Chapter 6 #2
I’s not far. You’ve walked further. Just follow the road and—BOOM—you’re in Possibly, Jordy. She had announced brightly through the car window, though her eyes were glistening.
Jordy.
My name is Jordan. Mom calls me “Jordy.”
I hate it.
But I hated it more when she dumped me out of the car and told me to make my own way from the highway into Possibly—all through the freaking window of the car—and then drove off happily, waving as she left me there on the side of the road.
That’s my mom. Leaving a sixteen year old on the side of the highway with his backpack and two suitcases on wheels to walk two miles down a dirt road so that she can get to Vegas quicker.
I guess that’s all you really need to know about her. That, and the actress thing.
When I had started walking along Two-Mile Trail, mostly dry, grassy fields rolled outwards from each side of the road.
After what I guessed was the first mile of the trail, trees and lush green grass started to appear.
When the trees and green grass appeared, somehow, the walk became less miserable.
The trees weren’t close enough to the road to provide any shade, but they somehow made it seem a little less sweltering on the road.
After a few minutes of having trees and lush grass as my view, I started to hear music off in the distance.
Well, something that sounded like music. It was kind of indiscernible.
There was something familiar about it, though, and that’s why I thought it was music.
It sounded like a song I’d heard before.
However, ahead of me was a bend in the road, and all I could see was trees.
I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from or why someone was playing music out in the middle of nowhere.
Even in the middle of the day, it was kind of creepy. I mean, who goes out to the middle of nowhere, on some dirt road, to play music?
My steps became slower and shorter and my hands clutched my suitcase handles tighter as I made my way towards the bend in the road.
What would I possibly do if I rounded the bend and found some banjo-picking weirdo sitting on the tailgate of his pickup truck, half of his teeth missing, and a smirk on his face?
I mean, I could’ve run like hell—which, we’ve established, I can do well—but I would’ve had to dump my suitcases.
Besides my backpack, they held everything I owned.
Back the way I came on Two-Mile Trail was the only direction I could’ve run unless I wanted to venture into the trees.
I didn’t know the woods. I could’ve easily gotten lost. A country bumpkin—probably with fewer teeth than brain cells—a banjo, and a pickup truck, probably knew the woods well.
He would’ve easily caught me. I would have been tied up in a cellar in no time.
Having to walk down a dirt road to some tiny town in the middle of nowhere would’ve been the least of my problems then.
Some guy wanting to make you his teenage bride and then use your skin to make an area rug is definitely the worst way the day could have ended. I had thought to myself.
As I drew closer to the bend that cut through the trees to the left, or a westerly direction, the sound grew louder and clearer.
It was a country song—I thought—that sounded familiar.
Of course, it easily could have been a song playing on a truck radio.
The truck radio of the country bumpkin with missing teeth.
Even though the sound was familiar, and most likely a song being played, it didn’t comfort me much.
Sure, the sun was out, and it wasn’t like I couldn’t run away if I found myself in a dangerous situation, but being out in the middle of nowhere by myself, the song was just eerie.
Who would be playing a song out in the sticks?
Since I’d walked away from the highway, I hadn’t seen a single sign of civilization, so hearing a country song playing out in the woods was odd.
My fingers tightened around my suitcase handles as I continued my sweaty march along the road, determined to make my way around the bend.
If some weirdo jumped out of the trees, I’d swing one of my suitcases at him.
My suitcases contained everything I owned.
Having one or both knocked up against your head would easily lay someone out.
But this is Texas, Jordan. What if the weirdo has a gun?
My heart began thundering in my throat as I followed the road along its curve, wondering what I’d find coming into view.
When I had turned along the bend in the road, the sound became clearer, no longer blocked by the trees.
I had been right. The song was familiar.
I’d heard it a million times when we were in places like Nashville and Memphis—where country, bluegrass, and all things Americana reigned.
It was Then I’d Be Satisfied with My Life by Tiny Tim.
There wasn’t some weirdo sitting in a beat-up pickup truck playing the song on his stereo, though.
No weirdos were in sight, actually. Along the right side of the road, my eyes landed on a waist-high pole sticking out of the ground, a speaker attached to the top of it.
The song was coming from the speaker on the pole.
The sight made me falter a bit, but when I looked further up the road, my eyes landed on a river…
actually, more of a creek. A wooden bridge, just wide enough for one car to cross at a time, spanned the width of the creek.
Just beyond sat Possibly, Texas. Having walked down the dirt road with nothing but trees and grass to look at for the last several minutes, the sudden appearance of the town out of nowhere was unnerving.
Everything looked normal, though. Well, as normal as small-town Texas can.
Sensing that I wasn’t in danger as I had imagined, I loosened my grip on my suitcase handles and my knuckles gave a sigh of relief.
Approaching the radio on the pole, I still felt uneasy—because who sticks a radio on a pole on the side of road just outside of town?
—but with the town in view, I easily swallowed my concerns.
At least what passed for civilization in the buttcrack of Texas was just over the bridge.
I could probably scream for help if I did find myself in danger.
Tiny Tim crooned a final time about being “satisfied with life” and the music faded from the radio as I stood at the side of the road, suitcases in hand, staring across the creek at Possibly.
When a voice poured from the speaker, I nearly came out of my skin.
My fingers jerked and both of my suitcases tipped over, sending clouds of dirt billowing up from the road where they landed.
“You’ve been listening to AMOR, the most popular radio station in Possibly, Texas. All day long from 6am to 6pm.” The gravelly male voice announced.
Ah. It’s a local radio station. I chuckled nervously to myself as I knelt to pull my suitcases out of the dirt once again.
“That was Then I’d Be Satisfied with My Life by Tiny Tim. Next up—Then I’d Be Satisfied with My Life by Tiny Tim!”
I rose, suitcase handles gripped tightly, my eyes locked on the speaker. Surely, the man hadn’t announced that he was going to play the same song they had just played. Right? And 6am to 6pm is not all day long. Right?
Tiny Tim’s voice poured from the speaker, warning people to never hit their grandmas with a shovel, proving that the radio DJ hadn’t been lying about his intentions. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t get my feet to move for several moments.
“What in the crap?” I actually mumbled out loud as I stared at the speaker.
I’m not sure how long Tiny Tim’s Then I’d Be Satisfied with My Life is, but that’s how long I stood there, gripping my suitcases, sweating and staring at the speaker. Once again, the song faded away, and the radio DJ’s voice replaced it.
“You’ve been listening to AMOR, the most popular radio station in Possibly, Texas. All day long from 6am to 6pm,” he said.
I waited.
“That was Then I’d Be Satisfied with My Life by Tiny Tim. Next up—Then I’d Be Satisfied with My Life by Tiny Tim.”
Even with Possibly just down the road and over the bridge, clearly in sight, my feet didn’t want to move at first. What the heck was going on with the radio station?
Playing the same song three times in a row?
And not even a recent, popular hit. Tiny Tim was their choice to play three times in a row. That was just odd.
Welcome to Texas. I thought to myself.
“Ooooookay.” I rolled my shoulders.
Apparently, AMOR in Possibly, Texas had a limited number of songs to choose from each day.
Instead of contemplating what was wrong with the people over at the radio station, why they put speakers on poles, and why they had chosen Tiny Tim of all artists to play, I commanded my aching feet into motion once again.
Even though I had newish shoes and the walk into Possibly hadn’t actually been that far, my dogs were barking.
I just wanted to sit back and kick my feet up—preferably after kicking my shoes off.
Of course, just getting to Possibly was one part of the problem.
Finding the right house in town was the other part.
For all I knew, I would soon be living under the wooden bridge I had to cross to get into town.