American Road Trip, Part 2

7th Stop – Somewhere east of Denver. 200 nerve-racking miles from Aspen.

This is where the trip took a turn. The plan was to spend several days in Telluride, Taos, and Palo Duro Canyon in Amarillo. From there, I’d follow Route 66 to Mickey Mantle’s childhood home until I got to Crystal Bridges to see a billion dollars worth of art in Arkansas. Instead, I woke up to a snowstorm in Aspen. Uncle Ron was right when he said to avoid the Rockies on account of the car being rear-wheel drive. I spent the next several hours white-knuckling it through a blizzard on I-70. I saw dozens of overturned semis and stranded people, but being a good Samaritan wasn’t an option; my only concern was not sliding off an icy embankment and upping my membership in the Shit Out of Luck Club. The interstate wasn’t any better when I got to Denver. In fact, it was like driving on a hockey rink, and to make matters worse, I-70 eastbound was closed. Denver ended up with the most Thanksgiving Day snow in 40 years.

Where I Was on I-70 vs. Where I Was Supposed to Be

I checked into an old motel somewhere outside of Denver where I befriended an Alaskan crab fisherman. We were the only two people at the motel. My days were spent photographing migrating birds, reading, and waiting for the blizzard to pass. When I left three days later, I was immediately met with wind gusts that picked my car up off the road. Since driving was out of the question yet again, I found another motel where I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and fought the misery of isolation. If there wasn’t a lot to do at the first motel, there wasn’t shit to do at this one. The gal at the front desk, a local who was familiar with the weather patterns, said there may be a window of time in the morning to skedaddle.

8th Stop – East St. Louis, IL. 765 miles from the middle of nowhere in east Colorado.

I woke up at 7:00 a.m., poured a cup of awful motel lobby coffee, and blasted “East Bound and Down” as I put the hammer down. When I say I was hauling ass, Snowman and the Bandit would’ve been proud. I drove twelve straight hours through rainstorms until I got to St. Louis. This is where things got hairy.

There is NO WAY of knowing what I’m about to tell you if you’re not from the Midwest. You have St. Louis in the “Show-Me” state. Gateway to the West, loyal baseball fans, etc. On the other side of the Mississippi River in Illinois is East St. Louis, affectionately known as the East Boogie and the Murder Capital of the U.S. Two totally different cities, right next to each other, that pretty much share the same name. Take a guess on which side of the river I was on.

I had no idea where I was. I didn’t even know I was in Illinois. I knew I was rolling the dice with a Motel 6, but I figured the worst-case scenario would be subpar accommodations. At this point, I was exhausted and needed a place to get a few hours of sleep. I pulled up in the BMW wearing a v-neck sweater and horn-rimmed glasses. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve assumed I just left the Harvard-Yale game. The only way I could’ve looked like a bigger asshole was if I walked in like Roger Down with golf clubs on my shoulder. The receptionist behind the bulletproof glass asked if I was lost. I replied, “No ma’am, I have a reservation under Evans.” I went to my room, laid on the bed with my clothes on, and no less than ten minutes later, all hell broke loose.

Roger Dorn, Third Baseman, Cleveland Indians

A gang of doped-up prostitutes started screaming at a pimp. To illustrate the magnitude of the chaos, these ladies made Alex and his droogs from A Clockwork Orange look like petty delinquents. It didn’t take long before the pimp was threatening to murder and maim all of them. I was terrified. Words that would shock the devil himself were exchanged, weapons were pulled, and a knife fight ensued.

Minutes later, I heard a body being dragged into an elevator — a grotesque theater of violence. When my adrenaline finally calmed down, another fight broke out between a prostitute and a John. At some point, I crashed from exhaustion and stress, but I couldn’t tell you when.

9th and Final Stop – Atlanta, GA. 550 miles from the East Boogie.

I left at five in the morning, and like a jackass, I checked out like I was staying at the Four Seasons. The woman behind the glass looked at me like I was crazy. Old habits die hard.

Before I left, I asked, “Y’all have a prostitution thing going on?”

The receptionist aloofly replied, “Nah baby, we ain’t got that shit here.”

“Are you sure?” I asked in a slightly sarcastic tone.

Her head tilted and her brow furled. “Was you on the fourth floor?” she cautiously asked.

“Yeah.”

“Shit! Tell you what baby, next time you’re in the Boogie, the room is on the house.”

I laughed and gave her a wink as I departed, knowing our paths would never cross again. I drove the remainder of the trip through Kentucky and Tennessee, pondering over what happened and wishing things had gone as planned. I was supposed to be hiking up Bridal Veil Falls in Telluride and checking out pueblos in Taos, not stuck in motels en route to a homicide. On the other hand, the overwhelming majority of the trip was as good as it gets. To see the sun set on Utah’s Wasatch Range was just as cool as seeing the sun rise over the Tetons. And you couldn’t find nicer folks than the locals in Sun Valley and Aspen. When I crossed the Georgia state line, I turned on the radio and listened to the UGA-Tech game.

I couldn’t help but laugh thinking of Lewis Grizzard’s declaration after a miserable winter in the Midwest:

“If I ever get back to Georgia, I’m gonna nail my feet to the ground.”