Oh, the charm of a Southern city in springtime - the sweet smell of honeysuckles dissipating in the air while you fill up your gas tank with 4$ gallons of liquid gold. The sounds of gunfire, car backfires, and screeching tires blend into a mesmerizing crescendo. I’m waxing prose to get myself warmed up. Hang with me.
These are just a few thoughts that ran through my mind as I waited for a rock show at The Signal in downtown Chattanooga. The anticipation of being out on the town was growing. It started about 3 p.m. I hadn’t been this fired up since Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris had an illegal fight in 1972. I watched it from a rooftop. I was a chimney sweep in those days. The truth is, I don’t get out much anymore, and reality is a work in progress.
The human mind is a mysterious thing. It builds with adrenaline, knowing the impending doom you will inevitably experience in your health when the boys all get together.
The drinks started early at our rendezvous on the mountain. We called a cab. We all knew where this was going. A gal of Malaysian descent arrived. A conversation started about some of her recent drop-offs. As we passed Eagles Nest State Park just below Ruby Falls, I asked if she had dropped off anyone there. She said, “No, why, what is it?”
I said, “It’s an old devil-worshipping place, according to local folklore.”
I have a way of starting great conversations.
She asked, “What did they do there?”
I replied, “Just the standard stuff - human sacrifices.“
From the back seat, a tipsy wingman blurted out, “It was just raccoon sacrifices.”
The cabbie said, “We have a problem with shrunken heads in Malaysia."
“At least you don’t have one hanging from the rearview mirror," I said. “But you can let me out at the next block.”
She laughed and said, “You guys funny.”
The warm and fuzzy feeling for my town was rattled somewhat by the shrunken head image, which momentarily lingered in my mind.
The first strike was when I was all but cavity-searched like a terrorist before entering The Signal. I guess they were looking for weapons. Why, just the other day, I was making reservations at a local restaurant, and they advised me to bring a gun. The magnetometer could’ve been for metal flasks. That makes sense because I paid $63 for three drinks. I asked the bartender if that included insurance.
They don’t accept cash at the bar. There’s no trust left in the world. But I forgot to add the tip, so I pulled out a $20 bill and said take five bucks out for yourself. There was a cashbox back there somewhere. He gives me back five. Oh well, what’s the difference between $48 and $63?
The JJ Grey & Mofro concert was excellent. The band rocked hard for hours.
And there was no line at the bar. It was a thrifty crowd. Smart too.
After the show, we couldn’t find an Uber. We all three hit the 60-year-old technology barrier.
My lawyer compadre couldn’t figure it out. He plowed the Internet for 45 minutes for a ride. It’s good he didn’t go into IT.
I tried to find a cab, but after updating to iOS 17.1 the other day, my iPhone 13 went bananas. The battery dies 10 times faster than before. It’s acting up like a two-year-old. And I didn’t realize placing your phone in night mode puts you into a different dimensional universe where only SpaceX engineers venture. My new phone is only 18 months old. My iPhone 6 battery lasted seven years. I never updated it. But I’m over 60 and losing it, and I forgot about the update risks. Apple wouldn't intentionally slow their phones down to create a new upcycle of sales, would they? Then, my other compadre, our last hope, was no help whatsoever - he lost his phone.
When the going gets tough, this group gets %#*£\. So we decided to hitchhike to another bar. And we caught a ride immediately. We bailed out at JJ. Bohemian, a bar that caters to night owls. We partied like '70s rock stars, minus the long hair. None of us knew how we would get home. We tumbled onto MLK Boulevard. What lurks among the red bricks and dark alleys of ol’ downtown - the whispers in the night that only the shadows hear - there’s no turning back now - and why should we?
Suddenly, there was no care in the world - enough was enough. It wasn’t our destiny to be homeward-bound. (There are worse things than dozing off on a park bench and carrying on twisted conversations with friends ‘til sunrise) A second wind came - and we charged straight into the night’s remaining activities with gusto. Ok, let’s be honest. It’s not as dramatic as changing course at Cape Horn.
As the midnight hour passed, the crowd thinned, and thoughts of reality crept in after happily losing ourselves for the last few hours.
I thought of our next move - mimosas at the Read House for breakfast.
Then, out of nowhere, a warm, beautiful person of tremendous character appeared. The woman who owned the building of the establishment we had crashed granted us a night’s reprieve in her apartment above the bar and got us off the streets. It pays to know somebody.
JJ Bohemia is gaining legendary status in the South for being that rare, no-frills, rock-n-roll bar that sentimental, long-neck beer drinkers love.
So when the going gets tough - embrace the noise, allow the silence, and challenge the fear because life without mystery dulls the senses. This town has still got something. But one thing that will never change. If you have friends, you have a lot. Keep pushing C-towners for a safe and fun way forward because we’re changing at a breakneck pace. And for God’s sake, keep it warm and fuzzy a little longer for this roustabout.
Stacey Alexander