The First Panel of the Garden of Earthly Delights

Hermes adjusted to a young nomadic life where he only possessed what he carried in his bag. He smoked what cigarettes he was given, and he was loved by those who were amused by his peculiarities. Much of the time, he slept on one of a few sofas in apartments rented by college students. The adolescent tides of sexual appetite were a plague. Skateboarding of course alleviated some of that energy, but it was still there, still persistent and at times nearly consuming. One morning he woke up on the sofa of 4 college girls' living room with Ted staring down at him. Ted asked, "Did you hear? We're going to Louisiana?" "What? What the hell are you talking about?" "It's in the papers and all. Get your stuff together. Oh, that's right, you don't have any stuff to get together. Jason will be here in 15 minutes."

So Hermes took Ted's word for it and woke up enough to get his bag back together and smoke cigarette ends in the ashtray. It was about as strange a way to wake up as he had known. Soon enough, Jason came in the door to the apartment and waved a hand that said, "saddle up, boys, we're hitting the trail" and we followed him out to the Isuzu Rodeo that a significant injury had won him. I'm sure he'd prefer to have his original health, but today he was making use of the car

"Where are we going?" Hermes demanded. "Do you really care, man?" Jason responded. And in that question lay his answer. Hermes knew a girl, a very beautiful and young girl he had met at some religious camp a couple of years back and had kept in correspondence with. Ted's dad lived in the mountains in Tennessee. There was the itinerary.

Along the way, they passed through Gatlinburg, home of Dollywood. They didn't stop. Late in the evening, at dusk they must have arrived at Ted's dad's little house on the mountainside. Hermes had been asleep and no one woke him up until they were going to eat. Then they came and got him out of the car and for the second time in one day he woke to a world of absurdity.

Across the gravel, just inside the door were the washing machine and dryer, upon which a shotgun lay. There was a chain around the handle of the refrigerator, with a lock that wasn't fastened. Ted introduced Hermes. "What is he, some kind of Indian?" asked Ted's dad. Ted smiled his mischievous smirk and said, "yeah, he's Cherokee I believe." "Well he better not steal nothing."

Ted's dad's friends were sitting around a small table playing cards. He relayed the introduction, "This is my injun' friend, 'Hermes'. Say 'How', Hermes." "Uhm, Hello."

It became Hermes' task to open the cans of Chili for dinner and heat them up on the vintage stove. This bound him to the same kitchen as the country gentlemen playing cards around the table, with their witty comments and banter and asides. "Don't burn the chili!" they admonished him.

They ate the damned chili from a can. Since Hermes was lowest on the Totem, so to speak, and last one in the house, he was given a reclining chair to sleep in. The only channel that Ted's dad watched was the Country Music Channel, and he left it on 24 hours a day in case he might miss something. So Hermes let his exhausted soul sink into that dusty reclining chair to the Achy Breaky Heart that was this world.

In the morning, Ted briefed Hermes and Jason on the mission they had to get to the country store and get supplies for his father. It was assumed that because Ted was from Back East he had money and the inclination to look after his kin. So Ted pretended that he did.

At the store they had plenty of cans of chili, corned beef hash, boxes of gelatin, bread and butter pickles, white bread, and various canned vegetables. They also had whiskey. Ted bought some of each. None of us had any money. It was insane.

When we got back and Ted presented his gratitude for the hospitality, Ted's dad asked if we'd ever had moonshine. It was like 9 in the morning. He produced a canning jar from under the sink with an apple floating in it. Then he unscrewed the lid, handed it to me and said, "be careful, you're an injun'." And so I was.

We let it be known that we were going on our way, that we were very grateful, and that we'd stop by on the way back if means allowed. Then we saddled up, walked past the laundry with the shotgun on top of it, and into the auto. Back on the interstate, we headed south. The new mission was the utopia of New Orleans, a magical city of costumes and nudity, like some sort of occult ball.

Along the way, I disclosed that I knew a beautiful girl whom I had kissed at camp some time back who lived in Louisiana. She lived in Natchitoches. That was where we should be heading. She was hot, and sweet, and southern. So Natchitoches replaced New Orleans for me, and when we got there I knew in my heart I wouldn't be leaving.

When we found the town, we looked for a phone booth. Back in those days some phone booths had phone books chained to them. I looked up "Iskenderian" and found an address that matched the one I recalled from our correspondence. I phoned the number and she was jumping on the phone with excitement. Why she'd be so excited to hear from me was unknown, but it was a good omen.

We pulled into the gravel driveway some minutes later, passing along the Red River and its french iron wrought benches. Everything was glowing with warm and wet sun. Spanish moss draped the trees and I knew I was in a magical land, somewhere else. Her family, her mother was somewhat cautious by us three boys, but because of my very factual and sincere presentation of my homeless predicament, she insisted that I stay with her. The other two had other plans. Ted and Jason were still New Orleans bound.

Jason didn't believe I was staying. But I was. I wanted a new life, and this was far enough away from anything I knew that I could start living here. Really start living. The aether was thin and I could breathe. Each lungful of wet air gave me a hunger for the potential. I was staying.