What Happened on King's Mountain
- By Fredrick
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What Happened on King's Mountain
It was the end of December and yet I was outside in short sleeves, experiencing winter weather as I'd never known before. You might take me for a cynic to say that I, an upstate New Yorker, wasn't enjoying my time in the sun, but I felt more than justified in my foul mood as I marched along the side of I-85 towards that looming green and white sign. In waves I would tell myself conflicting stories about how everything would be fine, or how we'd all be stranded -again - in North Carolina. Still, despite the fact that whatever logic was left in my muddled brain knew that it was over, I still kept running. What else could I do?
On December 29, 2008, somewhere around 12:00pm, our journey came to a screeching halt when a peculiar engine knocking led to a sudden stall at the top of a Carolina hill. We managed to coast to the side of the road, but hope is always dim in the flicker of hazard lights. I made a mental checklist of what could be wrong, and through a fanatic series of phone calls began to cross them off. It didn't make any sense that I would be in this position, as I made sure the car got a clean bill of health before I left.
It didn't stall because of the airtight seal of duct tape where the gas cap should have been. Through hysterical shouts I tried to relay a diagnostic from under the hood to a mechanic in New York. All I could say was 'there appears to be oil all over the plugs'. As I would learn later, those weren't even plugs, they were fuel injectors, but the fact that there was oil coating everything around the engine served to be a significant factor.
At first I considered myself lucky to break down so close to the nearest interstate exit. Exit 2, Kings Mountain Military Park - 1 mile. From the highway I thought I could see the slant of a giant roof, but at the top of the hill it turned out to be nothing but a gravel quarry. The signs indicating which direction you might find fuel or shelter were all blank. Nonetheless, I kept my stride and passed by several derelict facilities before the road ended abruptly at a T, a greasy spoon diner dead ahead.
Outside a clapboard door were two portly chefs, stains adorning just about every available inch of their white t-shirts. Fat stubs of what were once cigars were stuck in the sides of their mouths, like some sort of ironic joke, but the deadpan expressions on their faces told me they probably didn't know what irony was. With my best attempt at seeming like a pathetic drifter, I stated my case and asked where I might find the nearest gas station. They both looked at each other and had a nonverbal conversation. Even the words they didn't speak were twisted with a lazy southern drawl.
"'Bout a mile down the road," one of them finally began, "you'll find a gas station down there. 'Course, there's Mac. He works on cars, if he's around, anyways... He's 'bout a mile down, too."
For a moment I just stood there like a peasant having an audience with looming redneck royalty. My request was plastered all over my face, still I wasn't entirely sure they could read the print. The fellow with the white paper hat was working it over in his mind, the smaller guy sat on a milk crate and smoked, watching the road to I-85 like he was waiting for prosperity to get off Exit 2 and find him.
"I'd give you a ride, but I've got work to do" he said conclusively, giving his thick neck a quick jerk in the direction of the kitchen. He snuffed the embers out of his cigar and walked back inside without another word. The other character was still sitting quietly with his eyes narrowed back in the direction of the interstate. I could have waited around for him to come out of his trance, or perhaps flicked that faded baseball cap from the top of his head and spelled it out in simple words that I was stranded in the middle of nowhere and that five minutes in a car would save me five hours of wandering. But I left him the way he was - what seemed like a life or death situation to me was simply a bump in the road to anyone else. They didn't know the thrill of a cross country travel and my plea fell on sheltered ears.
I kicked dust into the wind for a ways, discouraged that there weren't even houses to be found on the sides of the road. Occasionally a manufacturing plant would spring up from amidst the empty corn fields. The loud hum of electricity rang clean and clear from across the street, a sound that always makes me worry. While considering whether I should be exposed to this sort of force, I contemplated the sort of people that work there. Simple characters like the blank smoker at the restaurant. I wondered if they worried about things like cancer or terrorism, I wondered what they used their $12 an hour wage on. Looking around the landscape made it plain and clear that High Definition TV wasn't a priority here, and most of the vehicles that drove by were old country trucks. Where was the money going?
I experienced the brisk winds that usually come with the end of summer in the dead of winter. It smelt of fresh spring and looked like early autumn. Even the seasons had abandoned this stretch of land, for that I couldn't blame them. No one would have taken the time to get to know Kings Mountain, I mean, everything there is to know is already known. Ask any character in that diner and they'll ramble off a list of every family in the area. You'll know how they got there, how this place came to be. If I had the time to ask, I probably would have found that the founder was a traveler just like me, on his way to some better place. Maybe his wagon broke on his way out west, maybe he had no choice but to stay, make this place his home. Generations later this is what became of the last person to break down in these hills.
Every step I took was in the direction of failure. The power in my cell phone was dwindling, it was my only connection to the humanity left in the wreckage - it was both comforting and distressing at the same time. Even now I can't weigh which choice is more irresponsible; leaving two girls alone on the interstate or making them tag along on that marathon march to civilization. When paranoia got the best of me I'd send worried messages. Everyone is alright? Are you okay? Are you mad at me? I couldn't help but ask that one, for if they were as mad at me as I was at myself, I don't think they'd ever forgive me. It was a familiar feeling.
Whatever was happening two, three miles away I can't say. All I know is I was putting more miles between us, between me and the nightmare. Each mile I borrowed would have to be repaid, and by the time I heard the sound of another human being on that road, I had already borrowed more than my share. Each mile is two by the end of the day, and even one mile on that barren plain was a mile too many. But humanity is versatile, just like the horseshoe crabs and fish who continue to survive in the polluted waters of the Gowanas Canal.
A distant sound, the heavy thud of dense wood and the muted clash of steel, was coming from a vacant gravel road. I could see what might potentially be a driveway leading into a thicket of scrappy shrubs. It wasn't a hospitable sound by any means, nor was it welcoming. It was rhythmic and enchanting, and like a cobra following the exotic chimes of a flute I turned off down the dirt trail and walked towards the noise.
I was able to diagnose the source of the peculiar noise as soon as I got to the end of that narrow driveway. Set back in a shabby clearing was an ancient crooked shack with an ancient crooked man. They were the things campfire horror stories were made out of; I couldn't avert my eyes from the clumsy way he would heave the weight of his giant axe down on the dry logs, splitting them down the very center with every strike. While calculating my next move I couldn't figure if the weight of my situation was heavier than every deep breath I took. I was breathing as if each one would be my last.
Still, I walked up the trail and called out to him, but my timid voice couldn't compete with the cacophony of chopping wood. Every word I spoke was drowned out by the violent crash, and he couldn't be bothered to look anywhere but at his work. I was close enough to see every crease in his weathered face before I was able to get his attention. It looked like someone had taken a vinyl Halloween mask and buried it in the mud before putting it on a sad scarecrow shape and sending it out to do hard labor.
I pitched my case to the old man, explaining how I was stranded on the interstate a couple miles back. From the look he gave me, I wouldn't be surprised to find that he didn't even know there had been an interstate anywhere around him, or even what an interstate was. His sagging mouth quivered as he silently repeated everything I said to him in the way old people often do, and he took a great amount of time to consider what I had told him before he spoke. With great pains he whispered in a voice both harmless and terrifying only to explain that 'there's a gas station 'bout a mile down the road'.
"Follow this road down, in 'bout a mile it narrows to two lanes. An'... railroad tracks..." He made a gesture with his swollen red hands, indicating the railroad runs parallel to the road.
I wanted so desperately to ask, to beg, even, for a ride down that old southern road, but the vacant expression on his face and the countless logs scattered around his shady lawn said it all. He'd give me a ride, but he had work to do. So I dusted my pants off and waved to him as I jogged back up the trail I came in on. There wasn't a sign of life in the yard or anywhere on that porch. From what I could tell, that man had been alone for a very long time.
Just as he explained, though, about half a mile down the road narrowed and joined up with a railroad track. I climbed up the slope of jagged grey shale and walked along the splintered wooden ties. I was higher than the road and could see a turn ahead. I thought to myself that if I didn't see any signs of civilization around the bend, I might never. I had no idea how far I'd come by the time I saw the first neighborhood of my travel. I was too consumed trying to figure out how long it had been since I slept. Somewhere around thirty hours and even then it was only a brief hour and a half.
There was no fanfare when I saw that elevated sign in the distance; that faded yellow beacon called out, promising me hope. I laughed out loud and put whatever energy I had left into one final sprint, dashing madly off towards the lonely garage at the end of a lonely strip of brick buildings. When I finally planted me feet on the asphalt in front of it and braced myself with my arms clutching my knees I realized that the sign called to me, but laughed under its breath. Whoever owned this shop was gone years before that moment. It was abandoned just the same as every storefront in that stretch of commercial property.
If I hadn't already been at the bottom of whatever slump I was stuck in, I swear that would have pushed me into quitting. The problem was there was no way for me to give up. Whoever settled this stupid town already beat me to it. His wagon broke down and there was nothing for miles. So he laid on his back in the grass and said "I give up, this is as far as I go." So he built a house, and someone else did the same. Before you know it, there are miles of nothing interspersed with locked doors and empty shops. I wanted to summon super human strength and push that row of buildings over, I wanted to watch this decrepit town crumble.
But I couldn't destroy the village, and I couldn't turn back, and I couldn't stay - all I could do was keep going. I followed the road further, going from run-down firework outlet to parking lot and back again. I felt my first glimmer of hope since the garage when I came across one that was actually still in business. I ran to the vending machine like a desert oasis and drank bottle after bottle of water as if I hadn't had a sip in years. It was getting dark, it was getting cold, but at least I was close - I had to be.
When the daylight started to wane, the harsh florescent lights began to fill in the void, warding off darkness like miniature stars hovering above the ground, guiding me to the place I had been searching for all this time. I ran across a desolate asphalt expanse and into the warm clutches of a gas station. I couldn't believe it was really happening - I wanted to buy everything, I wanted it all. Every candy bar, every soda, every quart of oil. I felt like a hermit re-entering society, my covetous fingers wanted to consume everything. But I tossed aside my hunger and my madness and went straight for the oil. I initially grabbed four, but considering that getting them to the counter was enough of a chore, I thought it best to get two and drive to the gas station to put in the additional amount.
At the counter I asked about cab services in vain, the closest ones operated out of Gastonia and would charge thirty dollars just to come and get me. I pitched my predicament to the gas station attendants only to hear the same excuse the entire state must have been rehearsing for this very occasion. Of course they'd be happy to take me, except there's work to be done. I cursed my luck and wished I could find someone so eager to bring me without an agenda, but it seemed that every car that passed me on my way out couldn't be bothered to stop at my drastic thumb gestures. They must have had work to do, too.
But I walked on, carrying that plastic bag of oil, wishing I had bought something to eat. I was still optimistic that I would put in the oil and we'd drive on, put all this nonsense behind us and be into Athens that night. We weren't far; surely we'd eat, breath a deep sigh of relief, and be on our merry way. The only obstacle left was getting back to the interstate.
I had walked clear to South Carolina, by the time I made it to the gas station I was 4 miles down the interstate, even longer the route I came from. I wouldn't find out I had walked to the next exit until later that night. I plowed forward, ignoring the throbbing pain in my feet, and mustered some resemblance of running. I passed through the empty neighborhood, ignored the row of deserted shops, and didn't even bother to slow down to examine the creepy trail leading to the old man and his shack. Besides, the sounds of chopping wood were gone, only an eerie silence lingered in the evening air. Returning trips always feel so much shorter, once the pressure of anticipation has lifted. I knew what I would see, and every foreboding factory I passed just marked another milestone towards my goal. Still, when I got the call asking if I'd be back before nightfall I wanted to fill the valley with echoes of four letter words.
Just before the interstate exit, two people were parked outside the Indian Motorcycle factory, and waved at me. I faked a smile and waved back, wondering why it didn't seem unusual to them that I was walking up the interstate exit. I caught somewhat of a second wind once I got back onto I-85, not because I found a reserve of energy, but rather because I just wanted this all to be over. I was only a single mile away, and once I got up that hill it'd be a matter of minutes before we got back on the road and left this terrible place behind us.
I ran almost the whole way, keeping the white line and rumble strip between me and the traffic. I ran despite the pain I felt in my shoes, and despite the cramps in my lungs. I ran despite the ragged state of my mind and the bruises on my conscious. Soon it'd all be over with. That's why I ran. All I had worked for all day was about to come into fruition and my friends would see me as a hero instead of the failure I felt like.
I made it up that hill; I didn't even collapse on the hood of the car like I thought I might, either. Without wasting a word I reached in the window and opened the hatch for the hood. The hazard lights weren't on, but I didn't worry about that. I dumped the oil in, both quarts. Two quarts of hope. When I got back into the driver's seat I held my breath and turned that key as far as it would go. For a moment the car worked things out internally, and the motor moved, which means it wasn't seized up. We cheered and I felt so accomplished. Like I sacrificed my body for the sake of two people I love, for the sake of a doomed trip. It was all worth it. When I let go of the key I could hardly be bothered to care when the car stopped.
But when I turned the key again and got only a whimper, and the third time didn't even muster up that I began to worry.
"Oh yeah, we turned off the hazard lights because the battery signal came on"
"Oh."
If existential concepts could make a noise, you would have heard my spirit breaking three counties over. Some spectral force, the very embodiment of karmic justice, was trying to pay me back for some sin committed against North Carolina in a past life. It seems I can't make it through the damn state without some consequence, some terrible event. I recall driving across that very interstate wondering why the vehicle I was in would occasionally lose control of the steering. At this point the only person I had to turn to was the girl in the passenger seat. I put my face in her lap and fell asleep.
I'm not entirely sure how long I was out for before that flashing yellow strobe made me, again, aware of my hopeless situation. Miranda woke me up saying "There's someone here", and their arrival was heralded by the flashing of muted sirens and the shadowed outline of a great behemoth that had pulled up in front of us. This was the first vehicle to stop and check on us all day. The man who got out was a gentle mustachioed man in a knit winter hat that wasn't entirely necessary for the temperature. I told him I could use a jump and he was happy to oblige.
As we hooked my car up to his giant yellow highway truck, my situation never looked more hopeless than it did on the faces of the girls in the car, illuminated only by the rotating yellow light. We got the engine running, but it felt more like bringing Frankenstein's monster to life than it felt like turning a car on. It made a horrendous metallic knock, like someone hammering a folding chair, and the pained noise it made when I would rev the engine made me feel more ill at ease than I had been at the beginning of this ordeal. I asked the highway worker to follow me to the next exit, just to make sure I didn't get left stranded.
Well, I'd say we made it a good thirty feet before that ominous mushroom cloud blew out from under the hood, signaling the definitive end of my beautiful, black '82 Rabbit. We rumbled on over to the side of the road and accepted the cold hard fact. It was over, there was nothing left to consider, no way to think ourselves out of this mess.
Through a jumbled mess of telephone calls from North Carolina to New York, and back again, we managed to employ the help of Triple D Towing, a one man operation based out in the sticks, opposite direction of the way I'd been walking all day. He arrived in a matter of minutes, pulled up in the white wrecker, flashing lights spinning around on top. From out the side of that enormous vehicle came a tiny little man, his greedy eyes magnified by his absurd glasses.
Before he even said anything to me, he was lowering that arm, hooking my busted car to his tow truck. When I approached him for an introduction, I instantly regretted it, as he spoke in flurry of southern twang and preposterous rhetoric. From what I gathered, he was going to take me to a garage, open late. He knew the owner, too, it was his cousins place. The highway man agreed to follow along with the girls, and I'd ride along with the yokel in the tow truck, a proposition that put me ill at ease, considering I trusted their safety to a stranger. What choice did I have?
Inside the cab of the truck was a timid southern lady picking apart a Subway sandwich. The truck smelled like mayonnaise and meat, it made me sick to my stomach. She moved to the middle and explained that the two of them were eating dinner when I called. She pointed out the gas station they were at, too, when we drove by. That old boy, though, for as much as he talked, he sure didn't have anything to say. Most of the words coming out of his mouth didn't really make any sense to my befuddled ears. His lady seemed to understand.
We drove so deep into a hidden south, the kind you only see on movies or cartoons. Trailer park architecture and winding roads into a comfortable poverty... I still couldn't figure out where the money goes, though from what I gathered there might not have even been any to begin with. Most of the factories I passed were closed and both the tow operator and his girlfriend were both on unemployment; he ran the tow business under the table to make a few extra dollars. He must've hit the gold mine the night he found me on the road; I was more of a wreck than my car by the time he got to me.
I was constantly turning in the crowded front seat, peaking behind to make sure that giant yellow highway truck was still following. Those times when the wrecker would speed up and take a turn, when the highway man was out of view, I'd find myself gripping the rubber arm rest like my plane was going down. He must've sensed my anxiety, because he kept reassuring me that they'd be able to follow the flashing lights, at least I think that's what he was saying.
When we finally pulled into the garage, I would have just as easily believed he was bringing my car to the parking lot of a derelict warehouse. We pulled up in front and began to lower my car down. I was standing around shivering in the cold Carolina night, waiting for the silver lining to this disaster. All I saw was a busted car, a couple frightened friends, and a horrible shanty with the unwelcoming glow of florescent lights coming from inside the bay door. The yokel lowering my car said something to me, but I was dazed, when he repeated his request I realized he wanted me to go talk to the mechanics.
What was I to say to them? I walked into the garage, a group of three heavy bearded men in jumpsuits were sitting around a cluttered desk, an old tune from the Rolling Stones was playing on a battered radio. I walked up and asked who I should talk to - which one of them wanted to hear my diagnosis. They all sat there, stone faced and angry that I'd bring a wreck to them at this hour of the night. It seemed they had all resigned to take it easy for the rest of the night. I stood there looking dumb for a moment before the angriest looking one of them informed me I'd have to talk to the boss, and he wasn't there at the moment.
Back outside my car was in its final resting place. The highway man had gone above and beyond what he was obligated to do, yet he still stuck around making sure to see this disaster through to the end. I stood around in the cold, unsure who to approach to expedite this process. Before I had time to gripe about the poor reception I got in the garage, one of the lumbering mechanics managed to make it out to the car. In a grumble he asked me to turn over the engine, which I did without delay. Even though it didn't do much of anything, it did enough to for him to know he didn't need to see more.
When I stepped out of the car an old man had joined the mechanic at the engine. "There's the problem right there", he said, holding his flashlight steady and unmoved. The mechanic nodded and shuffled back into his cave. The old man wasn't unpleasant; he had a smile that seemed suspicious and warm at the same time. It had a sort of dark sincerity to it. But with his flashlight and a finger he pointed out to me in less than a minute what I had worked all day to correct - the giant crack in my engine block where the piston had punched through.
"So what do you plan to do?" the wrecker asked, taking no time to circle his prey. "Unless you have a spare engine, there's no fixin' a problem like that."
I was less than amused by his eagerness, but more importantly I was dead tired, hungry, and filthy. I told him the car was his to do with as he pleased, and that I was aware he'd be getting paid by the pound for it at the scrap yard. Truth was I never wanted to see that damn car again in my life. I do think it would have been polite for him to refund our towing fee, considering he'd be making a couple hundred off my precious Volkswagen.
I set to dismantling the interior of the car. I took out every valuable, very piece of clothing, every coin from the ash tray. While I was ripping my brand new car stereo out of the dashboard I managed to cut my finger deep at the bend. Miranda had to point of that I'd been bleeding all over my hand before I noticed. The highway man offered us what the selfish, bottom feeding tow operator wouldn't - a ride to the nearest hotel. He left us with the advice that if we told the hotel staff we were stranded they would give us a corporate rate, and with that we left the scene.
Where Kings Mountain meets the interstate you'll find three hotels. We picked the one that looked cheapest, an aesthetic that echoed all the way to the rooms, still once inside I collapsed onto the scratchy hotel comforter. I had, without a doubt, been bested by North Carolina.
Growing up there were times when my mother couldn't afford to pay the electricity bill. We'd spend a few nights in the dark, and those were the nights she'd cry herself to sleep. Despite my encouragement, she'd always brand herself a failure. I never understood how she felt those times; I loved her unconditionally and never felt let down by her. The weight of the burdens she was carrying then didn't make sense to me until that night, when I failed to provide for the people I loved.
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