Midway Through a Road Trip: Tennessee to Arkansas

I ran into every single patrolman in the Tennessee State Troopers outside Nashville and headed west on I-40. They bore down on the motorists until the Arkansas border, with a traffic stop at every mile marker. They were desperate men forced to reaffirm their value after George Floyd. 

When not spying for speed traps I took in the verdant Tennessean roadsides. Lush deciduous trees choked by vines, neon fields of grass, bushes encroaching upon the highway, at all times flanked by low gas prices and moonshine distilleries. The air was thick enough to drink.  

Jesus or Hell greeted me at the Tennessee border. Were there enough time I’d have stopped to pray at the Bass Pro Shop pyramid in Memphis. Instead I crossed the Mississippi River and entered the Arkansan farmland desert. The continuous wasteland stretched for hours, interrupted by the occasional small town and lonely white steeple.  

I was headed toward the Ozarks as the earth gradually transfigured into swampland and religious revivals. The only names bigger than God were small-claims lawyers and Donald Trump, his name praised in flags, bumper stickers, roadside shops, lawn signs, and billboards.

Near Little Rock an apocalyptic storm overtook I-40, occasionally steering me toward oncoming traffic. I was relieved by the road sign for Morrilton, my stop for the evening.

After checking into a powerless hotel and sanitizing the room I set off to investigate Morrilton. 

I first stopped at Morrilton’s gettin’ place: Walmart. I had trouble finding parking. Once inside I traveled to the sporting goods section and observed two men fondle rifles. I eyeballed a Red Ryder BB gun as I reveled in my teenaged salad days. But since I wasn’t buying a gun or anything in bulk, I moved on.

I got lost on a series of meandering back roads lined with decaying craftsmen and mid-century modern houses oozing green goo. The road led into the Morrilton Commercial Historic District, a collection of former neoclassical banks, an empty art deco theater, vacant department storefronts, and silent stockyards. The damp former downtown was deserted, and my only company was the little bits of trash racing in the gutters. The successful businesses were the staples of the American small town: liquor stores, bars, and antique shops.

A train passed through main street, shooting the smell of grinded steel into the air with a deafening squeal. The sun was low now, and my stomach growled.  

I went back to I-40, by the Walmart, to a row of ubiquitous strip malls in search of food. Their pallid appearances and my fears for stomach bugs and Covid droplets kept me away. 

I ate Taco Bell for dinner.