One Day in Roanoke

-- The following is an account of a 24-hour period of a three-month Bearded Child Film Festival tour in the Fall of 2005. A rough tour diary is still archived at myspace.com/beardedchildfilmfest. Hopefully one day I’ll go back and edit the whole trip!

One Day in Roanoke (2005)

The sun was setting low in the pre-night sky as I found myself roaring through the back-roads of Virginia in a beat-up 1978 Chevy van, taking in my first few breaths of the Real South. 

For a life-long Northerner by trade, ramshackled ma & pa service stations, rusted-out Model T’s corroding under bridges, and vast mystical swamplands were a real wonder to my eyes. I almost always took the back-roads, and this night was no exception. I slipped into Roanoke at “magic hour”: the brief moment of stopped time when everything mundane turns fantastic, as the skies cum over themselves with ecstatic glory.

It was mid-November, and I had been on the road since August; crisscrossing the country with a bundle of experimental films, a movie projector, and a few hundred pounds of wild rice. This was my attempt to put-off the inevitable force of the Modern World; to leave my application for Home Depot on the back-burner; to live on my wits and grits on the open road.

By most “practical” standards, this may have been the lowest point of my life. I had a string of bad-luck shows, and needed to be in Durham in three days, without physically having enough money to get there. A bit of a predicament, it would seem. 

Luckily, I had a back-up plan for such a situation: boxes and boxes of the finest Canadian wild rice you’ve ever seen. My pop owned a small wild rice company at the time, and I was driving around his second work van, packed with not only films, but also wild rice to hawk on the road

Surprisingly, the rice sold pretty well at film showings, and had been a savior of sorts. Roadside selling had been far less profitable, and now a farmers’ market or trade show was my only real option to make enough money for the next town.

After researching the State of Virginia’s Agricultural Department at the public library, I’d discovered the upcoming market in Roanoke. I called the market manager from a pay phone, and  explained my situation. She said it might be ok, in an “I guess it couldn’t hurt…” tone of voice. “But you’ll have to show up at 5am, we’re booked pretty tight on Saturdays.”

Thankfully the ride to Roanoke was mostly down-hill, and I had just enough gas to roll into town on fumes. It was the night before the market, and I planned on finding the market spot and parking the van somewhere nearby to sleep for the night. I didn’t have any type of an alarm clock, but have a pretty reliable internal clock for such a situation.

The streets were empty, and the calm beauty of the town came over me like a Midnight tide. 

There is a reason you’ve likely never heard of Roanoke, or thought of it with much seriousness: If you had, its charm would be forever spoiled. I found the lovely 100-year-old market square, and began circling downtown for a spot to bed down for the evening. Amongst the serenity, I noticed a small 24-hour, whole-in-the wall diner that looked to be everything I’d ever dreamed of and more. Americana is very dear to me, and the warm glow of the single-staffed, dozen-seated greasy spoon sent a rippling tear down my spine. 

Oh! If I could only afford a plate of eggs..

Number one in the “Hobo Handbook of Life” states that it is very risky etiquette to park your van in a wide-open downtown district. Generally speaking, shopping centers, rest areas, or hidden residential areas are the way to go. But, I needed be up at 5am, and conceded to park in what appeared to be an attendant-free, all-night parking garage. This was a little boisterous on my part, but I was tired, and willing to roll the dice. Just as I finished buttoning up the last curtain, I felt the light of a flashlight burning at my retinas. Shit! Once the curtains are down, and you’re out of sight, you’re Scott-free. The pigs can’t hassle what they don’t see! But the officer was on bike, and apparently glid in without my notice. He beckoned me to get out of the vehicle, and I obeyed. 

“What a strange turn my life has taken,” I thought. Penniless and living in a van in Roanoke, Virginia! What would my 12-year-old Youth think of this? Would this be an exhilarating or sobering experience if placed in an “It’s a Wonderful Life” context? I knew the answer right off, and almost shouted, “Fuck yeah!” in the poor man’s face. 

Thank the good graces I was born tranquil.

At first the officer was very gruff and serious with me. He called my number into the station, and soon sternly asked, “Have you been to Ohio recently?” My heart stopped. “Oh… Ohio? Ummm… n.. no, no not re.. recently.” My mind went wild. Had I ever been to Ohio? What vile acts could I have committed there?! 

“Yes, he’s been to Ohio,” the officer relayed to headquarters. 

I’d been traveling crazy, it was all a blur to me now. After the policeman confirmed a few more details on the other end, he told me, “Your van was cited for suspicion in Conneaut, Ohio, eight days ago… what the hell are you doing in Virginia?” 

It finally hit. Conneaut! Why, that seemed like eight months ago; eight years would even seem more reasonable. I explained to him that I was a traveling filmmaker, and would be selling wild rice at the “Historic Roanoke Farmers’ Market” in the morning in order to pay for gas. 

Surprisingly, this all seemed perfectly reasonable and logical to him. I showed him some of my rice, and he remarked that it looked to be a very fine product. He also complimented me on my living arrangement, and asked if I had some kind of heater in the van. “No, but I’ve plenty of comfy blankets,” I remarked. He gave a near smile, and a somewhat fatherly shake of the head. 

“Well… I don’t have any problems with you sleeping here, to tell the truth. I’d hate to scare you off if you’re selling at the market tomorrow; this is probably as safe a spot as any.” 

I nodded, trying to look intently interested and aware. 

“It’s usually pretty quiet up here this time ‘a night, but keep your doors locked... you got a cell phone?”  I shook my head no.

He rubbed his chin in concerned disgust. “Well… I’m patrolling this ramp all night, and we’ll keep an eye out for ya.” I thanked the man, and watched him struggle to ride his bike up to the next level. “Hummm… maybe those pigs aren’t as Hitler-esque as it seems,” I thought with a smile, and proceeded to hunker down for a pleasant night ’o snoozin’.

I set my brain-clock to 4:50am, and promptly woke up at 4:45am. Silly brain! Always trying to one-up the consciousness. I hustled straight down to the market, but it was bare as a bucket of air. So I went back to the van, rustled up some seat-cushion change, and moseyed on over to the diner. 

There were four haggled-looking men scattered throughout the diner, and it was obvious they’d all been there for quite some time. It reminded me of a cross between Back to the Future and Night of the Living Dead. I presumed that at least two of them spent the night staring into coffee rather than enduring another night in the gutter. 

One of the men ushered the attendant over to order some eggs and toast. “Hash browns?” asked the attendant. “Nah, I ain’t got no use for them luxury items! Ha haw!” He bellowed, before falling into a phlegmy hacking fit. 

Ah, now that’s my kind of place! I, too, was in no state for luxury, and ordered coffee, eggs, and toast. I wanted to stay awhile, but quickly wolfed down the eats, anxious to get back to the market. I left a dollar’s worth of nickels and dimes as tip, and the man behind the counter gave me a tip of his cap.

The market manager was a wiry, New Age type of gal; bombarding me with more pleasantries than I was ready to handle at such an hour. The market fee would be a reasonable $10, but I’d need to wait around for all the regulars to get there before she could grant me an official spot. 

“Come with me, there’s some people I want you to meet!” she chirped. I was then introduced to a couple of young, fairly attractive hippie types selling pottery. “These are the fun girls! Of course, everyone here’s fun, but ya know!” I did my best to zombie out some sort of mild small talk, looking like I’d just rolled out of an unmarked drifter’s grave. The morning fatigue had hit, and I could have easily collapsed backwards onto the concrete to shut down for a couple hours. 

Luckily, the market manager and the Fun Posse jumped into immediate “inside” talk amongst themselves, and I was able to glide away without a trace, after only a few moments of misplaced staring at hands, aloof distracted nods, and downward smiles.

Time continued, as per usual. The “regulars” arrived quite late, and I didn’t set-up until around 9:30. In the mean time, I changed clothes and washed myself up in the public bathroom of a Southern yuppie-style shopping mall, which basically consisted of one giant, sprawling ice-cream parlor and some video games. 

Then I stood around and watched the situation like one would a TCM classic. People are so wound up in their busy-body, manual tasks turned automatic; it you simply cease for a moment, the whimsy is near spectacular. Time stops and you become a ghostly voyeur. If you can see them, really see them, in all their wound-up homely angst, you can always go undetected.  “Humanity in the Snow Globe.”

Sucked back into the Globe, it was now time to sell myself some wild rice. I was in the far end corner next to a bland, middle-aged, portly woman selling hand soap.  My set-up was very basic and extremely hobo-eske: Ratty-looking, tapped-up boxes stacked on a table and filled with rice labeled “The Rocky Mountain Rice Company.” 

What a strange product to be selling in central Virginia, especially considering the absurd impossibility of wild rice growing in the Rocky Mountains, or the entire state of Colorado for that matter. And so I began to sell, amongst the usual taunts of  How wild is it?! Got any tame rice?! Better put a leash and them virmons!” etc etc

One of my most entertaining interactions came from a thin, well-dressed, 70-something that would come darting by me smoking a cigarette about once an hour. Black tie, slick hair, class as it’s ever seen. He always had some kind of crazy one-liner for me, like I was an old poker buddy.

I love the elderly; could stare at them for hours. Generally, I couldn’t quite make out his jokes, but would laugh with the belly each time because his presentation was so spot-key. At one point he jibbed, “Well, my last’s name’s Wild… but I ain’t wild!” I roared with glee, and spit out, “Looks like ya got a new nickname: Wild Rice!” He seemed not to understand, and zipped away before I even caught my wind.

Sales were great, although it was said that a big Virginia Tech game was going on at the same time, so the crowd was way down from usual. The portly soap lady mostly whined about wanting to go home and eat. 

Next to her was a crazy old coot named Johnny, selling various garden vegetables. He talked about first riding to the markets on a horse-pulled wagon in the ‘30s, and had been selling at the market every year since, sans four years in the military. Besides talking, he loved nothing more than listening to talk, and could somehow relate any thought or experience to one of his own. 

Johnny wore filthy overalls, and a white-turned-mother-of-pearl undershirt. It was a true delight to be approached by him, as I anticipated my youth and apparent oddness might scare him away: Success! Once accepted by a market regular, you are truly among the The Heartlanders, those that live and breath America.

After a few hours of hawking my edible wares, crowds began to dwindle, and I had the soap lady look over my stand while I hit up the yuppie-center restroom. Right across the street, between me and bladder release, an anti-war demonstration had suddenly formed. Various television stations had congregated to document the event, which had a decent crowd of 80-100. I strolled across the street and gave a fey smile, as the live broadcast most certainly captured my mug.

The day moved on and the characters of Roanoke began to settle and become more apparent. Lone-wolf transient wanderers glided by, and even a young Drew Barrymore lookalike.

She paused, crunching into a fresh green apple and leaning up against my stand. “I’ve never met a traveling rice salesman before,” she spoke, gazing through my flustered mind. “Well, huh huh, now you have..” 

After a successful day, I turned in nearly $200 and was feeling fine. I lingered around the local coffee shop, and headed back to the van around early evening. It was nice to feel a bit over the poverty line for a change! 

Then the BummerTrain rolled into town, and my headlights mysteriously wouldn't turn on. I knew it probably wasn't the bulbs, but had some time on my hands, and thought it'd be no big deal to head over to the nearest Wal-Mart for replacements.

It was a ten-minute drive from town, but all I had for transport was a children’s razor shooter. It took me about an hour of puttering along the shoulder of the highway, to the tone of numerous shouts and hillbilly tauntings from passers-by. 

Afterwords, I was far too exhausted to scooter any longer, and attempted to hitch back to town. A rather round gentleman who reeked of bacon picked me up. His Southern accent was too harsh for me to understand, and my Minnesotan accent was a bit much for him. However, once we got downtown, I picked up that a couple of his "eateries" were in the neighborhood. He then bid me farewell by bellowing "see ya at church!" 

I began working on the van, conveniently parked right in front of a discotheque. Glitter-glad youths gathered around as I fumbled with the wiring. The new headlights made no difference, so I put a battery-power lamp on my dash, turned on my hazard lights, and drove creeping down the highway a couple miles until I hit a Piggly Wiggly to stop and park for the night. 

Oddly enough, my lights worked the next morning, and haven't given me trouble since... I was then off to visit my uncle in Sparta, North Carolina, and then off to the next string of shows in Asheville, Georgia and Florida..

TO BE CONTINUED...

One Day in Roanoke

Daniel James 2005/12