I was reminded of this recently, driving a lonesome highway from Oklahoma to Texas. “This is tornado season,” a friend had cautioned me as I set out, adding that she’d seen six. Thinking of the dark skies and stiff winds that had whipped across the plains the day before, I asked what I should do if one came spinning my way. “Jump out of your car and lie in a ditch,” she replied. “And pray.”
Skirting the edge of the Great Plains, there isn’t much to see except dilapidated barns, forlorn cattle and the wide-open spaces of the American West. Heading south from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma (outside of Tulsa), you pass great swaths of green pasture. Then come the cattle ranches and Native American territories of southern Oklahoma, and after that the horse farms of north Texas. Freight trains hauling coal lumber across the horizon. Spin the dial on the radio, and you can hear Bible-thumping Christian preachers and the latest cattle prices.
Sensibilities are different. Near Checotah, Oklahoma, I pass a large sign that reads concealed gun training classes, and lists a phone number. The Memorial Garden Cemetery touts its service that keeps flowers on your loved one’s grave site–no need to visit. PREARRANGEMENT IS THE ULTIMATE ACT OF CARING, the cemetery billboard reads. In New York, people pay large sums to drink in bars and listen to bands. In Muskogee, Oklahoma, a bar named the Electric Cowboy offers to pay women $5 to show up on ladies’ night. Long-neck beers are 75 cents. Tempting, but I keep on moving.
In rural America, jobs are few and not very lucrative. On the back of a truck near Sherman, Texas, I spot a bumper sticker that reads: CRIME DOESN’T PAY, AND NEITHER DOES FARMING. If you’re not a farmer or a rancher, meager service jobs can be the only alternative: there are lots of gas stations and smoky restaurants with names like Ned’s Sirloin Shack. In one austere convenience store, I made the mistake of asking the cashier for some half-and-half for my coffee. Cigarette smoke wafting around her weathered face, she fixed me with a skeptical “You ain’t funny, are you?” glance, and pointed to the powdered cream. “What you see is what you git.”
In the country, small-time entrepreneurs work out of their homes: in northern Texas, a woman named Reba sold statuary in her front yard; not too far away, somebody was running a boat-repair business out of a shed beside his small house. There was no river or lake in sight. Many people live in mobile homes. You can buy one in Oklahoma for about $23,000. It won’t be very big, but if the need arises, you can hitch it to a big truck and haul it to another town with better prospects.
In the West, one sees just how “big” America is. There are no taxis or Honda Civics out here; most people drive hulking trucks (Dodge Rams and Ford F-150s) and show little patience for folks in smallish rental cars. Westerners drive a lot, and once behind the wheel they are easy prey to two things–bad food and country music. Don’t you just love the lyrics? “I know I drive you crazy, baby, but it’s the best that I can do. / It’s just a bunch of good ole boys I’m with; I ain’t runnin’ ‘round on you.” On the radio, I hear a report about America’s obesity problem, and toss back another handful of barbecued Fritos. It’s not easy finding fresh fish and a spinach salad in the boondocks.
After 10 hours on the road, I am happy to reach my destination, the thriving metropolis and capital of the Lone Star State, Austin, Texas. I feet like a round-the-world sailor who’s finally reached land. Walking excitedly through its lively downtown, I notice a dissolute, middle-aged man wearing a pink G-string and a leopard-skin top. He stands in front of the swank Driskill Hotel, bare-arsed to the world. Hotel workers shoo him away so he walks alongside me. I duck into a Starbucks, pleased to escape the madman–except he’s not, it turns out. Homeless, half-naked Leslie Cochran, 51, is not only perfectly articulate, he’s run for mayor of Austin–twice. How many votes did he get? “Not enough,” he quips, surveying his painted fingernails. “I got 28 the first time and 22 in the most recent election. I’m actually more popular now but my supporters don’t vote.”
Cochran, a former Navy man, gets ticketed a lot by the Austin police. But they apparently tolerate him otherwise. So does Margie Neuhoff, a retired nurse from Wisconsin and Starbucks habitue. To her, Cochran’s a cultural icon “who helps keep Austin weird.” “It’s the only city in Texas that would put up with him,” she adds, “and the only city in Texas I could live in.” Laughing, I agree and amble over to Austin’s Sixth Street bars to hear some blues. Much as I like cheap beer and highway honky-tonks, country life does seem a little slow. My next trip will be to Los Angeles–in a jet.
