Day Fifty: Ozark - Russelville

We woke up at 9:30, which was WAY too late, and to our dismay, our clothes were still not dry. We laid them outside on the sidewalk to dry in the sun, but the humidity seemed to make them even more wet than before, and to put a cherry on top, there was a humongous spider lurking in my tank top, and it took us—and by “us” I mean Slater—about ten minutes to catch it. We reluctantly packed up our things, strapping the wet clothing items under bungee cords and exposing them to the sun, then rode down the street to the Southern Grill. The portions were monstrous, and we ordered way too much food, fearing (God forbid) a small breakfast. We stayed there for quite some time, drinking endless cups of coffee while we watched the clouds begin to drizzle. The drizzle turned into a pour, and we found ourselves closing the place down (it closed at 2), then taking cover at a grocery store across the way.

By the time we stocked up on goodies for the day, the rain had finally stopped, and we took off for a late ride. On our way out of the parking lot, we witnessed a psycho in his beat-up pickup screaming bloody murder at the driver in front of him, tossing out the ear-splitting “F*** YOU” repeatedly out of his toothless mouth and flaunting, of course, an oversized confederate flag. If you can’t already tell, I’ve had enough with the confederate flags around here. We shared the common what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-that-guy look with other bystanders and rode on, ready to see what kinds of crazy people the next town had to offer.

The weather was stifling and muggy once again, and clouds loomed over us for the majority of the ride. Once we reached a small town called Hartman, AR, it finally began to dump; we found the perfect opportunity to hideout from the rain when two Blue Heelers came charging at us, barking incessantly and growling as we slowed to a stop. “They’re harmless!” Their owners yelled from the carport. We’ve heard that one before. It’s always a predicament when it comes to a dog chasing you: do you speed up, hoping you’re faster and the dog gives up after a while? Or do you slow down, stop, and hope it doesn’t bite your leg off? We chose the latter, and our legs are still in tact. We asked the owners if we could take cover under the roof of their carport and they waved us over, and the Blue Heelers wagged their tails excitedly, as if they had not just come sprinting toward us, gnashing their teeth and salivating in anticipation.

When we rolled our bikes down the loose gravel driveway, we had no idea what kind of trouble we were getting ourselves into. I looked up from the grip of my handlebars and saw two young boys cradling tiny, fluffy puppies in the creases of their elbows. The pups sat tolerantly, chubby-headed and sleepy-eyed, as the young ones are, while the boys ran to and from the pen, swapping out puppies so we could meet all seven from the litter. “This one’s our favorite!” they grinned, shoving a puppy our way, and we instantly melted.

He was the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen, and that is not an exaggeration. He was a soft little flubbery ball of sweetness, covered in speckled grey and black fur, with tiny silky ears that lay flat against the sides of his head and grey-blue eyes. He was cuddly and loveable, and ridiculously tolerant of our smothering. My grandfather once told me that when he met my grandmother, he thought, “Her smile could melt a glacier.” I know it’s much less romantic when I refer to a puppy that way, but that’s exactly how I felt about the little guy. So needless to say, he stole our hearts. I wouldn’t let him get away without a photo, so I snapped one and sent it to my family, hoping in the back of my mind that they’d say, “Just take him!” but there was no way in hell. The family told us that the litter was not theirs; the mama dog had shown up on their property weeks before, and delivered a litter of puppies in the backyard. She was beginning to wean the puppies off of her milk, and the family had struggled with finding them homes. Their last option was to take them to a shelter in another city, they said, but if they didn’t find homes, they would have to be put down.

So naturally, we couldn’t live with the thought of that perfect little ball of cuteness being put down. We debated the multiple ways we could try to make it work: we could get a basket? We could get a trailer? No, that wouldn’t work. It was much too hot outside, and the highway is no place for a tiny puppy. We told the family that despite their desperation to find homes, our bikes were not the best place for a pup, and we rode back toward the highway, overcome by sadness. We rode to Clarksville and stopped for dinner at Subway, tossing ideas back and forth about where to stay for the night. We remembered a woman named Stacy that we met back in Oklahoma, and we texted her to see if she had any contacts in Arkansas who might be able to put us up for the night. To our surprise, she had multiple, and they were more than willing to help. I received a call from her friend Richard, who offered a ride to his office building in Russelville, AR, where we could crash for the night. Just like that, it was taken care of, and we thanked Stacy for her help and waited for Richard to come to our rescue.

Richard was just what we needed to change our minds about Arkansas. We had been a bit jaded by encounters with (sorry, I have to use the word) rednecks in the western part of Arkansas, but Richard was quite the opposite. He drove a fuel-efficient pickup and wore a red striped polo and thin glasses; his attitude was warm and welcoming, and his generosity was selfless as could be. We prodded him with questions about his background, his work, and his family, and he told us stories of his days studying geology at Arkansas Tech and his career in healthcare analytics (nothing to do with geology). When we arrived in Russelville, he led us into a large office right across from Walgreens. We dragged the bikes inside of the two-story building, where the bottom floor was vacant and would serve as our housing for the night. There were carpeted rooms and functioning bathrooms, Richard explained, and even an air mattress, because when he hired Indian programmers on a short-term contract, one of them preferred to sleep in the office rather than at a hotel. So, thanks to the Indian guy, we had a bed for the night. Huzzah!

Richard gave us the key to the building and told us we wouldn’t be bothered, and we set up the blow-up mattress in the center of an empty room on the north side of the building. We sat on the floor and ate snacks like children before searching our phones for a nearby Laundromat and gathering our filthy clothes. We rode in the dark to a joint called Betty’s Speed Wash and spent an hour or two awaiting the smell of fresh, clean clothes, then rode back to our home for the night. A quick stop at Walgreens provided us with chips and salsa to munch on before bed, then we tucked ourselves in and fell asleep to the sound of Netflix TV shows to drown out the eerie silence in the building.