The only thing that covered up the incessant whine of 500 mosquitoes in our car at 3:30 a.m. at the Walnut Ridge, Ark., Amtrak station was the roar of the freight trains that blasted through.
We drove to the depot so my wife could catch the train to
see her aunt in northern Illinois. We’ve done that several times and, in
earning the name “Damntrack,” the train was late, as usual. It’s supposed to
roll into the quiet northeastern Arkansas town around 1:40 a.m., horn
a-blastin’, bells a-clangin.’ This time it was more than two hours late.
Generally, the departure is a sad thing. Holly steps into
the train, I stand on the platform and watch as the train glides away, whisking
away my wife for a week or two. The train horn bleats its forlorn sound as it
heads out and eventually, the silence of the rural area returns and I slink back
the car and make the trip home alone.
This time, it was a bit different.
When we pulled into the station’s parking lot, we noticed it
was lit much better than before. The city sprung for more lights after
complaints that the darkened station looked more like a spot to buy illegal
drugs or to be murdered.
The lighting was a nice touch until Holly got out of the car
and left the door open. A mass of mosquitoes already attracted by the brightness
outside swarmed into the car. I guess they saw my fat ass as a buffet.
We still had a while before the train arrived. The Amtrak
phone app indicated it would roll in at 4:14 a.m. We could either sit in the
depot, which was also covered with the winged bloodsuckers or remain in the
car. We chose the car and I started it, put the air conditioner on high
and drove out of the station and down the road with the windows open, hoping to
blow the ‘skeeters out.
We returned to the station, got Holly’s bags and waited in
the depot for the train. Holly, of course, looked dainty brushing an errant bug
from her. I looked like a deranged person trying to dance and keep time with
the driving beat of Beck’s song “E-Pro” while swatting at the mosquitoes. Look
the song up. You’ll get the image.
The train finally rolled in, Holly got on it and left. I was
at the station alone and in the stillness of the night I could hear the steady
‘buzz’ of the mosquitoes. There must have been more than a million doing
circles under the sodium vapor lights. Others sat on the white windowsills and
doors, attracted by the light colors, and waited for any living thing to move
so they could feast. It was a smaller version of the scene in Alfred
Hitchcock’s move “The Birds.” All I needed was an old phone booth to be trapped
in and nearby children frantically running from a playground to complete the movie scene.
I returned to the car, already missing my wife, and prepared
for the lonely trip home.
I thought the earlier drive would have blown the bugs out.
Instead, it hurled them to the rear window bay where they waited for me to
return. When I got back into the car, they formed a giant cartoon arrow and
headed for me. Again, I rolled the windows down and drove fast.
And here’s a note I forgot to mention. City workers were
replacing sewer lines on the east side of town; as we drove in, we could smell
the rank scent of sewer gas and whatever is in the lines – a handful of Taco Bell
burritos, perhaps? I took a different way back, but still drove into the work
zone, this time with the windows open.
At 4:30 a.m., half-tired and battling mosquitoes, I didn’t
appreciate the stench. It smelled like someone set an outhouse on fire and then
tried to douse the blazes by pouring a vat of skunk diarrhea on them. It had the
ambience of the Number 3 restroom stall at the Love’s Truck Stop off the I-57 Exit
308 in Kanakee, Ill. Six hundred miles
of hard driving, coffee and pork rinds can replicate that smell.
So, how does this tie in with APBA? Well, with Holly gone, I
had planned to roll quite a few games this weekend on the 1972 baseball season
replay I just began. It was going to rain, so I couldn’t mow the yard and I
didn’t have any pressing deadlines for stories I write for my magazines. I had
all the time to play the game.
Instead, I was groggy from lack of sleep Saturday, the day
after our train station adventure. And that afternoon, I had to go to the store
to get cat food. It was pouring rain and as I sat in the store parking lot for
the rain to abate, I heard that horrific sound: The stirrings of mosquitoes
waking and buzzing. I bolted out of the car and into the rain storm deeming
that getting soaked was better than getting malaria. Later, I spent more time
trying to get the critters out of the car.
They’re still in the car, I know. I also know that when I get into the car to drive somewhere to pirate wi-fi to file this blog, the mosquitoes will be with me, wings whining in unison as they prepare to feast on me yet again.