Substack Exclusive: THE PROS & CONS OF AUTO TRAVEL AND SHOE POLISH (From the Archive)
A BANNED, NEVER PUBLISHED article intended for The Oracle’s “Notes from the Middle of Nowhere” 1XX: March 23, 1990
(Author’s Note: Whoever said that journalism is without its drama didn’t attend Oral Roberts University. Over Spring Break of my Junior year, I went on a road trip from Oklahoma to Florida with a significantly large group of fellow students. My intent was to write an article that expressed the fun and camaraderie that was unique to our university when students had a moment to gather without the pressures of study and exhale. Unfortunately, the Provost of the University at the time, Dr. Carl Hamilton, disagreed and passed down an Executive Memo that this article should be quashed, never seeing the light of day. Now, I’m not arguing that there’s anything all that special about the writing in this article, but neither is it scandalous or problematic. Read on, and then I will relay the rest of the story.)
Did you ever notice that every long story has a moral? Or that every tunnel has a light at the end? Or that every road trip has a destination? Or, for that matter, that every episode of Fantasy Island has Bert Convy?
There is something incredibly peaceful about sitting in an automobile and watching nature roll by. There is, on the other hand, something incredibly disturbing about knowing that it is all you will be doing for the next 27 hours.
However, I am a creature of habit and strongly believe that, if God meant for us to fly, He would have put wings on the automobile. I also feel that the “highway marathon” is one of God’s greatest methods for teaching His stewards patience.
So, of course, when I received wind of the opportunity to travel 24 hours through four states with 13 people and 20 bags in three cars, I jumped at the chance.
This is a story of getting to know people, of music and memories, of great friends and good gas mileage. This is - the greatest road story ever told. Well, maybe.
Originally, the “three-hour tour” was set to begin promptly at 5:00pm on Friday before Spring Break, which meant we should be ready to leave at 6:00, putting us on the road at 7:00 and at the Texaco on 81st at 8:00. But, we forgot the chips, so we got off to a late start.
They say there is a fine line between pleasure and pain. This would have to go for comfort and torture as well, because we trodded on this line as five intramural-sized males fit into a LeBaron. There was no tape deck, so we brought a jam box the size of the Complete Works of Agatha Cristie as carried by Orson Welles. Speaking of pleasure and pain, there is also a fine line between Depeche Mode and Michael Bolton.
Before the expedition, we (being the jolly travelers) took shoe polish to the back windows of our car to write wacky bits of humor to entertain the passing masses on the interstate. These genius bon mots included “I’d rather be walking,” “Just married,” and “The Little Mermaid rulz!” (Fact check: she does. She does rulz.) As you see, it was a virtual cornucopia of the sheer art of making people laugh.
The following three or four hours were what some may call exciting or even terse, but most would call sleep-inducing and chuck the optimists out the back window. During this period of time, we listened to songs to which no one knew the words.
The next period of time was the “fun” or “playing around” period. This is when the participants in the expedition are delirious and will laugh at just about anything. This could include the use of a rubber chicken or reading The Rest of the Story (which shares little-known facts such as the teenage aardvark farmer who invented Jell-O and was actually the long-lost brother of Marlon Brando). Group travelers can take this state of delirium to new heights as the cars begin to weave in and out among each other.
Wow! This is when it really gets fun! this period ends abruptly as everyone falls asleep just as the driver begins to tire and really need conversation. At this point, a dance mix comes on the radio that lyrically contains three full sentences and we realize that Hell must have just frozen over.
Cities pass by in a blur: Little Rock, Pottsville, Toadsuck, Memphis, Bell Buckle, Nashville…
By this time, it is afternoon on the second day and everyone is hungry including the cars. the only tan anyone has is on the one arm that was sticking out the window. Everyone is cramped, tired, and feeling the way one feels when they awaken for a Monday 7:50 with the flu and realize it’s raining outside. It’s just another source of proof that whoever connected the two words hot and bothered was rather well-studied. The only discomfort missing is sunburn, which will be remedied for the trip home.
Everyone is feeling, shall I say, ornery? For example, have you ever understood what someone was saying perfectly the first time, but still said “What?” two or three more times just to spite them? That was the overall mood.
There was, however, one subject the entire baker’s dozen agreed upon. We were hungry. Of course, the type of food is another matter.
It’s time for patience to step in.
An hour later, we’re beginning to turn back onto the highway as we witness a Killer Bronco’s attack on a misdirected van. We are already at least two hours behind schedule and we pull over as the police arrive, our driver a genuine Good Samaritan. Everyone exits the cars and begins to play frisbee. To top it all off, that same dance song comes back on.
Patience takes a backseat.
“I can’t believe this! Are we actually going to stay here and help?!”
The others turn to me as if to say, “Well, what do you think?” I look around me at our group: one RA, one Head RA, two Chaplains, two SLDD’s, a Chapel singer, the entire Intramurals staff, and other assorted members large enough to rip out my lungs without tools.
“I mean - of course we’ll stay and help.”
Then, my inside began to speak to me as it always does at the most inopportune times, “Mark, chill. You’ll get there, but if you can’t enjoy the getting there, you’ll waste a lot of time.”
I had to laugh. The police straightened everything out and we were on our way. The remainder of the trip went smoothly except for five or six overly-lengthy stops, missing a few turns, stumbling upon a lost duck, and overheating a car.
All right, I lied about the duck. But, the truth was we did make it - and I really did find it in me to enjoy the journey. I became close to many people who, before, had only been friends in the academic sense. It always seems to take a few bad times with a person to make the good times meaningful.
We eventually arrived in Florida in one piece and, after a hosing down, separated into 13 people again. Only now, we were all older and wiser. 27 hours older and wiser.
There are definite times to get heated, but over-heating always borders on stupidity. The truth is, whether it’s Spring Break or life itself, if we can’t find a way to enjoy the journey, what makes us think we’ll still be welcome at the destination?
We always laugh at ourselves after we’ve been impatient. Maybe it’s time to just chill and laugh at ourselves in the first place.
(Author’s Endnotes: The day before the issue was to go to print, I received a call from my editor asking me to come down to the editorial offices. Assuming they were having some formatting issues and wanted me to be hands-on with cutting down my piece, I obliged. Instead, they handed me a note that came directly from the Provost’s office:
“The article by Mark Steele should be cut, because as far as I can determine, it has no social redeeming value, and does not show the purpose of ORU. It is just drivel.”
It was signed in ink, “Carl H. Hamilton, Ph.D. Provost.”
The Oracle editor David was livid, “How dare they censor us?! There is nothing - absolutely nothing offensive in this article. Nothing that should be under the Provost’s purview.” David wanted to run it anyway just to see what the explosive result would be. But, I surrendered, “Guys - seriously, thank you. But, this article is nothing special. It’s certainly not worth risking the entire paper - or your jobs over. Cut it. But, don’t worry. I’m going to schedule a meeting to talk to the Provost about this in person.”
I did precisely that. The Provost was kind enough to see me, but unkind enough to not allow me to get a word in. As he stood, illustrating he only had a few seconds to talk before he needed to get on to more important matters, he repeatedly called my article “mindless drivel” and said that he wouldn’t mind a humor column in the Oracle if it was funny or well-written. He referred to past articles to hammer home his point. Deflated, I told him I would step down after one more article without making a fuss and he assured me that would be for the best.
To this day, I believe the Provost’s response had absolutely nothing to do with this particular article and more to do with previous articles that slipped by him: he specifically mentioned the Cupid article and the one about stage-kissing in his diatribe. They got him riled up and, though he couldn’t do anything about my past, he certainly had the power to thump my future. By his order, I was asked to step down as a regular writer. The editorial staff was livid. I’ve never seen David Morken get so riled up - and it was on my behalf. I was given one more goodbye article and that would be that. Now, in retrospect, this was practically nothing. Forbidden to write for the school paper? Okay. My career would survive - but at the moment (and we’ve all had those moments) it did not feel that way at all. My emotions were spiraling and I was filled with panic about the future. After meeting with this gentleman who held significant power over my future, it was quite clear he had a strong distaste for me. If he could do this to my writing, what could he do to my grades? My ability to come back and finish next year? It was not a good day.
I wasn’t certain how I would muster the strength and focus to write a decent final article that would actually be allowed in the paper. But, then strength and perspective came where they usually come. From true friends. In my CPO Box, I found a letter from my good friend Bruce Woolsey. He had photocopied the article with the Provost’s response and then attached these Post-It notes.
They read: “Dear Mark Steele, “Mindless drivel?” Obviously, a comment from a sub-human life form - or at least an individual far from the intellectual playground that you and I call home. We find ourselves in the pitiful predicament of being in submission to minds which cannot comprehend the delicate crafting of an inspiring message hidden in an amusing literary journey. I myself found it an entertaining jaunt through the vast realms of creative writing . . . anecdotes with meaning, analogies with a purpose. I too, will miss “Notes from the Middle of Nowhere,” not just for the brief respite it provided from the classroom grind, but for its message, its depth, and its genius. Love, Bruce.”
Now, I know good and well that most of this message was hype and hyperbole aimed at helping me overcome this devastating moment. The article was what it was. But, a great friendship knows when and how to pile it high. I will forever be grateful to Bruce, both for his friendship - and for loaning me the temporary vitality through his words to make it through the next article.
But, that article would not be the end. There would be intervention from surprising places. I would have an epiphany. I would finally stand up for myself - but all of that comes later. Yes, later, there is much, MUCH more to the story.)
Next: AUTHORS & OTHERS UNDER THE SUNSET (From the Archive) Originally published in The Oracle’s “Notes from the Middle of Nowhere” 120: March 29, 1990