New Orleans, by way of Valdosta, GA and Hell
The route from Miami to New Orleans is really quite simple: You take 75 North, pay enough in tolls to fund a semester in college, hook up with the 10 West near Tallahassee, and ride that baby the rest of the way in. Easy as pie, right? Well, throw in a couple of good friends who haven’t seen each other in a while and an ill-timed cell phone call from a girlfriend, and you have a recipe for a detour.
Interior: Front passenger compartment of a 2008 Chevy Impala SS; the driver is speaking to his lone passenger.
Driver: “Oooh, get Willin’, by Little Feat. Willin’ isn’t just a great driving song, it’s actually about driving.”
Passenger: “I see ‘Willing’ by Little Feat.”
Driver: “Yeah, that’s…”
[Chuck Berry’s Maybelline starts playing somewhere in the car. The driver digs in his pocket and retrieves his cell phone, which is the source of the noise.]
Driver: “Hello? Yeah, hi, Babe. Were on the 75 North near Tallahassee.”
Caller: “Blah blah blah, blah.”
Driver: “Yak? Yak, yak yak yak, yak.”
Caller: “Yak, blah. Blah blah. Yak, yak?”
Passenger: “Woohoo, I see the sign: 10 West, six miles.”
Driver: “Yak, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.”
Caller: “Blah… blah blah blah, blah blah blah? Yak.”
[Phone call ends, conversation in car resumes, Willin’ plays, followed by Signed, Sealed, Delivered, and other great driving tunes.]
Driver: “Does that sign say Valdosta, GA?”
Sadly, the answer was, “Yes.” We had whipped right past our exit and trucked on into Valdosta. All I saw of the town was a gas station, where we got directions back to 10 West which, of course, we ignored, but it seemed like a lovely place.
The same cannot be said of Thomasville.
Thomasville has a quaint charm, with lots of trees and sleepy downtown areas. It appears at first blush to be a place where a man could cultivate a happy life with the woman he loves and the children she gives him. Don’t be fooled: Thomasville is evil, evil in a creeping, insidious way that lulls you into a false sense of security then hits you like an out of control Mac truck. The effect is very much like what happens when your lover pulls the blanket up over your head in bed, then farts in the air pocket, laughing as you tear at the blanket and gasp for air. At first, it seemed sweet, and felt cozy, then it became a hellish nightmare of claustrophobia and attempted escape. That’s Thomasville for you, the suburban version of being hotboxed.
What makes Thomasville so hideous? What evil lurks within its confines? What could possibly motivate me to say such terrible things about this (deceptively) lovely little southern town? The answers to these questions, and many more you haven’t asked, will be explored in my next installment of the New Orleans Odyssey: “Thomasville: Threat or Menace.”
May 26th, 2008 at 6:10 pm
LOL!
Your phone conversations sound just like mine!
Blah blah. Yak? Yak, yak blah! Blah, yak yak yak.