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cowhand.
    “So whata you doin’ in the mountains?”
    “Talking to people. Taking some pictures. Looking mostly.”
    “Lookin’ for what?”
    “A three-calendar cafe that serves Smiley buttons on the biscuits.”
    “You needed a smile. Tell me really.”
    “I don’t know. Actually, I’m looking for some jam to put on this biscuit now that you’ve brought one.”
    She came back with grape jelly. In a land of quince jelly, apple butter, apricot jam, blueberry preserves, pear conserves, and lemon marmalade, you always get grape jelly.
    “Whata you lookin’ for?”
    Like anyone else, I’m embarrassed to eat in front of a watcher, particularly if I’m getting interviewed. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee?”
    “Cain’t right now. You gonna tell me?”
    “I don’t know how to describe it to you. Call it harmony.”
    She waited for something more. “Is that it?” Someone called her to the kitchen. I had managed almost to finish by the time she came back. She sat on the edge of the booth. “I started out in life not likin’ anything, but then it grew on me. Maybe that’ll happen to you.” She watched me spread the jelly. “Saw your van.” She watched me eat the biscuit. “You sleep in there?” I told her I did. “I’d love to do that, but I’d be scared spitless.”
    “I don’t mind being scared spitless. Sometimes.”
    “I’d love to take off cross country. I like to look at different license plates. But I’d take a dog. You carry a dog?”
    “No dogs, no cats, no budgie birds. It’s a one-man campaign to show Americans a person can travel alone without a pet.”
    “Cain’t travel without a dog!”
    “I like to do things the hard way.”
    “Shoot! I’d take me a dog to talk to. And for protection.”
    “It isn’t traveling to cross the country and talk to your pug instead of people along the way. Besides, being alone on the road makes you ready to meet someone when you stop. You get sociable traveling alone.”
    She looked out toward the van again. “Time I get the nerve to take a trip, gas’ll cost five dollars a gallon.”
    “Could be. My rig might go the way of the steamboat.” I remembered why I’d come to Gainesboro. “You know the way to Nameless?”
    “Nameless? I’ve heard of Nameless. Better ask the amlance driver in the corner booth.” She pinned the Smiley on my jacket. “Maybe I’ll see you on the road somewhere. His name’s Bob, by the way.”
    “The ambulance driver?”
    “The Smiley. I always name my Smileys—otherwise they all look alike. I’d talk to him before you go.”
    “The Smiley?”
    “The amlance driver.”
    And so I went looking for Nameless, Tennessee, with a Smiley button named Bob.

15
    “I DON’T know if I got directions for where you’re goin’,” the ambulance driver said. “I
think
there’s a Nameless down the Shepardsville Road.”
    “When I get to Shepardsville, will I have gone too far?”
    “Ain’t no Shepardsville.”
    “How will I know when I’m there?”
    “Cain’t say for certain.”
    “What’s Nameless look like?”
    “Don’t recollect.”
    “Is the road paved?”
    “It’s possible.”
    Those were the directions. I was looking for an unnumbered road named after a nonexistent town that would take me to a place called Nameless that nobody was sure existed.
    Clumps of wild garlic lined the county highway that I hoped was the Shepardsville Road. It scrimmaged with the mountain as it tried to stay on top of the ridges; the hillsides were so steep and thick with oak, I felt as if I were following a trail through the misty treetops. Chickens, doing more work with their necks than legs, ran across the road, and, with a battering of wings, half leapt and half flew into the lower branches of oaks. A vicious pair of mixed-breed German shepherds raced along trying to eat the tires. After miles, I decided I’d missed the town—assuming there truly
was
a Nameless, Tennessee. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d