Southern Culture On The Skids "Dirt Track Date"

It was called "7 Maples" and it's where I called home for five years in that stretch of the 90s when I lived in the most western part of the state of Virginia.

The farmhouse had come with the acres purchased by our artist landlords, who had built a beautiful studio at the top of the hill. "7 Maples" was the original homestead on the land, with parts of the structure dating back 100 years.

It was called "7 Maples" because the land had 6 maple trees on it, but the original owners thought "7 Maples" was more poetic-sounding than "6 Maples."

It was rickety and rustic and just right for as a space for a pair of 20-somethings to live in. It wasn't too nice---we couldn't really do anything to ruin it. And it had space for me and my roommate.

And one more.

Throughout our tenure, we had a rotating array of 3rd roommates. They were always close friends, but always changed the dynamic from the consistence of the two of us.

The sprawling layout was charming in the daytime, and would have been as charming at night, if we'd never heard the story of the murder/suicide that had occurred in our front room, early in the century.

At night, when the mind plays tricks, the house could be a bit scary, with its creaky floors, and maple branches brushing the roof, and the quiet, quiet countryside of southwest Virginia.

And then there was the creepy appeal of the 2nd floor room that we gave to the rotating 3rd roommate.

The room itself was fine, but it lead to a large walk-in closet. The closet was only partially finished. And off the walk-in closet, was another totally unfinished space.

A room, within a room, within a room. Like a panic room. Or a place you'd hide a body.

As I said, Roommate #3 was always the wild-card. And one night, I came home to find a certain #3 passed out on the couch.

Not unusual. Roommate #3 liked to take a drink. Or five.

Climbing the stairs to my bedroom, I had to pass by her room. And from the room I heard breathing.

Not unusual. Roomate #3 liked to take a drink or five and bring home a guest from the bar.

I worked the night shift those years, and sometimes, on my way in well after midnight, I'd pass some stranger, on his way out.

But this one was breathing loudly. I shouldn't be able to hear breathing through the closed door, should I?

I inched closer to the frame. Heavy, heavy breathing.

Mechanized sounding breathing.

There was something strangely robotic about this heaving, in and out, in and out.

It's after midnight. It's dark. I'm alone, except for a passed out roommate on the couch downstairs, and whoever is behind the door.

In and out, in and out.

Breathing from the creepy room.

I'm a reasonable, rational human being. What is there to be afraid of?

I stood there for another full minute, hoping I could come up with a good excuse.

Failing that, I thought I'd better look in the room.

The hallway light was harsh, entering the bedroom that was completely dark, except for the tiny glow of a stereo light.

A stereo that was playing. Counting. Spinning on low volume.

I'd been haunted by the ghost of Southern Culture On The Skids album "Dirt Track Date."

At the very end of the album, when the title track fades out, you are left with a sound. The sound of a dirt track.

Cars, vroomming around the track past a microphone. The doppler effect making the pitch rise and fall.

Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . .
Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . .
Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . . Vrooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . .

It goes on for 5 minutes or so, this mechanical pulsating of cars roaring by, which, when turned low on your stereo, sounds a lot like mechanical breathing.

Jump ahead to 3:21 on the Youtube video, to hear the song end, and the cars/creepy breathing. (they fade it out; it actually goes on for 5 minutes on the record)