Just off Highway 95

On the east side of the road

Sits a monolithic diner

Where the truckers all reload

The food's great and there's plenty

And the place is really clean

But the real reason they stop here

Is the Truck Stop Beauty Queen

She's a five foot 5 inch dynamo

A former Miss Biloxi Belle

She's a pepperpot of moxie

And a spirit you can't quell

Her hair's piled high upon her head

It's a blonde come from a bottle

Her attitude is bottle brewed

Her skin is slightly mottled

She holds court in the corner

At a little table in the back

She's telling stories to all who'll listen

And she's always talking smack

She talks about the drivers

All the people that she's seen

She's a former Miss Biloxi Belle

She's The Truckstop Beauty Queen

She used to wait the tables

Worked the till a little too

When a talent scout from Georgia

Took her back in fifty two

He sweet talked her like no one

That this girl had ever seen

He promised her the world that day

He'd put her on the silver screen

She left home in the dead of night

She left a note upon the car

You're better off without me here

And I'm better off by far

She was off to find her fortune

With her new man by her side

But by the time she reached Atlanta

She knew she'd been taken for a ride

She found out there was no future

He had no contacts, not a chance

There would be no movie stardom

She would not get to dance

She left but stayed in Georgia

She would build herself a life

She would make herself a winner

She would never be a wife

She took work in a small diner

And at night she hit the books

She was gonna help the others

Who'd be lied to for their looks

By sixty three she reached her goal

They called her to the bar

She was now  a full fledged lawyer

Could it be she'd come this far

She was adopted in Port Huron

Foster homes were all she knew

She made her mind up early

She would be one of the few

Who made it on her own accord

She would find a ticket out

Then one day in walked that stranger

That god ****** talent scout

She retired in the nineties

Though she will not say just when

And the day that she retired

She moved home to Michigan

She had no one there to meet her

When she came back home in June

She would keep her past a secret

She would sing a different tune

For she left to find her fortune

On the big old silver screen

She would come back home a winner

She would come back home a queen

She bought the little diner

On the side of ninety five

And by working there three days a week

She somehow came alive

She created little stories

Of a past she'd never had

She talked of her dear mother

And her tall,distinguished dad

The drivers loved to hear her

Tell her tales when they were by

And not one of then discovered

That her stories were all lies

She wouldn't ever mention

How she lived her life before

She would tell them just a litte

And she wouldn't say much more

She told tales of things of wonder

And of places that she'd been

And at one point she told how

She was a one time beauty queen

Now, we know that never happened

It was something in her mind

It was the reason that she left here

It was the dream she wouldn't find

But the drivers never questioned

And the diners loved the place

They came in all the time

To hear the stories, see her face

The diner was a gigantic

And three days a week t'was full

As they came to hear her stories

That they never knew were bull

The one they loved to hear

And the one she loved to tell

Was how that one day back in Georgia

She was the Miss Biloxi Belle

No one knew that she was lying

She was the best that had never been

But to all those at the diner

She was the Truckstop Beauty Queen

It's a life that never happened

Except for a few bits in between

It's the tale of Dinah Mussberg

The Truckstop Beauty Queen

It ain’t too bad to be from there
Just ask my family and friends
But it’s too flat, ain’t no way out
The roads are all dead ends.
Sometime soon I’ll find a place
Where the music I’ll enjoy
But for now I keep on tryin’
To escape from Illinois!

There’s a river on the border west
That moves a lot of dirt
Mighty Muddy Mississipp
Drowns the pain and covers hurt
Yeah, I’m movin’ south to New Orleans
Maybe I can find employ
In a blues bar down on Bourbon Street
Escape from Illinois!

Well I stopped a week along the way
When I saw the Gateway Arch.
But the folks out by the airport
Were stagin’ up a march.
Seems a white cop fired a shot that killed
An unarmed teenage boy
Oh yeah, the teenage boy was black,
Escape from Illinois.

Kept walkin’ to the Landing
(Named for Pierre Laclede)
It has most every thing you want
But nothing that you need
Some travelin’ folk told me some news
That made me jump for joy
Memphis maybe had some work
Escape from Illinois!

Found the haunted house called Graceland
And the grave where Elvis lay
Where half a million go each year
(Fifteen thousand every day)
They all want to pay respects
To the rockin’ – rollin’ boy
Put their finger in the bullet holes
Escape from Illinois.

Went downtown, knocked on some doors
Once or twice I went inside
But Beale Street was broken
The travelin’ folks had lied.
‘Cuz there ain’t no jobs in Memphis,
Or maybe I’m too coy
So I hitched a ride to Nashville
Escape from Illinois.

Nashville’s a big old meltin’ ***
Lots of great ones started here
But most end up as tourists
Getting’ ****** and drinkin’ beer
So money’s at a premium
And fame’s a fake decoy
End up workin’ in a record store
Escape from Illinois?

From Asheville to Atlanta
From Austin to LA
From Biloxi back to Baton Rouge
Need a place where I can play
I’ll follow all the buskers,
Form a musical convoy
Livin’ day by day and town by town
Escape from Illinois!

I’m a minstrel, like a rubber band
I keep on snappin’ back
I’m gonna make it somewhere
Singing somewhere, that’s a fact
Got my guitar and my music
Gotta do what I enjoy
Find a place to sing my songs for you,
Hell, it may be Illinois!
Phil Lindsey  6/4/15

It seems to have spontaneously combusted, but it didn’t. The disease struck long ago, brewed in the petri dish of Depression, WWII, and convergent technologies. Well before that, really, but that was the point of critical mass. By the 1950's, it was an epidemic. The independent Republic of individuals, small towns, coherent communities, distinct cities, local diners, shops and stores tied together with two lane blacktop was crumbling. Things only got worse faster. It was a disease of toxic, lulling dreams. American Dreams. And standardization was its crushing foot that flattened everything and left a homogenized wasteland in its trail. The old gods vanished and the new became despots. Go anywhere in America, Boston or Biloxi. You can’t tell where you are. Most shop at the same stores (real or virtual), eat at the same chain restaurants, wear the same clothes, gulp from the same Internet, swallow similar information, and think (within acceptable variations) the same thoughts. Even sin has become tediously consubstantial. Knowledge has been supplanted by content. Words are squeezed of meaning. Everyone is an expert and no one knows anything. Except Siri and Alexa. The Dreamtime of consumerism, consumption and conformity dominates. All that remains to come is the dominion of AI. Then we will all be watched over by machines of loving grace, free to graze in bovine bliss in the cybernetic meadows of bland utopia.

She holds his body by her bough,
where ghosts have hung him like a puppet.
Swinging slowly, shadow dancing
above a “sacred” cross of flame

Raven dark her shattered darling,
black as bruises, light as smoke.
Hollow spinning boy in blue jeans
held aloft by mother’s limb.

Swollen eyes and tongue extended
to taste the warm Biloxi rain
Suspended high enough to witness
where his mother lay in tears.

Mississippi lepidoptera.
Shedding chrysalis of sorrow.
Ascending far above the reach
of bayou dragons and men of prayer.

Mississippi, let the good times ramble
Biloxi, and Jackson
Flag raised high
Passion,
Tupelo rocking and roar
Hattiesburg for a show tonight
With my wife
My girl

As I write this I see you hurtling
across the delta beneath a low ceiling.
There is rain in the forecast.  Your wallet
is fat with cash and rides high in an
anxious hip pocket.  A window is cracked
to pull the smoke.  It's lunch-time and
you're checking the Garmin for a
Crackle Barrel, all the while wondering
if the casino will take a check.

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Woke up and made my way to the shore.
Take a seat.
I'll never find where I rested before.

Only one new change not in mind but heart.
All knowing.
A hand touches my shoulder.

Ah, so she’s
Got that mincemeat
Mumbo jumbo
Going on
The Biloxi banality
That girl knows the proper way to get toasted
I’ve seen those types tapping their toes
In blues house **-downs
But this little Mississippi mugger
She must have made off proper
Skinned to the bone
I got no money no more
Cash strapped and wallet gone
****** if I didn’t get taken
By a Podunk prom queen
You gotta watch for them mudslingers
*****, sly and mean

He walked off the yellow bus
the young “black” man
the first, his pack
full of what a mother would pack

to taunts, surrounded

gulls around a struggling fish
coyotes on a newborn calf
sharks ready to clean things up

this was Wisconsin
not Birmingham, Selma, Biloxi

No one called him “African-American”

I remember him as cute
I remember him as friendly
I remember him scared
I remember him gone

What word, what experience
what tears?

The proud father, craving peace
warm earth, simple animals
fresh green plants from the soil
protection for his son

Sold the farm and returned to Chicago

I've been to Bangkok, Barcelona, and Bordeaux
Beijing, Biloxi, Edinborough
I probed Pakistan, Poland, Portugal
Yet I'm primarily provincial
But what province, I don't know

There is no sky or earth
in the white van that crosses me over,
nor in the drywall coop painted red
where white men with tattooed arms
stood up and sit down, up and down,
unleashed erections pivoting
and searching for the best angle
to penetrate my forever painful ***.

I am called “pollo”, chicken,
“nuevo carne”, new meat
by the coyote who drove me
and the gringos who maul me,
their millet dollars tossed into hands
waiting unsmiling at the ajar door,
passage paid with my legs,
eggs for pollos not eaten.

Across the hall I hear the cackling
of men orgasming into torn sheets,
a softer clucking than the maras gangs
of Tegucigalpa roosting the food market
and the barrios for ****** violators.
In Honduras anyone can ******
a woman and nothing will happen.  
At least, in Texas they bury you.

They promise half of half of half of profits,
less than 50 pesos, dollars on a $50 John.
They dress me in corpse rags that
stink of gasoline and last *******;
feed me grain, maize, rain barrel water.  
My nakedness kills fleeing for freedom.
Nobody will risk saving a puta, *****
from a charcoal window stash house.

I dreamed once I could wear silk dresses
or richly sew them together for a small,
life with a good man and brown-eye kids.
The Chinese girl smuggled in from Fuzhou
can aspire to own a nail salon, or work
a massage parlor run by Sister Ping’s heirs.
Biloxi runaways can traffic on NY dreams.
I have only violation and suicide.

I traveled the border crossing between
Tegucigalpa and the American Dream,
enough  to forget why I crossed over,
times enough until I wasn’t me anymore,
to pace back and forth, scratch at
and settle in the straw of forgetfulness,
American in I have a  heavy debt
that only heaven can release.

Trista Means Sorrow (I Act Play)
SETTING: Brooklyn Bridge at night. The sky is overcast, but no rain is threatening. The clouds look auburn. Lights shine in the water. The skyline of New York City painted on a scrim in the background.

A woman (Trista) is sitting on the railing next to the footpath of the bridge. She's facing the water and looks down at it. She has deep sorrow on her face, but no tears are flowing. She is Caucasian. She looks from the south. What would be considered white trash. Dressed shabbily, obviously homeless, her face etched with care. Her belongings are tied around her waist. It is very obvious that she's a jumper.

Enter another much younger biracial woman (Amanda) This one obviously a student, dressed in stylish grunge. She stops. The other has not seen her. Obviously. Trista seems off in another world.

Amanda looks around. It is quite late at night, and the young girl is frightened. She knows how to take care of herself, she's athletic. But she's alone. There is no one around, which has made her brave enough to take a walk at this hour of the night. But now she is confronted with a situation she is totally unprepared for. Trista looks over and sees her. A startled look crosses her face. Then a look of fear. Then belligerent anger.

TRISTA (mockingly): Well, well, well. What have we got here, God? A saving angel... How sweet. ( she glances back at the water, then looks again at Amanda) So. You gonna call the cops? ( her look is menacing).

AMANDA: ( with a shaky voice) No... please. I don't want... I... I don't...

TRISTA: ( interrupting) So. You don't want to... what? You don't want to call the po po. Or you don't want this po woman to jump. ( she looks at Amanda hard) don't think you gonna to stop me. Cuz you ain't.

Amanda is shaking. Filled with fear. It's obvious that Trista might do her harm. But she does not turn around just leave. Moments go by. The two women look at each other.

TRISTA: (In a voice of low, threatening anger) you best leave, little girl. Take your grunge a* outa here. You are not welcome in my livin... or in my dyin. This is no place for you.

Amanda does not budge. She's looking more and more resolved. She's fearful, but she does not want this woman to die

TRISTA: (Shouts) GO ON, YOU HIGH-YELLER !! LEAVE!!

Amanda still stands there. It's obvious that she's not going anywhere. She sees through the woman's anger as fear. She meets her eyes. There seems to be no rancor in her stare. She does not take the insult. She's heard it all before

TRISTA: (In a low, cutting voice) Go on, half-breed. Go on lookin at the white trash. Like you better...

AMANDA: ( obviously digging into her reserves of Bravery) You're not trash...and there's only one race. Human.

TRISTA: ( obviously taken aback but scoffing)
Ah.. ah...HA! HAHAHA.. HAAAW!!! A little Brave One!! Well, I'll be ******. The little brown angel has a voice, God. But it's sayin nothing but *******. Go on out of here little brown angel. Fly fly fly. There ain't nothing for you here, 'cept watchin me die. I can fly too, little brat angel. Or I ustah.... now my wings broken. ( she looks down at the East River again. Her anger has softened. The sadness is coming back into her face)

AMANDA: (softly) You talked to God just now. You believe in him, don't you?

There is a long pregnant pause. Amanda is looking steadily at Trista. Trista is looking down at the water.

AMANDA; (Assertively) DON'T YOU.

TRISTA: Oh, yeah. I believe in 'im. I believe in the devil, TOO. Ben Lorda m' life for years... years... (she's looking down at the water again. Defeatedly.).

AMANDA; Do you really believe that? ( she's looking angry. But she's not mad at Trista. She's mad at the Devil.)

TRISTA: (She's angry again. Her voice is low and cutting) Let me tell you something, little brown angel. I'm not what you would call Saint Catherine. That name means pure. I ain't pure.
I ain't rich and I ain't purdy. I ain't clean and I ain't sober. Only reason I'm not drinking ***** cuz I don't have money. Honey. Only reason I ain't using is same. I'm up against a wall. Wall of pain I can't stand. Can't even buy cigarettes. Had all my money stolen. Most of my stuff. Sleeping on a ******. Oh!! Did I tell you that I a crackhead? Not only crackhead. Crack-w. Been down on my knees with bums have more money than I had. (Trista looks off into the distance. Seems to reminisce) Came here to the Big Apple full of worms with Big Dreams full of . Wanted to be a Broadway star. Same old story same old dance. Same old tale of Bad Romance. (She starts to look haunted). I had no idea. The lights were on. The big Broadway Times Square LED lights. But nobody was f* home.

AMANDA: (Her eyes full of empathy) You are an actress? What happened?

TRISTA: (Hard. Cold. Cutting.) Not "ARE" little brown angel. WAS. Has been that never was. Too corn pone. Ain't Gon School Nuf. Caint reed. Caint spel.Hell. I aint even got a GED. Shoulda stayed outside Biloxi. Married Bubba. Ben barefoot and preggers...

AMANDA: ( narrowing her eyes and looking at her shrewdly) Why do you talk that way? Like your uneducated? Like you're stupid? Like you're racist? You try to make it out like you are oh, but you slip up too often. Like you told me that the name Catherine means pure. And other things too. You may not have a GED oh, but you ARE intelligent. Act like it!!

TRISTA: ( eyes wide with disbelief) Like you care? Who am I that you should care for me? Who are you that I should care for you? Let me tell you, little brown angel, this world is cruel. It's a meat grinder, and you gonna come out a steamin pile o meat an feathers. Don't you care!! Don't you care about anybody!! Do you hear me? DON'T YOU CARE ABOUT ANYBODY!!! (Starts to cry).Least of all ME.

AMANDA : (slowly) But that's why were put on this Earth. To care about each other. Love each other.

Another pregnant pause

TRISTA: (furious) L... L...LOOOVE!!! LOOOVE!!! What the hell you know about that??? ( Trista swings her legs over the railing and stands to face Amanda) Oh. I know all about THAT, you say. (Sarcastic whine) Cuz I know God... God is love, doncha know... God is ****** F LOVE DONCHA KNOW...

AMANDA: (Cutting her off sharply) do you believe in God? Yes. You do. Otherwise you wouldn't be talking the Way You Are. Then why are you cussing him?

Trista stares at Amanda in disbelief. The two women stare at each other. Trista is furious, but she is met with a look of pure courage, love, and acceptance. Her mouth gapes closed and open like a fish.

TRISTA: (Her voice low and menacing again)  One thing I gotta say bout you. You BRAVE. Don't you realize you're in the middle of New York City. On the Brooklyn Bridge. In the middle of the NIGHT. (Her voice gets louder and louder as she speaks) With a CRAZY WOMAN??!! TALKIN BOUT GOD, WHO THE CRAZY WOMAN HATES?? (Her voice gets low again. She doesn't sound angry anymore though. But profoundly sad) go on now little angel. There's nothing for you here cept death and dying. And the crazy woman who could throw you over the side of this bridge at any time. Might have a knife. Might have a gun. A crazy woman. I'm a crack w*. Not a nun.

AMANDA: you are a human being. I can't bear the thought that you might die tonight. I might be young, but I know how to take care of myself. I know I might not look like it, but I've got a third degree black belt in Taekwondo. Believe it. I'm no nun either. I may be small, Young, and a Christian, but I know how to take care of myself. If crossed with physical violence I am nothin nice.

Trista looks at Amanda calculatingly. She's intrigued by this girl now. She knows that in a fight the older woman, she would lose. She doesn't want to keep up her bravado. But she has learned over the years not to show any weakness. Not even to a young Christian woman.

TRISTA: my God angel. You haven't got the sense good God gave a no-see-em. Your brain is smaller! You might think you're ten feet tall and Bulletproof. You can kick like a champ, but you're not going to outrun a gun. I could have a gun in my belt. You are a FOOL.

AMANDA: Well. If you had a gun you would have sold it already for ***** and drugs. No. You don't have a gun. As for being a fool, well. I'm not the one who is sitting on a railing considering  suicide.(Her voice gets soft) I'm not going to try to talk you out of this. I have a phone. I want you to call the suicide hotline. Talk to somebody.

Another pregnant pause. Trista looks at Amanda. She sees that she serious. She knows the girl is not giving up now. Her Pride is starting to melt. As is her heart. She's beginning to like this girl now. She's tough and she's Brave. And she seems to really care.

TRISTA: (With a softer, friendlier voice) Well. Aren't we the smarty pants. You're going to get me to talk to somebody now. What you got one of those smartphones? Smartphones for a smarty pants?

AMANDA: (Smiling) it'll feel like it weighs a ton at first. But they can get you help. Maybe what you need is a rehab. Three Hots and a cot anyway. They'll take you in for a while. Have you been sober 24 hours?

Long pause

TRISTA: Yes.

AMANDA;  (Smiling, but with a serious look on her face) Let's get you clean. What's your name?

TRISTA: Trista. TRISTA MEANS SORROW.

AMANDA: (Her eyes begin to well with tears) Not anymore.

A long, long pause

AMANDA: My name's Amanda.

TRISTA:  (her eyes welling with tears, also) Amanda means worthy of love.( Long pause)

YOU ARE.

Amanda takes a cell phone out of the pocket of her hoodie. She holds it out to Trista. After what seems like an eternity, Trista takes it. She walks over to the railing. Sits down on the cement ground. Amanda sits down a little ways away from her. Trista dials. Offstage voice of a woman saying hello. Trista begins to talk to her, Softly.

TRISTA: Hi... can you help me?

[She continues to talk to the voice off stage oh, but it is a mumble and not really heard by the audience... lighting Fades to Black.

Amanda comes into a spotlight. She recites a poem...

BRIDGES

You're lookin' at the river
Feelin' down and weak
When you're
Wadin' in the water
and it's rushing 'round your feet
When you want to
Reach the other side
And feel you can't retreat
The same insane song
In your head
And it is on "repeat"...

Just remember there are Bridges
They are made of words
Remember there are Bridges
Things you haven't heard
Remember there are Bridges
Made with human hands
Remember there are Bridges
Then you'll understand

The waters in that riverbed
They are cold and deep
They have a riptide current
So look before you leap!
You can't stand against them
They will take you down
You may just go under
Brother, sister, you will drown!

Reaching out ain't easy
But it don't get much worse
Than feeling down and vulnerable
Living with a curse
It's like picking up the planet
To lift that lifeline phone
But there people who
Will care for you...
You are not alone!

Just remember there are bridges
They are made of Words,
Remember there are bridges
Things you haven't heard,
Remember there are bridges
Made with God's own hand
Remember there are bridges
Then you'll understand.

Remember there are Bridges
When you are at a loss
They weren't made to jump from

They were made to CROSS.



THE END

Texas May 24: 19 children, 2 teachers killed
Buffalo May 14: 10 people killed > 3 people injured
Laguna Woods May 15: 1 person killed > 3 people wounded
Houston May 15: 2 men killed > 3 people wounded
Milwaukee May 13: 16 people wounded
Biloxi, Miss April 27: 4 people wounded > 1 dead
Brooklin April 12: 10 people wounded
Sacramento April 3: 6 people killed > 12 people wounded
Dumas Ark March 19: 1 killed > 27 people injured
Milwaukee Jan 23: 5 killed