Day 21 - Tennessee - Children's Museum of Memphis - Revisited

The following includes profanity and drug references. Reader descretion is advised.

Begin Scene:

Two A.M.

A girl and a guy, both of who have obviously had a good evening, enter the studio apartment, already occupied by two sleeping travelers. The girl reaches for the light switch. Garish light floods the room.

Girl: “Oh, shit, sorry dudes!”

Lights extinguish. Lights flick back on. Lights off. Back on. Off.

Darkness. Silence.

Guy: “Dude, I lost it!”

Girl: “What did you lose?”

Guy: “I lost IT!”

Girl: “Huh?”

Guy: “IT (!), dude!”

Girl: “OH, shit! You mean the WEEEEEEEEED?”

Scuffles. Door opens and closes. And opens again. Lights back on.

Formerly sleeping female traveler wearily opens one eye to see formerly sleeping male traveler laying quietly, both eyes wide open and a grin bisecting his face. Girl smirks and rolls over, scrunching down in her sleeping bag and attempting to coerce sleep back into her eyes.

End Scene

We did not immediately return to sleep. Guy and Girl in the dialogue were joined by another Guy, one who had his stash of WEEEEEEEEED stashed in an easy to find, and, ultimately, very accessible area. The three friends sat at the kitchen table, the built-in benches of which lined up perfectly with our pillows, only inches to spare. We listened to them, eyes closed, while they performed the motion of their collective ritual of rolling, inhaling and passing. They razzed each other a bit, discussing the various rolling techniques, filter placement, volume of contents, as well as a brief tangential conversation regarding the realities of a war fought over water. Much later, when the lights were finally dimmed and we were carried off to sleep on the wings of their conversation (as well as, I regret to admit, their exhalations), I felt much like a child falling asleep during my parent’s dinner party - listening to the clanking of glasses and clinking silverware, hearty laughter and conversation my drowsy mind had difficulty absorbing (though, just to be clear, my adorably square parents would never smoke pot, at least not in front of their kid and never at the dinner table).

We woke the next morning, almost hung over from our night of half sleep (which is much different than a half night of sleep). It was my fault. When we couldn’t find anyone who knew anyone who may want to take us in while we where in Memphis, I scoffed at Tim’s suggestion that we get a hotel and decided we would couch surf – it would do us some good. Harden us up a bit. Plus, what kind of road trip would this be with out sleeping on a complete stranger’s couch? So I found someone with a couch… online. (I can hear a number of moms out there cringing…)

In our defense, we had decided to stay with people to avoid the sterile hotel rooms that would otherwise greet us in every state, creating a homogenous view of each city - no variable furniture, art, or bath towel patterns. We wanted to experience America - the people, the food, the culture, the lifestyles, the jobs, the community involvement, the family dynamics, the political and religious inclinations – every possible variable (not limited to those previously mentioned) that defines what it means to be an American. So it made sense to stay with someone completely unknown to us, to our family, or to our friends (who comprised the primary source of couches, beds, and floors) – vary the pool, if ever so slightly.

But, we survived and eventually perked up, due to our coffee (for me) and OJ (for Tim) consumption, as well as the metal revving keyed by an idiotic fight driven by hunger and waking up on the wrong side of the bed (there was only one side from which to roll off the futon, so it was destiny for us to be grumpy, at least with each other). We arrived at the Children’s Museum of Memphis after a quick spin around the town, the colors of the building strikingly bright in contrast to the faded glory of Graceland.

Job was simple enough despite the complexity of the interior of the building, chock full of a maze of exhibits, each featuring bright colors, lights, and noise making displays. In the morning we manned the “supermarket”, helping kids ring up their purchases and restock the shelves. In the afternoon, we worked behind the desk at the “bank” helping kids to write checks and “cash” them for $16 (no more, but periodically less). In the down time, we tidied the exhibits, picking up costumes and supplies.

Children ran from area to area, donning fire-fighter hats and coats, before tearing them off and charging toward the green screen to dance around in front of changing backgrounds (a news desk, a beach, a flying carpet ride), only to sprint to the aerial maze. As I passed by the tree house, complete with a paper airplane making station and a target range, where I found Tim seated with three boys. The entire crew were making intricate flying apparatuses out of white sheets of paper, folding, tearing and cutting the shape, experimenting with different aerodynamic lines. As they sat, tightly packed around the small benches, the boys started to debate the value of each individual's folding techniques, razzing each other about the respective finished products - the straightness of the lines, the sharpeness of the creases, the lengths of the folds.