It all started with an eternally curious friend of mine who loved to receive postcards from unfindable towns that I travelled to. I was determined to come up with a flyspeck place with a post office that she could never turn up on a map. What happened as a result of this quest changed my life greatly for the better. It was the spring of 1986, and I had taken a job in Nashville, Tennessee. I was at loose ends one fine day, so I decided to head the 65 miles up to Bowling Green, Kentucky, a medium-sized city that I had never visited and a college town (Western Kentucky University).

“Maybe I might even find some music,” I s’posed. Rather than take the interstate, I elected to venture up U. S. 31W from Nashville through White House, bypassing a couple other small (but easily findable) places. Upon crossing the Kentucky line, I decided to veer eastward and pulled into Woodburn, Kentucky (look up the zip code for yourselves, dammit!). I sent some mail from there, although Woodburn is rather sizeable and thus easily findable.

I explained my obscure-post-office quest to the postmaster there. He thought a moment and said, “I know just the place, and it’s not far from here.” He instructed me to continue on eastward on KY. 240 until it T-intersected with KY. 622. “Turn right, then in just a little distance 240 will bear left. You stay right on 622. Cross the old iron bridge—no, it’s ce’ment now—and head on south and up top of the hill, across from the Methodist church, you’ll find a store. The post office is in there.”

I thanked him profusely and headed out. Ruby the 1973 Buick was happily chugging along. We continued on through lovely downtown Matlock (no post office; no store, either), bridged the interstate at an exitless crossing and finally met up with KY. 622. A right turn was made and the requisite quick afterward right veer kept us on 622 (240 headed off toward Allen Springs, which I later visited). The cement bridge spanning Drakes Fork was crossed. The road twisted and turned through some beautiful limestone-sinkhole studded karst landscape. Car and I passed by a sickly-looking brilliant green pond, climbed the hill, and just as predicted, the steeple of the Methodist Church loomed up ahead.

“CONGESTED AREA,” read the black-on-yellow diamond sign. “25 MPH.” I slowed as directed and noted the store on the right: “Freeman Kitchens Gro.,” its sign said. Below that was a square wooden afterthought sign that read, “U. S. Post Office—Drake, KY. 42128.” This was it: the supposed holy grail of unfindable post offices.

Well, I hadn’t had any trouble finding it, but it sure wasn’t on the state roadmap! I snagged up my cardboard mail box and wandered in. A small man sitting on a blue bench on the back wall looked up and spoke: “You might as well come on in here, young feller,” he allowed. “Everything else has gone wrong today.” A portly, bespectacled man behind the counter answered him: “You hadn’t ought to talk to him like that, K. D. He might not come back again.”

This was my introduction to K. D. Copas, customer supreme, and Freeman Kitchens, postmaster and grocer supreme. On the way in, I noted that the flag was not flying and supposed the office to be a two-hour affair that Congressman Bill Natcher kept operating, hanging by a thread, because it was in his district and over Bill Natcher’s dead body would a post office in his district be closed without just cause! (Berry’s Lick, KY. 42208’s office was shuttered because the store building housing it fell in; Richelieu, KY. 42271 got the axe when the town’s store closed due to the death of the storekeeper/postmaster, and nobody wanted to carry the office on. There were a couple of other similar stories. Incidentally, in its final year of operation, Berry’s Lick’s office generated a stellar $11.25 in revenue. Why, Richelieu had averaged at least $200 annually…)

“I see your flag’s down, so the office must be closed,” I mused. “Can I just leave some mail to be cancelled and dispatched tomorrow?”

“Oh, no; we’re open. The flag pulley’s stove up so I can’t hoist the flag. They’re comin’ tomorrow to look at it.” And with that, Freeman walked from behind the store counter to the postal counter, 20 feet closer to the front of the store.

Behind the blue bench there was a rack of LP records. “I sell a bunch of ‘em,” Freeman offered. I pulled one out at utter random. It was “I’m Jimmy Reed” on Vee-Jay LP-1004, on the original August 1958 maroon-label pressing. It was mine for a paltry $2, and I still have it somewhere—some sweet where. (If I live long enough, it’ll doubtless turn up.)

I prepared the mail and watched it receive the magical cancellation from an unmapped locale: “She’s gonna have fun with this one,” I thought to myself. After an RC and some wondrous conversation, I packed my stuff in and headed out, turning around and proceeding north toward Bowling Green in search of maybe, just maybe, something interesting. I took KY. 622 back past my original junction, passed KY. 242 turning northwest toward Rich Pond, zigged and zagged through Plano (a store is there, but no post office), and eventually met U. S. 231, as it came into the outskirts of Bowling Green from Scottsville, beside Jimmy Diemer’s Supermarket. Soon after crossing the interstate, the regional Greenwood Mall appeared on my left. I entered its lot, parked and walked in, soon finding a Record Bar store.

“You want original music?” the clerk asked. “You came at the right time. A good band is playing tonight at a place over on Fairview Avenue.” She described how I needed to go to get there. The name of the band was Government Cheese, and I would be an honored guest, she assured me. I bought a few records then left and ate somewhere immemorable. I followed her directions: “Come into town on Scottsville Road until you find the U. S. 31W bypass. Turn right and go about 6 blocks to the next major intersection. That’s Fairview. Turn left and the club is down on the right.”

The name of the place was Michael’s Pub; it looked pretty decent: definitely not a dive. I parked and walked in, forking over my I-think-it-was $2 cover. Two members of the band were already there assembling equipment and a third soon entered and began assisting them. But something was missing. “Where the HELL is Tommy?” one of them asked another. “He must’ve got on the slow boat,” someone answered. With most of the gear ready and waiting, the emcee sauntered over and said “Do you shupposhe he mished his ride?” (The great Skip Walker talks like that.) Suddenly the front door burst open and a skinny-and-small galoot half-fell in. “I took a wrong turn over by Somerset someplace,” I believe he blurted. This was the missing guitarist/vocalist Tommy Womack. The others were bassman Billy Mack Hill, vocalist/second guitarist Scott Willis and drummer Joe “Elvis” King. “This guy’s been waiting,” Billy Mack chided Tommy, pointing at me. “He’s come all the way here from Athens, Georgia just to hear us.” (He exaggerated slightly to make Tommy feel worse about his tardiness, which [it turned out] was practically perpetual.)

Tommy was dumbstruck. “Did… did you say Athens, Georgia?” he sputtered at me. “Yes, but I’m living in Nashville now,” I explained. “Do you know any of the bands in Athens?” Tommy asked expectantly. “I know ‘em all,” I replied shruggingly (because I did). “Athens is a good musical town. I was told y’all were really good and did a bunch of original material. You’ve come highly recommended to me.” Tommy blinked dazedly and fell to the floor, hugging my feet and practically kissing my shoes. “I can’t believe it. Do you know any of The B-52s or R. E. M.?” he asked breathlessly. “I know ‘em all, as people,” I replied truthfully. “And your friends at Record Bar—is her name Davie?—and the guy’s name is Jeff—they said that if I was from Athens, I surely would enjoy hearing you.”

Tommy turned around to his bandmates: “We’re gonna put on a hell of a good show for this guy,” he announced. And with that they took the stage and began doing just that. Songs like “Underneath The Water Tower” and “Rebecca Whitmire” wafted past me—good songs, great original material. The finale of their set, dedicated to Tommy’s girlfriend Beth Tucker, was “Come On Back To Bowling Green (And Marry Me).” Excellent originals, the songs they offered me. I was blown away. “You guys are really good,” I told them. “I wanna come see you again the next time you play.” They rattled off upcoming dates and I wrote them down in my trusty notepad, as integral a part of my being then as it is now. I’ll perhaps make an error in time order, but for this column’s purposes the truth can be telescoped and/or stretched a tad: nobody’s gonna mind.

Turns out they had a record out, a self-pressed four-songer (“Things Are More Like They Are Now Than They’ve Ever Been Before”) with a simple black-and-white cover (low-budget-city). I heard the disc and liked it very much. Before I left their company, I remarked that I could sell some of them. “How many do you want?” Scott asked. “I’ll take a box,” I answered offhandedly. And I did, and sold every one of them. I don’t even have a copy of it now, although that may well be rectified soon.

I’ll fill in the gaps quickly now. My friend did finally locate Drake, KY. 42128 on the Rand McNally Commercial Atlas, but it took her awhile. I returned to Drake many, many times: I even rented Post Office Box 21 for awhile, although I let it go when I returned to Georgia. Freeman Kitchens sold the store and retired, although the post office is now in his record store (!!). Tommy and Beth split up briefly but soon reunited and now have been happily married for well over 10 years. The band went on to sign with a small Nashville independent label (Reptile Records) and released three discs therefor, all of which I own. (Tommy is even putting them back into print as we speak.) They were “Come On Back To Bowling Green And Marry Me” (1987), “Three Chords/No Waiting” (1989), and “Government Cheese (1992). They also issued a single on their own: “It’s A Rock And Roll Party With Government Cheese! (1995).

The band? Well, it’s still together, with all four original members, plus the addition of their friend/roadie/occasional guitarist, a fellow dubbed Viva Las Vegas (whose real name is Chris Becker). They get back together at least once or twice a year just to play for the heck of it. I recently reunited with Tommy and Beth (they’re in Nashville) and Scott (who’s still in Bowling Green) and Jeff (Sweeney) through the miracle of Facebook.

Davie is alive and well and throwing pottery to some acclaim. Billy Mack is in Lexington, working a real job and dabbling in musical projects (his band is Moral Chain Of Custody) on the side. Scott is still working for the backpack outfitters who employed him when we first met. Joe is in Hendersonville, Tennessee. And Skip Walker is still around up thataway. Tommy fronted a group in Nashville named The Bisquits for awhile. He also wrote a book that is worthy of your attention: The Cheese Chronicles: The True Story Of A Rock ‘N’ Roll Band You’ve Never Heard Of. It came out in 1995 and mercifully is still in print.

Many, many gallons of Drakes Fork water have run over the proverbial dam since I was last in that neck of the woods, but as soon as I know I won’t have to fight a blizzard, I’m heading up that way. We all have some serious catching up to do. Beth and I have to do our long-promised brewpub crawl of Nashville: Tommy (who rarely drinks) will be our designated driver, I have to search through all of Freeman’s records, I’ve got to give and receive ten thousand hugs, and while I’m there, I’ll hunt the microfilm of whatever newspapers Western Kentucky University has in their archive. I’m still working on that Terminal Hotel fire project, beloved.

That’s the not-so-encapsulated saga of how I found Government Cheese in Bowling Green, Kentucky and how I visited Drake, KY. 42128. My thanks to Christian Hampton for the inspiration I needed to write this, and to Matt Buley for a remarkable cask of Milk Stout with espresso beans that got us to talking (both of us!). Next, twist my arm and I’ll write about WGOE. (30.)

William Orten Carlton = ORT.

ort30601@hotmail.com