I did more fidgeting than sleeping, including bounding through an extended nightmare of gangsters trying to kill me because of something I said or did. It was uncertain if I was innocent or not; people were debating. I tried to hide inside a college film class, but they tracked me down. I escaped via a train.
As soon as it was light I was back on my feet and packed up, leaving Paul McCartney on the ground. Detroit and Otto were still up, blabbing about choice, risk, freedom, and destiny. “Three cars went by,” Detroit informed me. His voice was so hoarse that his words were barely audible. Otto looked like a wreck himself.
Sunrise shadows were still long when a green Chevrolet C/10, its windshield wide as a jetliner, stopped. A lone person sat behind the wheel with its extended passenger section in the back.
“We got a fish on the line, boys!” Detroit reached for his pack.
I hustled over. Detroit walked over to Paul McCartney, yelled “Hey!” and shook him by the shoulder. Simultaneously he sat up, pulled down his bag, chucked it over his shoulder, and made for the vehicle, all in one seamless motion. Otto inched over last.
The driver was a flat-faced female with strawberry hair, going to Barstow. My watch read 6:23 a.m. I plopped down in the last bench seat, hurting indeed. With Detroit representing our quartet up front, I felt it would be all right to get more rest for my lids.
The sun was considerably higher when I woke. All windows were rolled up and the air conditioner was blowing full blast. Otto and Paul McCartney were in the seat ahead of me, completely out of it. Detroit was still wide awake, still smoking cigarettes, blabbering on with the woman. Ahead I saw: WELCOME TO BUSINESS-FRIENDLY BARSTOW, CROSSROADS OF OPPORTUNITY.
“Good morning.” The woman smiled into her rearview mirror right at me.
“Hey, know what?” Detroit planted a smile across his exhausted countenance. “This lady volunteered to go all the way down to the last exit so we don’t have to bother with none of the hassles of the town.”
“It sounds like you guys spent an epic night out there, so I want to help you out. There’s two freeways leading out of town and I don’t want you to get crossed up.”
“She's all right, ain’t she?” Detroit waved a cigarette. He felt better than he looked. Bags hung under his cloudy eyes. In the daylight you could see how dirty he was. I’m not sure if two showers would help. “I gotta get my friend up,” the affable hoarse voice chided. He leaned over and swatted Paul McCartney’s leg. “Hey there!”
Paul McCartney jolted awake to a formal sitting position, ready for anything. “We here?”
The woman switched the radio from music to the news.
“Get your game on for the desert, boys.” Detroit pondered the glare reflecting off the white ground. “I hope I can handle this. It looks wicked, like a blast furnace in the middle of hell.”
“There’s no fooling yourself. It’ll be hot. The Mojave is deceiving. It can be as malevolent as the Sahara. You’ll see how real it is for the next several hundred miles.”
I let Otto awaken by himself.
Stepping out from the pleasant, frosty processed air to arid, burning fire was something you don’t want to experience too often. The juxtaposition was startling. My skin felt braised down to its pores. My knees hardened. My eyes lost their tears. The cessation of life looked complete, nuclear complete. As I stood outside, it all struck me at once -- the white-hot, treeless landscape, the flat horizon, the glaring sun, the hard pavement. It was definitely a time to utter my made-up word, “Euu.”
Detroit and Paul McCartney decided to retreat into shade, saying they needed to "think more about how to get to Vegas." That lacked sense, seeing there wasn’t a building or structure anywhere in sight. But Detroit had an ulterior motive -- he had to buy those cigarettes. The four of us bid each other good luck as they backtracked on foot into town.
“The only direction for us is forward.” I gauged Otto’s mood. He answered nothing.
I rolled up my shorts. “Man, it’s hard to believe the frozen snowcaps of Mt.Whitney aren’t that far away.”
“Neither’s the skullbones of Death Valley, you retared twat plug.”
It was best that we stayed put, because the wait was a mere half hour inside the tinderbox. A sputtering old station wagon pulled over -- another bomb of a car. This wagon’s color, I'd describe, was “dirty black snow.” You wouldn’t think the people inside would be candidates. The driver was young enough, with a very long ruffled beard, but the passenger was a prissy old lady, fat as a whale.
The two were arguing about having us aboard, because when Otto and I approached I heard the young guy say, “Oh Mother, they won’t hurt you.” Then he turned to me benignly. “Going to Las Vegas?”
I smiled back. “The question is, are YOU going to Las Vegas?”
“That’s where I live. The back door is open.”
Mother scowled, but she wasn’t the primary decision-maker here. Otto and I took the ride.
I couldn’t make out any resemblance between the kid and his mother. Here he had that gigantic beard, hanging under a long horse face, and a revolting crew cut. His skin was sallow. His arms were as thin as chop sticks, and you could see his ribs sticking underneath his white tee-shirt. ‘Mother,’ on the other hand, lugged around about 300 pounds, had orangy tan skin, tinted glasses, a black dress, and large chinky jewelry.
Mother kept looking at Otto and me in the back seat, as though inspecting us.
“Mother, stop scrutinizing my friends. How would you like to be watched?”
I laughed uncomfortably. This guy was direct. Mother replied with an outburst. “I have nothing against either of them! But why create more trouble for yourself?”
“They’re no problem. What do hitchhikers have to do with my condition?”
“Ted, you are ignoring the fact that you are a sick man.”
“Mother, it’s my car and I’ll pick up all the hitchhikers I want. Is that understood?”
Ted turned toward Otto and me with a completely genial attitude. “I don’t think Mother would've picked you up if she was driving.” He guffawed through long, crooked teeth.
“You’ve got this cursed heat, this car doesn’t run well, and we’ve got to rush you to the doctor as soon as you get home. Why add to your problem?”
Ted looked back. “My mother confuses picking up you two with exerting myself. Actually, Mother, all I did was pull over to the side of the road and stop.” He smiled and winked. He reminded me a little bit of a mad scientist.
The sun bore down at an angle that made it seem no higher than a kite. The terrain was pure white, burning, with no variation. Heat blew on my neck from the open windows. No air conditioning now. All you could do was sit tight and accept what came. The black asphalt of the interstate stood in utter contrast to the white landscape. It looked solitary winding over the horizon. I was glad this was an express ride. The gas tank was full.
“Have you ever been across the desert?” Ted asked. “Isn’t the heat that’s produced just incredible? It’ll be like this all the way to Las Vegas.”
Before I could answer, he added, “I’m hoping to make it all the way across without overheating."
Already I’d seen an inordinate amount of cars konked out on the shoulder with their hoods up and engines smoldering. I studied the sound of the engine. Nothing sounded amiss to me. The temperature gauge on the dashboard, though, told a different story. The needle was pressed all the way over on “danger.”
“The tendency would be for the wagon to overheat quicker if I was going faster. That’s why we’re only doing forty-five,” Ted explained. “I hope it’s not too slow for you."
“We’re getting there.”
“By the way, in case you want to know why I keep my hair in this style -- most of it has fallen out due to my condition.”
“Oh Ted!” his mother cried, her fat, orangy face flushed and embarrassed. “You don’t have to tell that to everybody.”
“I want to tell them, Mother. Long hair is the style these days. Look at my friends here.”
Mother granted us a token glance.
“I keep this beauty,” Ted stroked his furry beard with his bony fingers, “to let everyone know what generation I belong to.”
“That awful thing should come off as well.”
“Mother, screw you. You’re forgetting. I’m the one living my life, not you.”
“And who is paying the doctor bills?”
“The insurance company.”
“Your father’s insurance company.”
“Same thing.”
Mother shook her double chin fiercely. She tugged at the end of her dress which had started to ride up. Her legs were puffy and bumpy, full of rashes and varicose veins.
“
Aren’t mothers wonderful?” Ted turned back to Otto and me. “They always know what’s best for you.”
“Ted, have you seen the heat indicator? It’s all the way over in the red.”
“Yes Mother, I see it.” He sighed. “I regret to say we’ll have to stop at the next gas station and let it cool down.”
Where the heck was he planning to stop in this purgatory?! There weren’t any towns. Yet several miles up there was an exit for the sole purpose, I believe, of providing gas, food, and shelter. I decided to take the diplomatic approach. Stopping to fix the problem before it occurred was better than getting stuck, like the other poor souls I was seeing stranded by the dozen.
Ted shut off the motor. An ominous hissing rose from underneath the hood. Ted, Otto, and I got out. Ted was not only small, frail, and weak, but had a hunchback. His short arms could barely raise the hood. A cloud of steam billowed up from underneath.
“I think Old Nellie needs water.” He guffawed and hobbled over to Mother’s window. She was fanning herself with an Oriental fan. “Mother, do you have the credit cards?” She sorted through her pocketbook.
“This better not take long,” she demanded.
“If we give her a good half hour to cool down we should be on our way again. Let’s go in the café,” Ted said. “My throat is dry.”
I never heard of anyone having a beer so early in the morning -- it was about ten a.m. -- but there we were, sitting at a table at a near-empty restaurant in the Mojave Desert, Ted and his mother each with a Michelob in front of them. Ted looked like one of Santa’s elves who had been sent to the desert to recuperate. Several times he offered to buy a beer for Otto and myself. I drank Coke instead.
“So what’s it like to hitchhike cross-country?” Ted said eagerly. “That’s something I’ll never be able to do. But I’ve thought about it.”
I ran down some highlights.
“How about the women on your trip? Any of them want to make love?”
Did this guy ever get to the point! I sat up straight. “No, I never got that far.” I laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t know about my friend, though. Otto?”
Otto tilted his head queerly, snobbishly, making it clear he still did not want to bury his grudge. “That’s only for me and my head to know.”
“Ah, very clever. I like the double meaning,” Ted said. “You’re one of those private, introverted guys. I’m the opposite. I like to talk about sex because I never found much other pleasure in life. My livelihood used to be to try and get all the women in my bedroom that I could.”
“Oh Ted!” his mother cried.
“Well, it’s true, Mother. Do you want honesty or do you want lies and deception?”
Ted went to check his car as we got back out into the heat. The radiator had been doused with water and filled again to its proper level. The needle relaxed some. “I’ll have to crawl along, just in case,” Ted eased behind the wheel with effort. “Sorry for causing all these problems.”
“You’re doing great, Ted. Our goal is Las Vegas. I fully believe we’ll see it happen within our lifetime."
“But aren’t you fit to be tied?”
“You’re the guy with the automobile headaches, not us. You take care of yourself and we’ll take care of ourselves.”
“You guys are godsends, thanks.”
It wasn’t five miles into our second attempt that we faltered. The needle shot straight back into the red. Ted stopped at the next exit and cooled down the radiator again. We stayed longer this time at the “auto oasis.” Ted drank his beer by himself; I studied the geological charts and atlases on the wall, still perplexed how a major desert could exist within the United States. Air conditioning or not, I decided that anyone who gravitated toward a desert for any reason whatsoever had to be crazy.
Attempt #3: I kept my eye on Las Vegas mileage signs, anxiously counting down the distance to under a hundred miles. Ted reduced his speed to thirty-five. As other cars passed ruthlessly, Ted explained all the things on his lemon that needed attention: tune-up, valve job, radiator, alternator, brake hoses, battery, ignition system -- everything.
We were headed for a third emergency stop when the lights from the dash lit up all at once. All power from the car drained. “Oh Christ, this might be it,” Ted glided to a stop on the shoulder. The hissing was louder than ever.
Ted got out, barely missed being hit by an oncoming car, raised the hood, and strolled over to his mother’s window. He wasn’t so jolly this time. “It’s dead.”
“I told you never to drive this car this way.” She fanned herself. “Now what are you going to do?”
“Tell you to shut up, for one.” Ted mulled it over. “Probably tow it in.”
Without being too enthusiastic, I asked what help he needed.
“I could use two strong backs to help me push this heap of rust into that gas station.” He pointed toward the exit -- about an eighth of a mile along the horizon.
The blimp remained in the car, steering, while the three of us pushed. The ground was level, but the heat was overbearing. The metal burnt to the touch. The ground was like redhot coals. My shoes steamed through the rubber. Ted was only a hindrance. He had no heave-ho. He gasped for air; was tripping and stumbling instead of pushing. “Go ahead, Ted, get up there and steer, relieve your mother of the duty,” I said. “My friend and I will push.”
“You penis head, Winans.” Otto cursed me under his breath, though he kept pushing in a token way. I did the brunt of it myself.
It was a sweating, stinking affair. My back and legs practically buckled. Pushing uphill on the interchange ramp was a feat worthy of lifetime membership in Charles Atlas’ He-Man’s Club. Sweat rolled off my face like water. My armpits were saturated. My clothes actually squeaked.
Ted let the car sit and went to the restaurant to think it over. This time when he offered a beer, I accepted. Ted drank three. His mother switched to vodka. Ted decided his only recourse was to have the car towed the rest of the way to Las Vegas.
“He reminds me of his father -- stubborn and procrastinating,” his mother mentioned while Ted was making the call. “He should have hired a car service from the start. That’s what I told him.”
“What does he have?”
“Leukemia -- rest his soul.”
My own spirit, which had started out optimistic, began to flag unpropitiously. Matters were getting out of control, fast. Any more complications, Otto and I might find ourselves stranded in the Mojave Desert without transportation.
The tow truck lifted the car's back wheels off the ground. Ted got in the cab with his mother. “You guys ride in the dead wagon,” he said. “It’s extra, but you’ve been a big help to me, so one good turn deserves another.”
Sweet deal! That was as good as a limousine. Think of it. A long private ride. Guaranteed to reach Las Vegas. Speed back up to 65 m.p.h. Riding backwards in high, reclining La-Z-Boys. If Otto hadn’t been so dour, it would have been perfect. I was glad we were no longer among the disabled. Dozens of cars were lined up in misery in both directions. Towing had to be the biggest single industry out here. No stretch was without an overheated car sidelined on the shoulder. It was the norm.
Ahead in the cab you could see Ted’s mother. One moment she was gabbing with the driver and the next, berating Ted.
“She’s sure not making his last days any sweeter.”
Otto ignored me.
I feigned a laugh. “Man, pushing this hunk of junk made me feel like an Egyptian slave building a pyramid. Didn’t it?”
Otto stuck out his pointy chin. “I’m so sick of takin’ your orders, Winans! No way should we have pushed! Don’t you got no dignity? If it were ten degrees cooler, I would’ve been outta here and on my own!”
“You’re a lousy bluff, George.”
Otto shoved himself into the corner and folded his arms with his eyes tightly closed.
Maybe I talked bolder than I felt? I flashbacked to a day ago: Was I right to force him to abandon Whittier and that fifteen year-old girl? Couldn’t I have relented if only to keep the peace? What was the big deal? Or was I just as childish? Was I being thoughtlessly harsh? How much time would it take to ease this kind of agony?
Crossing the state line from California into Nevada brought no regrets. "California better give another state had a chance. Like it or not, Golden State, you’re only one-fiftieth of this country. You get only two senators like everybody else!”
The desert sure didn’t change. Billboards lined up like dominoes, advertising Caesar’s Palace, the Pink Flamingo, the Sands, and the Mirage. However, the dull white terrain, the formless hills, and Mother Nature's heat, remained.
“How did a famous city ever rise from devilishness?”
A few minutes later we were within the city limits, chauffeured into an average residential neighborhood. Amazing, this block could’ve been located in any city anywhere in the United States. Modest, compact houses were mixed in with maple trees, people watering the lawn, kids riding bicycles, stores, playgrounds, schools, and churches. “A normal residential area in Las Vegas?" I said inside the dead wagon. "What will they think of next?”
The driver backed onto a stone driveway. Ted’s house was white stucco with black shutters and a large gabled entrance with posts, pleasantly abundant, with balconies outside two upstairs windows, its half acre marked off by a ten-foot hedge.
'Mother,' hot and flustered, got out of the truck flapping her arms. She tottered into the house, disregarding our presence. The driver unhitched the chains and towbar. Ted eased himself out of the cab and hobbled up to us on his sneakers like Albert Einstein.
“Would you believe this is where I live? Whoopee-doo-doo. Let me make sure Mother is all right and then I want to call my father. Then we’ll get in the other car and I’ll zip you out to the highway.”
“Take your time.” I felt funny accepting all this graciousness from a sick person. “We’re in no rush.”
“I am, Winans. I’m hungry. You wanna starve me now, too? Is that your plan?”
Ted powered us along Las Vegas Boulevard. We got an eyeball of all the glittering casinos and hundreds of gamblers walking around in the extreme heat. It was like Reno, only bigger and gawdier. “The Strip” may have had sparkling panache but I wasn’t going to stop there -- not on this trip, at least. It would have to wait for another time.
Ted let us off on the north side of the downtown in front of a Rexall store which he said made a good sandwich. We got out and that was the end of Ted.
Otto put on his backpack and marched down the street.
“Hey O-Otto, man -- w-where you going?”
He wheeled abruptly. “I’m gonna wash up at that Chevron station. I don’t wanna be a filthy pig, like you.”
I followed behind.
I gave up trying to be his friend. He was too stubborn, I was too depleted, he was too impenetrable, I was too disposed and miserable. There was too much heat and too much dirt matted across the back of my neck. My throat felt dry as sandpaper. There was no movement of air. My muscles were like dead fish.
My gasoline-soaked Yucatan bag made me feel nauseous. I stopped off at a Woolworth’s and replaced it with a red Jeri-Pak. I transferred all my items and tossed out the original, along with some torn maps, crumpled napkins, and snack crumbs. “As long as I get home with my diary, I don’t care if I arrive home nude.”
“The trip” felt officially done. The end. I had no desire to linger, to tour Las Vegas, to see any more attractions, to learn anything, gamble, or chat with colorful characters. The only thing I wanted to do was keep moving eastward. I even said for the first time, “I want to go home.” What a laugh to think the journey back would be lingering like coming out. I was displaced, restless, on edge. I felt evaporated and dehydrated.
Ted’s suggestion didn’t pan out. My corned beef-on-rye was mediocre-to-poor. The waiter was an unfriendly Arab with black hairs on the back of his hands.
My relationship with Otto was shot. Never again could I expect us to carry on in our patented way. Never again would we live in a world of playful, unified tightnes where there was no second-guessing, no hidden agendas. We really were a “we” when we started out. Now all he spoke were snide remarks. I blamed myself. I should’ve given in. Swallowed my fucking pride. Kept my ego in check. I almost preferred to see him leave now, softly, than to witness it getting worse. It was like he wasn’t even there anyway. The sensational Winans-George Fusion Band split and went its separate ways. What a cruel, unjust world: You care for someone with all your heart, you do your best, and still screw things up.
"It shouldn’t be part of the oeuvre."
I was sucked dead by the time Otto and I drudged out to the sizzling alleyramp in North Las Vegas which tilted back to I-15. Languor ruled my every breath. My head throbbed and felt pounded by darts. A shocking view of the white-hot desert persisted. A time-temperature clock on a bank read 113. My body was awash in sweat; the odor was putrid. It occurred to me I was on the point of delirium.
“ . . . Fuck you and your imbecile travel ideas, Roger. I got my own agenda set up.” His eyes bombarded me with anger. “Twenty-five cars, Winans, twenty-five cars. I’m gonna count down twenty-five cars. And if we’re not out of this hell by then, I’m headin’ for shelter. Hear that, cockface? This is inhumane. This is where the Devil goes for vacations.”
Twenty-five cars came and passed. No one stopped.
“Good. I’m gettin’ the freak outta here.”
Traveler’s Rest Cantina was a small wooden structure adorned with hand-painted signs and cartoon characters, advertising slot machines, food, and tourist information. “I’m a traveler and I need a rest and this is where I’m goin’.”
I pointed down Craig Road. “Looks like there could be more of a selection down there.”
“Go wear yourself out lookin’ for another place, then!” He spit venom. “I’m not exertin’ myself, not in this heat. Go find your own amusement, Winans. I ain’t playin' your dandy no more.” He stalked away wildly.
I traipsed the sidewalk, aching slowly, searching for McDonald’s . . . Burger King . . . Wendy’s . . . Kentucky Fried Chicken . . . any familiar name that had air conditioning. The time-temperature clock inched up to 115. The paltry Las Vegas skyline sizzled in the white sky. I was floored at the businesses cashing in on the gambling craze. Every single dry cleaner, bank, gas station, nail shop, bakery, barber, car radio store -- all displayed slot machines, prominently announcing ways to “get rich now.”
I was stumbly and weak as I passed Westco Supermart, its towering windows flush against the sidewalk. I entered and bathed under the sweet coolers inside the vestibule. Ah, mercy. Sweet charity. Beautiful providence. I bought a 64-oz. bottle of Coke and drank the whole thing in the heat along the curb. Acid never tasted better. My face felt sore and pitted. My eyes were watery and dim.
Could the hardships and misgivings ever be erased, Lord? Could they ever be forgiven? Why God, why hadn’t I gone to Whittier? What was my problem? For all I knew, we might’ve still been there, playing doctor with those girls. I could've pulled on the elastic of a girls' panties. I could've probed and adorned a bare female ass, reached for paradise and maybe even found it. Instead, I encouraged this . . . this hellraking.
Why did I always insist on having things my own way? How could the world live in peace if every person had to have their own way? That's what was wrong with God's green earth in the first place. People needed to stay humble, to always slant downhill.
Who was in charge here? "Not me," I said out loud.
Not everyone had youth, physical strength, or strength of will. But look at me now. I had nothing. I was an empty vessel, a broken soul. And if I, the one so blessed, supposedly, had nothing, what did other people have?
“Oh God, I’m sorry.”
My bones were clay and mind was amalgamated mush. I could scarcely lift my Jeri-Pak. It was so hot I wasn’t even sweating anymore. Perspiration burned off before it secreted. It was like pressing your face against the grill of a space heater.
A car driving in my direction slowed down. A pudgy male, sloppy but benevolent-looking, with black, wetted-down hair, called through the open passenger window.
“Hey guy -- need a ride?”
I stumbled over. “Yeah, but I’m going out of town -- north.”
“Where?”
“Up I-15.”
“I’m making tracks to St. George, Utah. Would that be a help?”
“Utah?” Just hearing the word dazzled me. “Yeah, that’d help, but there’s one thing” -- I took a big breath. “I’m with a friend. He’s at a cafe up here about a quarter of a mile. You think you could pick him up, too?”
“Sure can. Got plenty of room.”
He and I drove to fetch Otto.
With grit up my nose and a thumping heart, I entered Traveler’s Rest Cantina. Otto sat alone at a table against a paneled wall, absently thumbing through a pile of visitor brochures and pamphlets. A half-full Coke sat in front of him.
“Hey man, guess what? I got us a ride.”
Otto looked up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Some guy. Going all the way to Utah.”
“Utah? Some guy now?”
I nodded. “He’s outside with the motor running and ready to go.”
Somehow, Otto was ready. He chugged the last of his Coke, paid his bill, gathered his backpack, and left with a kick in his stride. I winked at the older, kindly waitresses.
We picked up.
Dusk reduced the intensity of the furnace. The temperature dropped to about 95. Sweat returned to my pores. I lapped up the salt like a panting dog. The guy was going to visit his grandmother. We were in one state and out of another in quick succession. California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah. Yes, we nicked Arizona. The guy stopped at a vegetable stand to buy corn and a jar of honey in Littlefield, Arizona. Four states in one day seemed weird considering the piddily distance.
St. George, Utah, gave us a reality check. It was remote, hilly, and unsettled. We stood enveloped in darkness. The reception we got was tenuous and unwelcome if not downright hostile. Every driver seemed to sneer, swear, or gesture.
“You ain’t gonna stay out here long, are you, Roger?” Otto bounced over to me. “I got no pep to face this kind of adversity, sons. My nerves are in shards.”
“True. We don’t need to be part of an unsolved crime.”
“See that cemetery across the street? I say if we don’t get a ride in fifteen minutes, we head up that pathway and bunk out with the dead.”
“I’m with you, Otto. A hitchhiker’s thumb goes only so far.”
A speeding Mustang screeched to a stop, then wildly backed up toward us. I couldn’t believe it: The plain license plate was cream-colored with black lettering, ‘Garden State.’
“New Jersey! Hey Otto, I’ll be . . . ossified! Is that okay to say that?”
But like all too many times before, there was one lesson I still hadn't learned. I proclaimed victory too soon. The Mustang’s space was diminutive and packed full of possessions.
A meaty, brute of a male with a scarred face, looking like he wasn’t quite all there, opened the door with the motor still running. “Oh, I didn’t see both of youse out there.” He unhitched the trunk as if expecting to find available space. There wasn’t an inch. A pimply-faced teenager leered at us through the back.
“You’re going all the way to New Jersey?”
“Exit 163,” he smiled proudly. “Paramus area.”
The front seat passenger, a guy who looked more like an ugly girl, got out. “I’m the one who saw ya.” He had diluted eyes and swaying black hair. “I saw the sign and thoit, ‘New Joisey!’ But then I saw both ya’s . . . I thoit maybe we could take one of youse . . .or not."
“We didn’t want youse guys to think we was passin’ you by or nothing,” the other guy said.
They vanished and silence ensued once again. Otto turned to me with his most friendly gesture in days. “That’s what you call a tease.”
“I wish they never stopped. Travel By Thumb doesn't acommodate pretenders.”
Five minutes later we copped a ride of our own, in a convertible no less. It was a Californian corporate-type, a guy shrewdly buttoned down in a double-breasted suit, lathered in jasmine, and with sharp, serious eyes.
“Relieved to be out of the troubleland?” he said after we left St. George behind.
“That’s an understatement.”
“Cowboys and hitchhikin’ ain’t a good mix,” Otto said.
“Yeah, I come through this way a lot. I've seen my share of badass delinquents. You ought to be grateful -- you got your chance by riding with me.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m good, I know.”
After a spell, the guy asked, “What part of California were you in?”
“Los Angeles,” I said, wanting to keep it simple.
“Just L.A.?”
“Yeah.”
The guy chewed on a toothpick. “You know people down there?”
“No, we camped out.”
He lowered his eyes suspiciously. “Where did you camp?”
“Griffith Park.”
The guy spit out his toothpick. “The hell you did! I just came from L.A. and the cops were crawling all over that place!”
“Okay, okay,” I confessed, flattened out cold with a new beating. “We were at Huntington Beach.”
“That’s more like it. Don’t be a punk jerk with me. I don't have time for wiseass hitchhikers. I’m above that.”
I was screaming at myself. What was holding me back from telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? What did I need to protect? It was almost as if I had to withhold information, to appear less intelligent than I was, in order to communicate with people. Or else I had to always throw in a touch of evil. What was up with that? Is that who I meant to portray, a stunted person, half a person, a limited person?
The more the guy turned over my gaffe, the madder he got. Without warning he pulled to the shoulder in a huff.
"What's wrong, sir?"
“All right guys, out." The car stopped.
"What?"
"I’ve never done this before, but I don’t give rides to liars. If that’s who you are get your gear and get out of my car. Both of you.”
Otto gripped the dashboard. “The punishment don’t fit the crime.”
“I’m so stupid, sir. Forgive me. I'm so stupid!”
“I do, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to get away with it. Out. I got more important things to do. I got a woman in Cedar City who’s going to take care of me tonight, and I’m already running late. Out! Go!”
I couldn’t even look at Otto as we stood on the concrete of U.S. 91, encaptured by loud silence. What a forlorn feeling. This was unprecedented. This was deal-killing. This was last straw material. This was exit-inducing.
"Sorry."
There wasn't a sign in sight, nor an exit, nor any traffic to speak of. The only thing to do was to exodus on foot northward.
I said again, “I’m not happy with myself.” I hung my head as stones disappeared underneath my feet. “I blew it again.”
“That makes two of us. I’m none too happy with you, neither.” Otto kicked a weed topped by a thistle.
“I knew this trip would have variety, but I didn’t figure the amusement included being thrown out of a car.”
He laughed. “I’m your hapless bride, Winans. Now I understand. I’m stuck with you, for better or worse, richer or poorer. You make every moment dramatic, but at least it ain’t borin'. I'm anxious to see what stunt you'll pull next.”
I was shocked. “I’ll make it up to you, man. Next ride. Promise.”
"That guy wasn't good stock anyway."
I wanted to throw on my winter jacket but remember? I dumped it in California. I had been so DAMN FREAKING SURE it would be unnecessary. So now I was not only grubby, rebuked, discarded, hungry, and exhausted, I was freezing to death. I squeezed my upper arms. It got downright chilly. I stared at the stars because there wasn’t anything else to look at that was good.
A rickety, painted schoolbus rumbled over. It was as if we had made a prior appointment to be picked up. The door swung open, revealing a small, smiling driver wearing sunglasses.
“Pilgrims, alight! Free yourselves from fear and attachments. Welcome aboard, friends. You’ve got a ride.” He put his hands together and bowed.
I climbed inside, marveling at the bus’s dark interior. The cargo included a pretty brunette in the third row (the rest of the seats had been taken out). A second, bearded guy, ponytailed with earrings in both ears, had his arm wrapped around her.
“Are you guys into taking a quickie spin out to the Grand Canyon?” the bearded guy said. “We’d love for you to join us. We need witnesses.”
“Grand Canyon – that’s where you’re going?”
“What do you mean quickie trip?” Otto lay his pack down across a vacant seat.
“Vanessa and I are getting married at sunrise tomorrow with adherants from across the country. We thought maybe you were heading there yourselves. We’ll see the canyon but plan to truck back out tomorrow, the same way we came in. There’s only one way in and one way out. We’ll be back out here by tomorrow evening.”
“How does one get to the Grand Canyon from here?”
Otto stared me down with heavy eyelids. “What, you’re gonna say no to the Grand Canyon?”
“I thought you had to get there from, like, southern Arizona, Phoenix, or Flagstaff.”
“This is the North Rim,” the bearded guy said. “It’s more primitive than the South Rim. It hasn’t been mutilated by the masses. It’s untrampled upon. That’s why we want our Buddhist ceremony there.”
I was taken aback by the word Buddhist. "Are we really going to do this?" I asked Otto.
“The bus is already movin’. I say let the spirit take us where it will. I never mentioned it, but I was hopin' we could get to the Grand Canyon somehow on this trip.”
The guy driving with sunglasses at night was named Milt. He was squat and squirrelly with a pork belly. He was soft-spoken and relaxed, almost invisible. After we got going he put on headphones and zoned out to music. His driving seemed to be okay so I paid it no mind.
Vanessa was the bride. She was what my father would call a “poor little rich girl.” She had natural beauty with a tussle of brown curls, but was snobby and showed it by keeping her eyes averted. Her wedding dress looked like a patchwork quilt, but actually was as stylish as a Saks Fifth Avenue window sample. Her fiancé, Norbert, was a mellow stringbean intellectual egghead with a large head. He wore several shirts of different lengths, all sticking out in measured sloppiness, shorts with a pair of tights underneath, and hightopped sneakers laced up halfway.
“We already had a civil marriage at the justice of the peace, but to bow down before Buddha is what makes it official,” Norbert explained. “Tomorrow is the most astrologically-correct day for the ceremony.”
The bus stopped at a drive-in where I devoured a grinder and replenished my fluids. The bus belonged in a museum, not on the road. It was a 1952 Reo Gold Comet, no longer yellow, its artistic paintover hiding rust and the original school district’s name.
“My crew is getting two weddings with their honeymoon stuck between.” Milt laughed as he bit into his grinder. “We’re helping out. We’re old Dharmists from way back. We drive them around for a day or two at a time, wherever karma tells us to go.”
“Our last stopover was 'The Living Dharma' in southern California,” Norbert said. “That’s a temple and a retreat center that puts mind over madness.”
We took off again under the stars. Since this was understood to be an all-nighter, Otto and I made gestures to crash in the back. That’s when I discovered a fourth person onboard -- sleeping soundly underneath a raft of blankets. She was a sandy-headed pixie who acknowledged us with a smile and went back to sleep under the pile.
“That’s Gwen. Milt's girlpal,” Norbert said. “She marches to the beat of a different drummer. She’s the one who painted this bus after he bought it. She was chanting mantras like a Brahmin when we left Modesto, but she’s down for the count now.”
The highway stretched endlessly south, winding between huge gaps in sharp-edged mountains. We crossed back into Arizona, sputtering forward at about thirty miles per hour. It was fun slipping back into Arizona for a double dip, albeit slowly.
I settled into my sleeping bag with Norbert now driving. Vanessa kept him company up front, sitting beside him on a plastic milk crate and sharing a beer. Otto was on one side of me and Milt the other. Gwen’s sleeping head was propped against a pillow in the far corner.
What an unpredictable, marathon day of ups and downs! It would make a lesser person's head explode. It was wild but Otto was right, we couldn’t pass up this opportunity. Things weren’t exactly back to normal but they were better than since Hanford, California. I gripped my ribs as I lay and studied how they rose and fell in the dry, high-altitude air.
Milt was openly caressing Gwen next to me. They were kissing and squeezing. I guess they thought everyone was out or didn't care, because they got noisy. Gwen, in her small halter top and shorts, climbed on top of Milt and began humping him like a jackrabbit.
Gwen’s derriere was ripe and tastefully huge. It made her freckled face look better by the second. In fact, watching them got me aroused. I got hard as a rock. With no underpants to worry about, I gave my wanger full permission to pulsate as much as it dared.
I almost gasped when Milt flopped her over to my side, near my reclining head. How divine -- Gwen’s beautiful tooshie lay three inches from my face!
I tilted over to check Otto. He was fast asleep, even snoring lightly. This one was just for me! The wedding party, Norbert and Vanessa, were talking upfront, cognizant of nothing beyond themselves.
I drifted off into sleep, so tired that I couldn't even enjoy a girl's squirming backside. When my mind jerked itself awake, I couldn’t believe my eyeballs. Gwen’s shorts were pulled down to her thighs. Addressing me straight in the kisser, glorious as the day she was born, was Gwen's totally unsheathed, barenaked ass!
O man. O woman. It was detonating sexuality from every cubic inch. Her face might’ve been Plain Jane with some ingrown acne. But her prized possession was roundly pristine, boisterous, and overall sizzling!
What the HELL was Milt thinking? Didn’t he know those spongy cheeks were meant for plying? He wasn't all over her like he should have been. He seemed to fumble away his moment, been lost inside drugs, who knows.
Meanwhile, my rocks were OFF. It was getting hot down there. Gwen’s moans and quivers brought me to fever pitch. The sight was grand, even though it was Milt’s short fat neck her arms were strung around.
Gwen moved closer to my face and my stimulate-o-meter went off the charts. Pleasure squirted down my leg. Warm, sticky cum matted its way through my pants. "If that's my price of admission, I’m okay with it," I thought.
I tried not to writhe or make a sound. Nor did I dare touch my reclining johnson – nothing to prod Otto awake, nor to break the spell. The object in question was still displayed, nude, naked, bare, bumped up to my mouth as far as it could go. Her crack smelled like blueberry jam.
What an incredible day! My mind lolled as I let my body slowly float back down. Yes, I was in a school bus in the outback of Arizona. All was quiet; no one suspected a thing.
I disseminated into a deep sleep.
