The Lost Continent (5 page)

I had a shower—that is to say, water dribbled onto my head from a nozzle in the wall—and afterwards went out to check out the town. I had a meal of gristle and baked whiffle ball at a place called—aptly—Chuck’s. I didn’t think it was possible to get a truly bad meal anywhere in the Midwest, but Chuck managed to provide it. It was the worst food I had ever had—and remember, I’ve lived in England. It had all the attributes of chewing gum, except flavor. Even now when I burp I can taste it.

Afterwards I had a look around the town. There wasn’t much. It was mostly just one street, with a grain silo and railroad tracks at one end and my motel at the other, with a couple of gas stations and grocery stores in between. Everyone regarded me with interest. Years ago, in the midst of a vivid and impressionable youth, I read a chilling story by Richard Matheson about a remote hamlet whose inhabitants waited every year for a lone stranger to come to town so that they could roast him for their annual barbecue. The people here watched me with barbecue eyes.

Feeling self-conscious, I went into a dark place called Vern’s Tap and took a seat at the bar. I was the only customer, apart from an old man in the corner with only one leg. The barmaid was friendly. She wore butterfly glasses and a beehive hairdo. You could see in an instant that she had been the local good-time girl since about 1931. She had “Ready for Sex” written all over her face, but “Better Bring a Paper Bag” written all over her body. Somehow she had managed to pour her capacious backside into some tight red toreador pants and to stretch a clinging blouse over her bosom. She looked as if she had dressed in her granddaughter’s clothes by mistake. She was about sixty. I could see why the guy with one leg had chosen to sit in the farthest corner.

I asked her what people in Dullard did for fun. “What exactly did you have in mind, honey?” she said and rolled her eyes suggestively. “Well, perhaps something in the way of legitimate theater or maybe an international chess congress,” I croaked weakly. However, once we established that I was only prepared to love her for her mind, she became quite sensible and even rather charming. She told me in great and frank detail about her life, which seemed to have involved a dizzying succession of marriages to guys who were now in prison or dead as a result of shootouts, and dropped in breathtakingly candid disclosures like, “Now Jimmy kilt his mother, I never did know why, but Curtis never kilt nobody except once by accident when he was robbing a gas station and his gun went off. And Floyd—he was my fourth husband—he never kilt nobody neither, but he used to break people’s arms if they got him riled.”

“You must have some interesting family reunions,” I ventured politely.

“I don’t know what ever became of Floyd,” she went on. “He had a little cleft in his chin rot year”—after a moment I realized that this was downstate Illinois for “right here, on this very spot indicated”—“that made him look kind of like Kirk Douglas. He was real cute, but he had a temper on him. I got a two-foot scar right across my back where he cut me with an ice pick. You wanna see it?” She started to hoist up her blouse, but I stopped her. She went on and on like that for ages. Every once in a while the guy in the corner, who was clearly eavesdropping, would grin, showing large yellow teeth. I expect Floyd had torn his leg off in a moment of high spirits. At the end of our conversation, the barmaid gave me a sideways look, as if I had been slyly trying to fool her, and said, “Say, where do you come from anyway, honey?”

I didn’t feel like giving her my whole life story, so I just said, “Great Britain.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, honey,” she said, “for a foreigner you speak English real good.”

Afterwards I retired with a six-pack to my motel, where I discovered that the bed, judging by its fragrance and shape, had only recently been vacated by a horse. It had a sag in it so severe that I could see the TV at its foot only by splaying my legs to their widest extremity. It was like lying in a wheelbarrow. The night was hot and the air conditioner, an aged Philco window unit, expended so much energy making a noise like a steelworks that it could only manage to emit the feeblest and most occasional puffs of cool air. I lay with the six-pack on my chest, effectively immobilized, and drank the beers one by one. On the TV was a talk show presided over by some smooth asshole in a blazer whose name I didn’t catch. He was the kind of guy for whom personal hair care was clearly a high priority. He exchanged some witless banter with the bandleader, who of course had a silvery goatee, and then turned to the camera and said in a solemn voice, “But seriously, folks. If you’ve ever had a personal problem or trouble at work or you just can’t seem to get a grip on life, I know you’re gonna be real interested in what our first guest has to tell you tonight. Ladies and gentlemen: Dr. Joyce Brothers.”

As the band launched into a perky tune and Joyce Brothers strode onstage, I sat up as far as the bed would allow me and cried, “Joyce! Joyce Brothers!” as if to an old friend. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen Joyce Brothers for years and she hadn’t changed a bit. Not one hair on her head had altered a fraction since the last time I saw her, droning on about menstrual flow, in 1962. It was as if they had kept her in a box for twenty-five years. This was as close as I would ever come to time travel. I watched agog as she and Mr. Smoothie chattered away about penis envy and fallopian tubes. I kept expecting him to say to her, “Now seriously, Joyce, here’s a question all America has been wanting me to ask you: What sort of drugs do you take to keep yourself looking like that? Also, when are you going to do something about that hairstyle? And finally, why is it, do you think, that talk-show bozos like me all over America keep inviting you back again and again?” Because, let’s be frank, Joyce Brothers is pretty dull. I mean, if you turn on the Johnny Carson show and she is one of the guests you know that absolutely everybody in town must be at some really big party or premiere. She is like downstate Illinois made flesh.

Still, like most immensely boring things, there is something wonderfully comforting about her. Her cheery visage on the glowing box at the foot of my bed made me feel strangely warm and whole and at peace with the world. Out here in this crud-bucket motel in the middle of a great empty plain I began for the first time to feel at home. I somehow knew that when I awoke I would see this alien land in a new but oddly familiar light. With a happy heart, I fell asleep and dreamed gentle dreams of southern Illinois and the rolling Mississippi River and Dr. Joyce Brothers. And it’s not often you hear anyone say that either.

4

I
n the morning I crossed the Mississippi at Quincy; somehow it didn’t look as big or majestic as I had remembered it. It was stately. It was imposing. It took whole minutes to cross. But it was also somehow flat and dull. This may have had something to do with the weather, which was likewise flat and dull. Missouri looked precisely the same as Illinois, which had looked precisely the same as Iowa. The only difference was that the car license plates were a different color.

Near Palmyra, I stopped at a roadside cafe for breakfast and took a seat at the counter. At this hour, just after eight in the morning, it was full of farmers. If there is one thing farmers sure do love it is to drive into town and spend half a day (a whole day in winter) sitting at a counter with a bunch of other farmers drinking coffee and teasing the waitress in a half-assed sort of way. I had thought that this was the busiest time of their year, but they didn’t seem to be in any rush. Every once in a while one of them would put a quarter on the counter, get up with the air of a man who has just loaded six gallons of coffee into his belly, tell Tammy not to do anything he wouldn’t do, and depart. A moment later we would hear the grip of his pickup truck’s wheels on the gravel drive, someone would say something candid about him, provoking appreciative laughter, and the conversation would drift lazily back to hogs, state politics, Big Eight football and—when Tammy was out of earshot—sexual predilections, not least Tammy’s.

The farmer next to me had only three fingers on his right hand. It is a little-noticed fact that most farmers have parts missing off them. This used to trouble me when I was small. For a long time I assumed that it was because of the hazards of farming life. After all, farmers deal with lots of dangerous machinery. But when you think about it, a lot of people deal with dangerous machinery, and only a tiny proportion of them ever suffer permanent injury. Yet there is scarcely a farmer in the Midwest over the age of twenty who has not some time or other had a limb or digit yanked off and thrown into the next field by some noisy farmyard implement. To tell you the absolute truth, I think farmers do it on purpose. I think working day after day beside these massive threshers and balers with their grinding gears and flapping fan belts and complex mechanisms they get a little hypnotized by all the noise and motion. They stand there staring at the whirring machinery and they think, “I wonder what would happen if I just stuck my finger in there a little bit.” I know that sounds crazy. But you have to realize that farmers don’t have a whole lot of sense in these matters because they feel no pain. It’s true. Every day in the
Des Moines Register
you can find a story about a farmer who has inadvertently torn off an arm and then calmly walked six miles into the nearest town to have it sewn back on. The stories always say, “Jones, clutching his severed limb, told his physician, ‘I seem to have cut my durn arm off, Doc.’ ” It’s never: “Jones, spurting blood, jumped around hysterically for twenty minutes, fell into a swoon and then tried to run in four directions at once,” which is how it would be with you or me. Farmers simply don’t feel pain—that little voice in your head that tells you not to do something because it’s foolish and will hurt like hell and for the rest of your life somebody will have to cut up your food for you doesn’t speak to them. My grandfather was just the same. He would often be repairing the car when the jack would slip and he would call out to you to come and crank it up again as he was having difficulty breathing, or he would run over his foot with the lawn mower, or touch a live wire, shorting out the whole of Winfield but leaving himself unscathed apart from a ringing in the ears and a certain lingering smell of burnt flesh. Like most people from the rural Midwest, he was practically indestructible. There are only three things that can kill a farmer: lightning, rolling over in a tractor and old age. It was old age that got my grandfather.

I drove on forty miles south to Hannibal, and went to see Mark Twain’s boyhood home, a trim and tidy whitewashed house with green shutters set incongruously in the middle of the downtown. It cost two dollars to get in and was a disappointment. It purported to be a faithful reproduction of the original interiors, but there were wires and water sprinklers clumsily evident in every room. I also very much doubt that young Samuel Clemens’s bedroom had Armstrong vinyl on the floor (the same pattern as in my mother’s kitchen, I was interested to note) or that his sister’s bedroom had a plywood partition in it. You don’t actually go in the house; you look through the windows. At each window there is a recorded message telling you about that room as if you were a moron (“This is the kitchen. This is where Mrs. Clemens would prepare the family’s meals. . . .”). The whole thing is pretty shabby, which wouldn’t be so awful if it were owned by some underfunded local literary society and they were doing the best they could with it. In fact, it is owned by the city of Hannibal and it draws 135,000 visitors a year. It’s a little gold mine for the town.

I proceeded from window to window behind a bald fat guy, whose abundant rolls of flesh made him look as if he were wearing an assortment of inner tubes beneath his shirt. “What do you think of it?” I asked him. He fixed me with that instant friendliness Americans freely adopt with strangers. It is their most becoming trait. “Oh, I think it’s great. I come here whenever I’m in Hannibal—two, three times a year. Sometimes I go out of my way to come here.”

“Really?” I tried not to sound dumbfounded.

“Yeah. I must have been here twenty, thirty times by now. This is a real shrine, you know.”

“You think it’s well done?”

“Oh, for sure.”

“Would you say the house is just like Twain described it in his books?”

“I don’t know,” the man said thoughtfully. “I’ve never read one of his books.”

Next door, attached to the house, was a small museum, which was better. There were cases of Twain memorabilia—first editions, one of his typewriters, photographs, some letters. There was precious little to link him to the house or the town. It is worth remembering that Twain got the hell out of both Hannibal and Missouri as soon as he could, and was always disinclined to come back. I went outside and looked around. Beside the house was a white fence with a sign saying, T
OM
S
AWYER
’
S
F
ENCE
. H
ERE
STOOD
THE
BOARD
FENCE
WHICH
T
OM
S
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PERSUADED
HIS
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TO
PAY
HIM
FOR
THE
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WHITEWASHING
. T
OM
SAT
BY
AND
SAW
THAT
IT
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. Really wakes up your interest in literature, doesn’t it? Next door to the Twain house and museum—and I mean absolutely right next to it—was the Mark Twain Drive-In Restaurant and Dinette, with cars parked in little bays and people grazing off trays attached to their windows. It really lent the scene a touch of class. I began to understand why Clemens not just left town but also changed his name.

I strolled around the business district. The whole area was a dispiriting combination of auto parts stores, empty buildings and vacant lots. I had always thought that all river towns, even the poor ones, had something about them—a kind of faded elegance, a raffish air—that made them more interesting than other towns, that the river served as a conduit to the larger world and washed up a more interesting and sophisticated brand of detritus. But not Hannibal. It had obviously had better days, but even they couldn’t have been all that great. The Hotel Mark Twain was boarded up. That’s a sad sight—a tall building with every window plugged with plywood. Every business in town appeared to trade on Twain and his books—the Mark Twain Roofing Company, the Mark Twain Savings and Loan, the Tom ’n’ Huck Motel, the Injun Joe Campground and Go-Kart Track, the Huck Finn Shopping Center. You could even go and be insane at the Mark Twain Mental Health Center—a possibility that would, I imagine, grow increasingly likely with every day spent in Hannibal. The whole place was sad and awful. I had been planning to stay for lunch, but the thought of having to face a Tom Sawyer Burger or Injun Joe Cola left me without any appetite for either food or Hannibal.