Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [83]
The man made me sign something like a guest log before I could sit down at the bar.
“Do you guys have a first aid kit?” I asked the bartender.
She shook her head and said, “Nope, but we have plenty of Jägermeister.”
I didn’t want to drink with this crowd. “Maybe I’ll start with a soda,” I said.
One of the patrons overheard me ask for a first aid kit and kindly went out to his car to retrieve a travel medical kit. He brought it back, sat right beside me, and started asking me how old I was and if I had a boyfriend.
I don’t know if you can classify residents of the mid-Atlantic as rednecks or if those only reside in the South, but these men proved to be close relatives of the Southern species. At 3:00 in the afternoon, most of them were inebriated and yelling at the TV, and the Pittsburgh Pirates—down by three runs—weren’t helping the situation.
Excusing myself from the bar, I found a separate table and began to nurse my wounds with triple antibiotic ointment, gauze, and a second soda. Surprisingly, the travel first aid kit had a great selection of cleaning pads, medicated ointment, and bandages. After twenty minutes of work, I had decimated its inventory, but had managed to soothe the burning irritation in my feet.
As I began to reorganize what was left of the supplies, I heard another knock at the door over the din of clanking glasses and men shouting at the TV.
The same man that let me in walked to the door and opened it just a crack, but it was a big enough crack for me to see Raptor.
“He’s with me!” I shouted.
I had met Raptor at the last shelter, and although I didn’t know much about him, I knew he was a thru-hiker, and I knew he had grand-kids because he had showed me their pictures. The way he had teared up as he looked lovingly upon his family’s faces had made me like him immediately.
The doorman gave me a cold stare and let Raptor in.
Raptor signed the guest log and then sat beside me. He was a strong hiker, and I thought he looked too young to be a grandpa. When I asked, I found out he was the same age as my father. Raptor kind of reminded me of my dad, and I was glad to have him here to protect me from the other men—also my father’s age—who were trying to hit on me.
It turns out that Port Clinton does have one restaurant. The locals at the “fire station” gave us directions, but when we arrived, we were told that hikers weren’t allowed to eat in the main dining room. We were only allowed to sit at the bar.
I found an empty stool, but I was not happy. This was not an especially nice restaurant, and there were certainly plenty of empty tables available. Then, partly due to the circumstances and partly because of my low blood sugar, my annoyance soon grew into rage. This was discrimination!
All the thoughts of social injustice from the last section of trail came flooding back. So this is what it felt like! This was segregation. At least the prejudice I faced was based on the concrete fact that hikers are filthy and smell bad. But underneath the dirt and grime, hikers are still people!
I couldn’t believe that, within my parents’ lifetime, parts of this country had had separate restaurants, restrooms, and water fountains simply based on skin color. On skin color!
I was reminded of John Brown’s raid, which had taken place in Harpers Ferry. Maybe this was my time for revolt? I was about to stage a walkout, really I was, but then a plate of battered chicken fingers piled high on a stack of golden fries was placed in front of me.
I relinquished my stance and asked for the ketchup.
I told myself that if it had been racial, sexual, or religious discrimination, I would have stood up and left. But this was just about being a hiker, and God knows I was a hungry hiker.
After dinner, Raptor and I traveled to a pavilion at the edge of town where hikers could spend the night. We claimed different corners of the open-air structure, crawled into our sleeping bags, and