Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
“Don'tknow,”hesaidabruptlywithoutlookingatme.Thenhelookedatme.“Don'tknow
nothin' about that. You want your oil checked?”
I hesitated, surprised by the question. “No thank you.”
“That's eleven dollars.” He took my money without thanks and went back inside. I was
fairly dumbfounded. I don't know quite why. Through the window I could see him pick
up his telephone and make a call. He looked at me as he did it. Suddenly I felt alarmed.
What if he was calling the police to tell them to come out and shoot me? I laid a small
patch of rubber on his driveway as I departed-something you don't often see achieved with
aChevette-and made thepistons singasIflooredtheaccelerator andhurtled outoftownat
a breakneck twenty-seven miles an hour. But a mile or so later I slowed down. Partly this
was because I was going up an almost vertical hill and the car wouldn't go any faster-for
one breathless moment I thought it might actually start rolling backwards-and partly be-
causeItoldmyselfnottobesojumpy.Theguywasprobablyjustcallinghiswifetoremind
her to buy more wart lotion. Even if he was calling the police to report an outsider asking
impertinent questions,whatcouldtheydotome?Itwasafreecountry.Ihadn'tbrokenany
laws. I had asked an innocent question, and asked it politely. How could anyone take of-
fenseatthat?ClearlyIwasbeingsillytofeelanysenseofmenace.Evenso,Ifoundmyself
glancing frequently into the rearview mirror and half expecting to see the hill behind me
crawling with flashing squad cars and posses of volunteer vigilantes in pickup trucks com-
ing after me. Judiciously, I stepped up my speed from eleven to thirteen miles an hour.
High up the hill I began to encounter shacks set back in clearings in the woods, and peered
attheminthehopeofglimpsingaMelungeonortwo.ButthefewpeopleIsawwerewhite.
They stared at me with a strange look of surprise as I lumbered past, the way you might
stare at a man riding an ostrich, and generally made no response to my cheerful wave,
though one or two did reply with an automatic and economical wave of their own, a raised
hand and a twitch of fingers.
This was real hillbilly country. Many of the shacks looked like something out of “Li'l Ab-
ner,” with sagging porches and tilting chimneys. Some were abandoned. Many appeared to
havebeenhandmade,withramblingextensionsthathadclearlybeenfashionedfromscraps
of plundered wood. People in these hills still made moonshine, or stump liquor as they call
it. But the big business these days is marijuana, believe it or not. I read somewhere that
whole mountain villages sometimes band together and can make $i00,000 a month from a
couple of acres planted in some remote and lofty hollow. That, more than the Melungeons,
is an excellent reason not to be a stranger asking questions in the area.
