with See Ruby Falls. Traffic was heavy as we drove into Macon, and I wondered for a moment if Jeff was still here or if he had made it back home yet from his family reunion.

With my calculations, we would be just south of Atlanta around six o’clock. We made plans to stop at a truck stop just north of the Atlanta bypass.

Brian pulled into the lot next to eighteen pumping stations and parked. We needed to fuel, check the oil, clean the windows, and enter his mileage and time information in his logbook. Truck Stop and I made our way to the relief facilities—for me, the restroom; for Truck Stop, around back in the trees. Brian finished fueling and pulled around back and parked alongside a hundred other rigs. It was life on the road.

We did the once around, checking lights, tires and the kingpin lock. Since we were not sealed as most corporate carriers are, we opened up the back door and checked the cargo. Everything, including my car, seemed to be riding nicely. We then made our way over to the restaurant.

The truck stop was busy. Not only could you get fuel, you could eat fast food, get a home cooked meal, take a shower, get a massage, see a doctor, or go to a dentist, all on duty for the driver’s needs. It was a regular little oasis in the concrete jungle of transportation and distribution. After a bite to eat inside at the Radio Flyer restaurant and another walk around the rig, we were off.

We continued north on I-75.

Our plans were to stop again just south of Mount Eagle Mountain before going through Chattanooga. On top of Mount Eagle Mountain, all the truck drivers were pulled over doing brake tests on their outfits. As Brian said, “You don’t want to find yourself without brakes or in the wrong gear going down a six percent grade, especially when the grade continues for ten miles.”

As we passed through Chattanooga, we picked up Interstate 24

west to Nashville. Traffic was getting heavy. I only had two more hours to go before we would be stopping and I would be getting out. My plans were to stop in Nashville, unload my Corvette, and then drive on into Louisville on Interstate 65. It had been a long time since I had been in Nashville. My plans were to break the trip up, spend the night, and see a few sights before heading on. It was going on eleven p.m. when I checked in to the Music Roll Motel. I put my bags in the room and headed over to Printers Alley to get a drink and listen to some music.

I returned back to my room around one thirty.

After breakfast the next morning,
I fueled and headed north. While checking out, I had a talk with the manager of the motel. He asked me about my new car. While talking, he had turned me on to the Corvette Plant and Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky. He said it was a must-see for anyone who loves cars the way I do. About an hour north of Nashville on I-65, I pulled off at the second Bowling Green exit and spent the next three hours acting like a kid in a candy store.

By early afternoon, I arrived in downtown Louisville. I considered my arrival a mixed blessing.

I checked into the Galt House Hotel. I felt lucky getting a room, especially for this time of year. The hotel had a cancellation, and I was at the right place at the right time. I felt safe my car would be secure in the underground parking garage, and the hotel also had a great view.

I liked the view of the Ohio River the minute I saw it. The river was not the ocean by any means, and the smell of salt was nowhere to be found, but the view would work for a short time.

After checking in, I walked into the hotel lounge bar and ordered a drink. It was time to unwind after a long trip. Minutes later, I headed to my room on the fourteenth floor and unpacked. I sat on the balcony relaxing and watching as several large barges worked their way up the Ohio River toward the McAlphine Locks. I watched several small crews of men suspended out over the water painting one of the large bridges and wondered if they would ever finish.

The more I watched the comings and goings, the more I came to realize there was definitely something to what Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn saw in the river. I had seen plenty of movies and even looked at pictures, but in all my years I had never realized how wide the river actually was or how much goes on around it.

My first intention was to pick up the phone, to surprise Texi with a call, let her know I was here, but then I thought she would appreciate it more in person. I looked up her mother’s number, got an address to their home, asked for directions at the front desk, and was soon on my way. Twenty minutes later I had arrived at their home. Unfortunately, I was the one to be surprised. Texi was not home and hadn’t been all afternoon.

Her mother was very gracious. She said Texi was out with friends, that she had spent the day on the river boating and was now over at K-T’s, the Kentucky Tavern, for supper.

Once again I asked for directions and within minutes was on my way.

I turned off I-65 and headed back towards town. I took a left on Grinstead Drive and then a right on Lexington Road. Within minutes, I had parked and was walking into the crowded restaurant. I quickly saw Texi and a group of friends she was with in the back of the restaurant. She was at a table over by the windows, and her back was to the entrance.

I walked over and asked the waiter if I could carry the tray of drinks over to her table. With a little persuading and a ten dollar tip, he said okay. I made my way through the restaurant without her noticing me.

“And I believe you ordered the salt water,” I said as I placed the glass on the table in front of her.

Texi turned, looked up, and could not believe her eyes. “Jimmy!”

she yelled.

Texi jumped up, gave me a big hug, and spent the next ten minutes letting everyone in the restaurant know I was here. I was actually in Louisville with her at Derby time. She couldn’t believe it. I explained that I was here on business, but we would talk about that later. Within minutes, she was telling me about all the places I had to see. A regular tourist bureau, she was.

The evening was young, and I did not want to tell her about Buddy during her dinner party. That would come later.

We finished eating, and then the five of us went to the Phoenix Hill Tavern for drinks and dancing. We ended up staying until they closed. I would say my day had been full.

I headed back to my hotel. I placed the Do Not Disturb sign on my door and went to bed.

I was getting too old for this much activity.

“Hi, Baby.”

“Hello, Momma.”

“How are you doing?”

“I’m doing ok. And you?”

“I am doing fine, Baby.”

“What’s new in your life?”

“It’s all about the same. Are you getting any sleep?”

“It comes and it goes, Momma.”

“Are you losing weight? You look skinnier than the last time we talked.”

“No, not really; maybe I’ve lost a pound or two. Did you get your hair done? It looks good.”

“Thanks, but no, Baby. Not lately. Do you need anything, Baby?”

“No, Momma, I have everything I need. Any trouble coming to see me today?”

“No, Baby, no trouble at all, I got a ride with a friend.”

“Who brought you, Momma, who?”

“It was just a friend, Baby.”

“I’m sorry, Momma. I’m sorry I can’t be with you.”

“Oh, Baby, you are with me everyday.”

“Don’t cry, Momma; I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, Baby. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll be together someday, Momma.”

“I know we will, Baby. I know we will.”

“I promise, Momma. I promise.”

“I pray for you everyday, Child.”

“I know you do, Momma. I know you do. And I pray for you too. It helps me get through my days and nights.”

“I know you do. I have to be going now, Baby. I have to go.”

“Sit with me awhile, Momma. Please, just sit with me a little bit longer.”

“I can’t, Baby. I can’t.”

“Will you see me again, Momma? Will you come back and see me again?”

“Of coarse I will, Baby. Of coarse I will.”

“When, Momma, when?”

“Soon, Baby, real soon.”

“Goodbye, Momma.”

“Goodbye, Baby.”

“I love you, Momma.”

“I love you too, Baby.”

The Kentucky Derby isn’t
just a two-minute horse event to the folks around the Louisville area. It is an event, a social gathering, and it is planned out months in advance by the visitor’s bureau. The Kentucky Derby Festival starts two weeks prior to the running of the roses. People from all over the region converge on Louisville for the daily activities. There are fireworks, drinks, balloon races, horse races, boat races, more drinks, marathon races, waiter races, barbecue chuck wagons, and more drinks. Parties, parades, beer gardens, barbecue, music—you name it, they have it—and each event continues stirring the crowds of people into a party frenzy. The town is one big festival.

From what I have learned from history, Lewis and Clark might have been the first two men to discover the region, but I felt like I was going to be the first man to soak it up and understand its meaning by morning. Without the garden variety sand and surf, this was still turning into more than just another day at the beach, only this time it was Bluegrass style.