1. The entire population of the U.S. moved to Houston that summer, so no one knew how to do anything. The bank gave me checks for one account and put my money in another. I used to walk down the street and pick up my mail from all of the houses where the postman dumped it.
2. And the most minor task, even going out to eat, meant a 30-minute drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic, past a construction site (so flat tires were a constant hassle), and waiting in an endless line.
3. I lived in a two-room apartment with no heat ("this is the South -- we don't need heat") in the coldest winter Houston had seen since 1891, with a heavy-metal enthusiast in the apartment next door and Larry the Cable Guy downstairs.
4. The students in English Composition were beyond illiterate; in Survey of American Literature, they complained to the department chair when I assigned poems by Emily Dickinson and Langston Hughes (only white men counted as canon); and in my side job teaching report writing at Houston Police Academy, they passed out a map of the neighborhoods where "homosexuals and other deviants" congregated.
5. God forbid I come out to anyone, so I was beset upon by male colleagues asking me to rate the attractiveness of female movie stars, and female colleagues trying to fix me up with their unmarried sisters and nieces.
Left: University of Houston Chapel. Ask the Hunky Jesus for deliverance.
6. The Montrose neighborhood had clandestine gay bars and the Wilde and Stein Bookstore, but it was too frustrating to get to, with hour-long traffic jams and constant flat tires, so I depended on a personal ad in The Montrose Voice. First I was looking for dates, but soon I settled for a hookup. Even then, it was a mess:
"Why do you want to know my name? Are you a cop?"
"There was a car in the driveway of a house three doors down, so I got scared and bailed."
"Meet me at the public restroom somewhere far away, and we'll do it there."
The nickname comes from South from Hell-fer-Sartan, a collection of Kentucky folk tales.
I purposely didn't assign any final papers or final exams, so classes ended on Thursday, and I was ready to go on Friday. I walked my final grades to the horrible dean's office, turned in my office key, walked through the sweltering Sahara of a parking lot, and started driving.
The quickest way to get back to Rock Island was to head north, but that would mean five more hours in Texas, so instead I drove south on the I-45 toward Houston for twelve miles.
Fortunately I turned onto the I-610 before it became a parking lot.
Ten more miles around the eastern edge of Houston in traffic that was just horrible, not a parking lot. Mostly I was surrounded by roaring trucks and nondescript Brutoian warehouses
Then the I-10 east in more horrible traffic through horrible Houston suburbs: Jacinto City, Cloverleaf, Channel View. Greens Bayou, Marwood.
I applied for jobs and graduate programs furiously, and finally made it into USC! I'd be moving to West Hollywood! But first I had to go home to Rock Island for the summer.
The quickest way to get back to Rock Island was to head north, but that would mean five more hours in Texas, so instead I drove south on the I-45 toward Houston for twelve miles.
Fortunately I turned onto the I-610 before it became a parking lot.
Ten more miles around the eastern edge of Houston in traffic that was just horrible, not a parking lot. Mostly I was surrounded by roaring trucks and nondescript Brutoian warehouses
Left: Jacinto City wrestlers.
I hooked up with a guy in Jacinto City once. I felt like the town's first mayor, a guy named Inch Handler.
The suburbs went on endlessly. Nothing to see but billboards, car dealerships, warehouses, and the occasional streetful of fast-food joints.
I hooked up with a guy in Jacinto City once. I felt like the town's first mayor, a guy named Inch Handler.
The suburbs went on endlessly. Nothing to see but billboards, car dealerships, warehouses, and the occasional streetful of fast-food joints.
Past Burnett Bay, the traffic thinned out, and the highway narrowed. I was out of Houston's clutches, but still in Texas, driving through a swampy no man's land,without even a billboard.
Or a rest stop. I didn't care. I wasn't stopping until Texas was a distant memory.
At the small redneck town of Winnie, home of the Texas Rice Festival, the I-10 veered northeast.
Or a rest stop. I didn't care. I wasn't stopping until Texas was a distant memory.
At the small redneck town of Winnie, home of the Texas Rice Festival, the I-10 veered northeast.
More after the break
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