Grommeter, Crimper, and I (Dockenstein) awoke to the incipient grindings of the Caruthersville fertilizer plant beside which we had slumbered. The smells of manure and burning rubber floated on the breeze. We didn't even make coffee: we skedaddled.
We needed gas, and pulled up to a Caruthersville boat ramp anticipating a long, Cairoid walk in the sun. I trounced Grommeter in a game of Rock Paper Scissors and won the privilege of doing dishes on the boat rather than fetching gas.
(In case anyone ever faces off against Grommeter in Rock Paper Scissors, you should know that he favors Rock. I learned this on Day 16 when my own deployment of the Avalanche strategy ((Rock, Rock, Rock (((I am not making this up; see "The Official Rock Paper Scissors Strategy Guide," published by the World Rock Paper Scissors Society))))) resulted in a series of draws that ended only with a cheeky Paper on my end that left Grommeter twiddling his thumbs on the boat while I enjoyed the privilege of exploring Cape Girardeau. Anyway, Grommeter currently favors Rock, so should you ever spar with the G-man, use Paper. Or, bearing in mind that he'll have read this post and will likely play Scissors in anticipation of your Paper, go ahead and play Rock.)
Grommeter's fate wasn't too grim, as a nice fireman named Ron gave him and Crimper a ride to and from the station. Ron told them he prefers working the night shift because on the day shift, "there's too much brass." We loaded our tanks, drank some coffee, and headed to Memphis, where our dear River Hair awaited us.
No motor woes troubled our travel, so the next great rush of adrenaline took the form of three horseflies with plans to turn us into three bodacious blood bags. These flies had come aboard the preceding evening, and they bided their time until yesterday afternoon, when their brief inquisitive flights around the deck became bids for blood.
I learned many things about horseflies yesterday. First, they don't bite syringe-wise like mosquitos bite. Instead, they slice you with a mouth knife instrument, causing blood to flow freely, and then attempt to drink this blood. This presumably works on horses and other animals with restricted ranges of motion, but for us these cuts served only to drive us into a bloodthirsty frenzy of our own, giving our vampire adversaries no chance to feed.
Second, I learned that as badly as one might want to crush a horsefly, this is far easier said than done. They are extremely fast. For nearly an hour I hunted the flies around the deck with an empty Terry can, which made a loud boom whenever I slammed it down where a fly had been resting mere milliseconds earlier. I certainly rattled Grommeter and Crimper with this unexpected booming. I killed one fly by accident when, focusing on a fly on the ceiling, I felt a sting on my leg and swatted without looking: KO.
Third, I learned that while a horsefly, like the Cyclops, cannot be overpowered, it can be outwitted. I observed the two survivors' movements and determined that my best shot would be their preferred deckside roost, the underside of our corrugated metal ceiling. Holding Crimper's pleather-bound journal parallel to the ceiling, I inched toward one fly with the cold-blooded patience of the narrator of "The Tell-Tale Heart." I looked the fly in its compound eye and imagined the animal looking back, perhaps seeing me as we see ourselves looking up into the heart of Anish Kapoor's Cloud Gate sculpture on Chicago's Michigan Avenue. I slammed the journal into the ceiling with a loud bang and withdrew slowly, bearing a fly corpse on my little bier. The next fly soon followed.
I feel no remorse about what I did, but I will say that I respect these flies for their tenacity.
Soon enough, Memphis appeared on the skyline. Travelers will know it by its enormous shiny Bass Pro Shop pyramid, apparently a former arena.
We met up with River Hair and our friend (and, for River Hair and myself, bandmate) Sam, who is traveling across the United States with two of his friends.
Hi Sam!
We knocked back a few warm bruskys from our cooler full of warm water fragrant of sriracha, traded stories of our exploits on the river and road, and headed to a barbecue place with good Yelp! reviews: Charlie Vergos' Rendezvous. Crimper and I were after some fresh vegetables in addition to more meat, so we decided to split a salad and a large rack. He ordered the ribs and I ordered the salad. When the waiter returned with our food, he had six plates of ribs and no salad. He asked what I'd ordered.
"A salad," I said.
I received a look of pity and, a minute later, our salad.
The ribs were expensive, and in my opinion inferior to Pappy's. Sure, they were still pretty excellent, but the best thing about this restaurant didn't cost a cent. The men's room at CVR abuts the area where all the rib-smoking happens, so that before or after a trip to the WC one can stand for a moment in air blue with savory smoke and enjoy that culinary pleasure for which Rabelais suggested the only price ought to be the sound of one's money. Wonderful. Yelp!, take note.
Sam gave us a ride back to the marina and the four Cat-Sassers crashed hard, finally all back together on our floating abode.
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