Short: My Intro to West Virginia
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)
When you’re young and insecure, you answer the call from someone like Jonathan Wildson. He was confident to the point of cocky, told a good story, and filled his time with manly pursuits like karate and mountain climbing. And, he dialed up his Australian accent at will, usually around single women. So I was thrilled when Jonathan called me on a late summer day and said he needed me.
“Hey mate, you busy?” he asked.
Was I busy? What a funny question given my status as a waiter.
“No. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a new gig up in West Virginia and I need a cook. You interested?”
Yes, of course, I was interested, beaming that someone wanted me to be part of their gig.
“Yeah, maybe,” I replied as cooly as possible.
“Why don’t you come up for a look about? Get a feel for the place. It’s rough but we have fun.”
“Yeah. Ok. That’s sounds doable. I’ll get the time off and let you know when I’m coming.”
“Great. Can’t wait to see you.”
* * *
Two weeks later I drove north from Fort Mill, South Carolina up I-77 to West Virginia. I was glad to be leaving my routines and boredom. And I knew, if anything, the drive would be worth the effort. Within the first hour, as soon as I cleared Statesville, the rolling hills grew into foothills and then to the west the Blue Ridge rose above them. And though just beginning in South Carolina, autumn was in full bloom in the mountains. Dazzling reds, bright yellows and oranges coated the rock. And the air was clean and cool as I turned off the interstate onto Route 52 near Bluefield.
And there on Route 52, as I wove my way deeper into West Virginia, the glory of fall began to contrast the ever increasing broken fences, cracked windows, and weathered wooden siding. Dilapidated homes and shuttered businesses were caked in mud. Then, just after I passed a sign reading “UNINCORPORATED ELKHORN,” old coke ovens appeared next to the road and beyond them a mix of fallen brick walls and kudzu and sycamores. The roof of a school gym had sunk to the ground, the rims ripped from the backboards. And per the posted price of unleaded, I calculated the filling station closed its doors a full fifteen years before my arrival. From Elkhorn, the drive to meet Jonathan lasted only another 20 minutes but I drove through three more towns of a similar fate. All dead or mostly dead. Then, after four hours of driving, I saw a big blue and yellow sign and pulled of the road into the parking lot.
We choose to meet in the Walmart parking lot because it was easier to find than punching an address into an app. Homes in McDowell County had addresses but Google Maps was of no use this deep in Appalachia. After stretching my legs and a proper introduction to Jonathan’s assistant David, I returned to my car and followed them another fives miles to a massive brick house on a hill, overlooking the river running next to the road. From the road, the house didn’t appear as grand as it was thanks to the surrounding overgrown ash and beech trees. Only when we swung up the drive around the back side of the house did its heft reveal itself. Brick walls rose into a steep slate roof with copper eves and drain spouts. I counted multiple chimneys, four perhaps, and three layers if single pain windows. Those can’t be the originals, can they? I wondered.
Jonathan interrupted my curiosity. “Come on, let’s go say hi to Tom, then we’ll all drive up to Gary together.”
David had gone ahead of us into the house, and I heard him call for Tom. As we waited for our host to come up from the basement, I chatted with Jonathon about the house and studied the kitchen I stood in. The room was cramped by modern standard and in need of a remodel. Due to the location in the back corner of the house, the back and side walls were comprised of large bay windows, allowing as much natural light as possible into the room. And underneath the back wall, to the right of the entrance, was a small electric stove, followed by a formerly white sink, then an L-shaped counter for prepping meals. Next to the counter, sat a wooden booth big enough to seat four people and no more. Opposite the stove sat a newer black refrigerator with magnets and coupons plastered to its face and to its right a heavy wooden door leading to the basement. Judging by the bowls in the sink and contents on the counter- two half empty jars of peanut butter, a bag of cinnamon raisin bagels, brown bananas, and several boxes of supposedly healthful cereal- the current residents of the house assembled meals rather than cook.
“This house is a lot better than our last house,” he giggled. “In the last house closer to Welch, I could take a shit, flush it, then watch it squirt out a pipe into the river. Bloop.”
“Really?” I asked, both horrified and full of laughter.
“Yeah mate. Straight pipe into the river. It’s common up here.”
“So all the pretty trout in these rivers and streams are shit fish?”
“I guess so.”
What a waste, I concluded just as David poked out from behind the basement door, Tom following behind him.
