Journey
by
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I started out hitchhiking. It was the summer of '71 and I had probably two weeks left before it was back to school. Back to school was by no means a chore. Having to return to home and parents was, in my perception, a fate worse than death. The dogmatism, the attempts at dominance, the efforts to make one regress to a preadolescent state, were too much for an already beaten mind. I had made the Dean's List the previous semester and my recently completed summer school experience had yielded 3 A's and a B. Both successes which I knew would not only bear no fruits of reward, but would somehow be twisted into facts to use against me. Having stayed on at the college as a laborer with the Maintenance Department for an extra week, I had some extra cash with which to fund my vacation. When the work had ended, I had hitched home for a night's sleep and a washing machine. Perilously waking the next morning, I had filled my duffle bag with most everything I had in the way of summer clothing and walked the mile which separated my parents' home from the main highway. I was immediately picked up by a couple from my parents' church and upon their questioning, it dawned on me that I hadn't decided where I was going. "Where are you going?" I asked. "Myrtle Beach," was their reply. "Where are YOU going?" "Somewhere between here and Myrtle Beach." This reply got them off my back long enough to contemplate exactly where I was going and possibly even why. I knew a guy whose parents had a summer home at Cherry Grove. I figured that I could get up with him and spend a day or two. Other than that, I just watched the signs and the towns. This was before there was an interstate every 15 minutes. Two lane driving seems like an immense hassle nowadays, but back then it was how one traveled. My friends made polite conversation. The man and his wife had a daughter a year younger than I and a son who was 4 years younger. Neither of their children was accompanying them on this vacation. We stopped for gas at a station just outside the town of Estes. It dawned on me that I had several friends from school who lived in or around this town and who just might be interesting to spend some time with. "I think I'll get out here," I told them. "Are you sure? We don't want to leave you in the middle of nowhere," they said, more politely than nervously. "I'll be O.K. I've got friends from school here. I'm sure I can get up with them and, maybe, go to Hancock Beach for a couple of days. They'll put me up. No problem." "Do you need anything?" they asked. "No. I'll be fine. Thank you," I replied. "Good luck," the man told me as he got back into his car. I began to walk. I could see the beginnings of the town of about 7000 residents. Estes was an interesting place. The landmark of note was a kind of redneck resort area known as Lake Willard. It was largely a place for farmers and their families to visit during the summer. The camper era had not blossomed and Lake Willard was a place to take a vacation for a day. The families would leave before dawn, swim, boat, and cook out until the edge of dusk, then return home exhausted only to wake up the next day and return to the back-breaking work in the fields. Many of my school friends worked at the lake during the summer. There were arcades, food booths, even some carnival-type rides. There were no industries of note to allude to in defining the town. There were two huge paper mills within 30 miles which provided some employment for the factory types. There were also several large tobacco warehouses in the area, but except for the owners, their families, and the array of auctioneers, ticket markers, etc., they provided little more than seasonal employment opportunities. I was walking on the sidewalk in front of a local school with my bag over my shoulder when I heard a car horn blowing. A familiar face emerged from the window. It was Perry Baxter, a guy who had been in a couple of my classes. "Whatcha doing around here, Eddie?" he asked. "Doing a little traveling before we have to go back to school. What are you doing?" I replied. "I been working for my father most of the summer. I had to get the oil changed in my car and I'm fixing to go back to the office," he said. Perry came from what the people in that area would call a rich family. His father owned a sawmill and Perry was an only child. He dressed in what I would come to call a "fraternity" manner. Starched Gant shirts, Weejun loafers, gold ID bracelet, a meticulous uptown style which I would come to identify with the "other" crowd. Although the financial circumstances of my parents were certainly more than modest, they had regarded clothes, particularly for their teenaged son, to be items of necessity. Since all of the money I had made at various summer jobs had been put aside for college, I had never been able to conform clothing-wise to what would have been my peers. However, I can't honestly blame the quality of my outward appearance on this alone. Had I not been forced to put my personal money aside, it's more likely than not that I would have blown it in the local pool hall or spent it on records. Perry removed his sunglasses and asked, "Who you need to get up with?" I walked toward his car and replied, "I was wanting to see Jimmy Potter." "Jimmy doesn't live in Estes. He lives in Kingsly," Perry said. "That's about five or six miles on the other side of town. I believe he's working on his daddy's farm this summer. He hangs out a lot with Fred and Fred is working at the lake. Let's go back to the office and see if we can get somebody on the phone." Perry was driving a brand new Oldsmobile Cutlass. It was dark gray with a black vinyl top. It had some moderately tasteful stripes and a CB radio. It was the first time I had ever ridden in a vehicle with a CB. Although I had done a fair amount of hitching, I had yet to be picked up by a trucker. I got in on the passenger side and pointed to the radio. "What's that for?" I asked. "It's so they can get up with me at the mill if they need me," he replied. He picked up the mike and said, "Station 27." Almost immediately a reply came over the speaker, "This is 27 come on." Perry pressed the mike button and replied, "This is 25 and I'm on the way back now." "10-4," was the response. I saw no need to ask who 27 was. I figured he'd tell me if he needed to. Besides, it was obvious that he was just showing me how the radio worked. He drove down to the end of the block and took a right. We went a couple of miles into the country and there was Baxter's Mill. It was fairly stereotypical. There were logs and boards and mud everywhere. The unpaved area which had been designated as the employee parking lot was full of old pickups and nearly worn out cars. There was one obviously broken down log truck which was being used as a break area for two smutty looking mill workers. Perry rode past them, ignoring their waves of acknowledgment. He pulled around to the side where there was a small parking
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About the Book
A soon to be 19-year-old college student undergoes a spiritual and intellectual awakening during a four-day period in August 1971. Through a series of flashbacks and epiphanies, some of which are spurred by an almost 24-hour LSD trip, Eddie Watson begins to gain the first awareness of himself. The book is set in North Carolina, and the primary action takes place in the eastern section of the state.
Eddie leaves home on a Friday morning in search of nothing more than a respite from parents, school, and his own mundane life. He is somewhat of a lost soul who lacks confidence, has no future goals, and has nothing positive in his immediate future. Through a series of almost spontaneous connections, he is introduced to a culture in which he seems to have a place. During the next 48 hours he begins to come to grips with who he is and where he might be headed.
About the Author
Carter Monroe is a pseudonym for a North Carolina native who has been writing for almost 30 years. He has published poetry in regional literary magazines under his own name. He has also written several essays as well as a weekly newspaper column. JOURNEY is his first novel. His interests are many and varied, but his primary focus for the past 25 years has been a study of the creative process. He has pursued this analysis almost totally through an examination of literature, music, and films. He has been collecting music since 1957 and books since 1972. His inventory of albums, cassettes, and CD's runs well into the thousands. His book collection includes a substantial amount of Beat literature, "85% of Henry Miller," as well as many biographies and autobiographies of writers and musicians. The son of educated parents, he grew up in the region about which he writes. His youth was fairly typical for a boy in the south. As both a child and a teenager, he hunted and fished. He played sports in the pickup games which were everywhere and which changed continually with the season. The first inclination that he might like to write came to him during his pre-teen years when he would sit in an old storage building at the home of his parents, reading his father's collection of FIELD AND STREAM and OUTDOOR LIFE magazines. Even at the tender ages of 12 and 13, he could envision recording his own similar experiences. Upon graduation from high school and entering into the post-Woodstock culture which was sweeping college campuses across the land, he became interested in writing and literature. It was during this time that he began to take a more "literate" approach to music. He began to associate with friends and fellow students who were musicians on varying levels. He learned about the complexities of song preparation, arrangement of harmonies, how to determine when it was time for a musician to take a "break" in a song. Therefore, at the same time he was learning about the creation of words, he was learning about the creation of sounds. This part of his education has continued over the years. Although he received a degree in American literature from a small private college, he has worked in the field of industrial management for the majority of his adult life. He explains this choice of occupation: "Industry is the backbone of the business world. Goods are manufactured, marketed, and sold. The task of everyone involved in the process is to assure that they are sold at a profit. Because the bottom line is everything, there is always a place in industry for a motivated person who can facilitate something positive. Functioning, profitable organizations in this arena tend to place fewer superficial demands on their employees. What one does with his own time is his business as long as the company thrives and his contribution is intact and identifiable." He goes on to explain that other career choices do not have this same luxury: "Financial institutions are very aware of how their employees dress, where they live, what type of church and civic involvements they have. The same can be said for other types of businesses and professions. Although there is no such thing as total freedom, hence my pseudonym, I feel that industry offers more than any reasonable alternative. At this stage in my life, I would much rather sit at home listening to music and reading poetry than to be in attendance at a meeting of the local Rotary Club. It was a choice that I made long ago and I've never had any reason to look back." Carter is currently at work on his second novel, PROTEGE. He estimates that he has completed approximately half of the book. The book centers around the relationship between a man in late middle-age who is in the initial stages of a mid-life crisis and a semi-literate teenaged boy who is a budding guitarist. Rich with the same type of flashbacks and epiphanies as JOURNEY, PROTEGE explores the history of music and musicians in a unique and regionally colorful manner. At this time, the author projects that the manuscript will be completed by early summer 2001. He hopes to have it ready for publication later that fall.