2.1 MUSTANG
Two weeks earlier than Chapter 1.
The intricate streets of San Francisco left behind, the Mustang slid through the Sierra foothills with quiet authority––its engine a continuous rumble, an insistent request for acceleration. The muscle car had at first seemed a relic of a bygone era, an overcharged cough under predatory hood. Now on the unfurling two-lane road its true purpose was revealed as one of eight cylinder domination.
Kyle half regretted the casual words that had tied them with this much horsepower. Dylan had been on his iPad in the hostel lobby, about to select a Ford Focus. “Looks like there’s also a convertible option. Not much diff.” Dylan had latched onto the idea with surprising quickness, despite his friend’s equally rapid backpedalling. Gas expenses? Shrug. The inability to fit warm bodies comfortably in the back? Whatever. Any angle Kyle came up with, Dylan rebuffed him with a cool nod. The abbreviated conversation ended with Kyle noting the propensity of law enforcement officers to ticket muscle cars with out-of-state licenses. Already reserved mate.
Two weeks earlier than Chapter 1.
The intricate streets of San Francisco left behind, the Mustang slid through the Sierra foothills with quiet authority––its engine a continuous rumble, an insistent request for acceleration. The muscle car had at first seemed a relic of a bygone era, an overcharged cough under predatory hood. Now on the unfurling two-lane road its true purpose was revealed as one of eight cylinder domination.
Kyle half regretted the casual words that had tied them with this much horsepower. Dylan had been on his iPad in the hostel lobby, about to select a Ford Focus. “Looks like there’s also a convertible option. Not much diff.” Dylan had latched onto the idea with surprising quickness, despite his friend’s equally rapid backpedalling. Gas expenses? Shrug. The inability to fit warm bodies comfortably in the back? Whatever. Any angle Kyle came up with, Dylan rebuffed him with a cool nod. The abbreviated conversation ended with Kyle noting the propensity of law enforcement officers to ticket muscle cars with out-of-state licenses. Already reserved mate.
As expected they wound up with a ride that, on the first dozen or so city streets, verged on disaster. Abrupt stops at traffic lights on thoroughfares shared with cable cars, an ominous rumbling under the hood sending pedestrians scurrying. Now on ascent through the Sierra foothills, the car was in its element. Kyle had to admit there was something exhilarating about the V8 thrust. If fear & loathing were twin guideposts, the very concept of a road trip was ingrained in this Mustang’s DNA. With the top down, it attained something close to perfection.
Tonight with luck they would be in Vegas––it had been a late start, thanks to a late night with two Dutch girls met at the Green Tortoise. Shots of absinthe mixed with an unknown combination of fluids in a North Beach dive––the proprietor calling it foggy nipple in sinister 3am whisper, looking down his handlebar mustache. That morning Kyle had understood the name, immersed in a foggy insistence of flesh. Fingering his supple partner in the too-short bed carpentered into a Victorian picture window. Its cramped dimensions fair price for a 180 degree view of Broadway and ‘40s all-night strip club quintessence. Her name... what was her name? Marie. Dylan had been in the bunk just feet away with… oh fuck, what was it?
Tonight with luck they would be in Vegas––it had been a late start, thanks to a late night with two Dutch girls met at the Green Tortoise. Shots of absinthe mixed with an unknown combination of fluids in a North Beach dive––the proprietor calling it foggy nipple in sinister 3am whisper, looking down his handlebar mustache. That morning Kyle had understood the name, immersed in a foggy insistence of flesh. Fingering his supple partner in the too-short bed carpentered into a Victorian picture window. Its cramped dimensions fair price for a 180 degree view of Broadway and ‘40s all-night strip club quintessence. Her name... what was her name? Marie. Dylan had been in the bunk just feet away with… oh fuck, what was it?
Opening his eyes after an all-too-brief nap, Kyle took the In-N-Out cup from sticky cupholder. He creased the now square cup and tipped it at an angle––a last trickle of ice and watery root beer navigating his throat. The grade steepened, Dylan in the drivers seat, tying off ribbons of road with tourniquet precision. Pulling the curves at just the right moment, inches from barrier and significant drop. Letting up just enough to allow further acceleration.
2.2 - BEATTIE
As they crested the Sierras a strikingly empty landscape emerged, the earth intermittently revealed as a place of open flight and expansion. The larger, drought-stricken pines tapered off into pockets of verdure––sharp valleys, once flush with snowpack and seasonal streams, now as desperate as the rest. Then there were no more trees and the horizon broadened to high-elevation desert.
The paved road ran out 10 miles past Bridger among mineral-laden foothills, just this side of the Nevada border. Despite a serious kick-up of dust, the dirt road was evenly graded and Kyle relaxed his white-knuckle grasp on the door handle. The sense of desolation only intensifying as they passed remnants of industry, cast-off detritus of a singular period when prospectors searched for gold with pickaxe, bare hands. Vivid layers of decay giving stark impression against a washed out tableau––deep burgundy peeling into chemical orange––rusting barrels, wood frames with flashing pulled up like tissue paper, iron spikes embedded in rotting winches from century-old mine operations.
Exposed on the high plateau, the weathered buildings of Beattie came into view. Dylan pulled the Mustang to a dusty stop in the makeshift parking lot with three huddled vehicles: an economy rental, a state ranger’s pickup, and a rusted junker from the 1940s, stripped of all but style. Dylan was out of the car in a flash, eager to explore. He had a long, comfortable gait, every bit the part-time bartender and DJ who had studiously avoided entering his father’s real estate business.
Kyle kept pace at first, then hung back as layers of memory shifted, revealing visits to similarly desolate outback communities, stuck in a warp of perpetual diminishment. So this was what happened when the last train departed…. Kyle took out his phone, curious despite himself. The apex of the gold and silver mining boom had been painfully brief, fevered discovery subsumed by the imperturbable forces of East Coast investment and attendant robber barons, indentured servitude. Hardscrabble miners inhabiting one of the most lawless burgs of the Motherlode, knowing with every aching sinew and blood-laced cough the intrinsic cheapness of life.
If the mining had continued the town might have survived––just. But the Beattie veins, never substantial, ran dry and inhabitants faced a foe beyond even their own bad graces––winter. Whipped by bone chilling winds, the town tied with Barrow, Alaska, for most days below freezing each year. No reason to stay on then but to prove that one could and finally that was not enough.
2.2 - BEATTIE
As they crested the Sierras a strikingly empty landscape emerged, the earth intermittently revealed as a place of open flight and expansion. The larger, drought-stricken pines tapered off into pockets of verdure––sharp valleys, once flush with snowpack and seasonal streams, now as desperate as the rest. Then there were no more trees and the horizon broadened to high-elevation desert.
The paved road ran out 10 miles past Bridger among mineral-laden foothills, just this side of the Nevada border. Despite a serious kick-up of dust, the dirt road was evenly graded and Kyle relaxed his white-knuckle grasp on the door handle. The sense of desolation only intensifying as they passed remnants of industry, cast-off detritus of a singular period when prospectors searched for gold with pickaxe, bare hands. Vivid layers of decay giving stark impression against a washed out tableau––deep burgundy peeling into chemical orange––rusting barrels, wood frames with flashing pulled up like tissue paper, iron spikes embedded in rotting winches from century-old mine operations.
Exposed on the high plateau, the weathered buildings of Beattie came into view. Dylan pulled the Mustang to a dusty stop in the makeshift parking lot with three huddled vehicles: an economy rental, a state ranger’s pickup, and a rusted junker from the 1940s, stripped of all but style. Dylan was out of the car in a flash, eager to explore. He had a long, comfortable gait, every bit the part-time bartender and DJ who had studiously avoided entering his father’s real estate business.
Kyle kept pace at first, then hung back as layers of memory shifted, revealing visits to similarly desolate outback communities, stuck in a warp of perpetual diminishment. So this was what happened when the last train departed…. Kyle took out his phone, curious despite himself. The apex of the gold and silver mining boom had been painfully brief, fevered discovery subsumed by the imperturbable forces of East Coast investment and attendant robber barons, indentured servitude. Hardscrabble miners inhabiting one of the most lawless burgs of the Motherlode, knowing with every aching sinew and blood-laced cough the intrinsic cheapness of life.
If the mining had continued the town might have survived––just. But the Beattie veins, never substantial, ran dry and inhabitants faced a foe beyond even their own bad graces––winter. Whipped by bone chilling winds, the town tied with Barrow, Alaska, for most days below freezing each year. No reason to stay on then but to prove that one could and finally that was not enough.
2.3 - ECHOES
Kyle walked toward the false-fronted general mercantile––the town was not as compact as he’d imagined, buildings spread out in various stages of neglect and decay. Much of the town had been engulfed by fire over the years and he crossed patches of charred rock that bore testament to ancient calamity. As Kyle approached the store, Dylan stood in a rigid pose, hands cupped against the dusty window. He did not move as Kyle took a spot beside him at the four-paned window. Peering in, he understood the reason for his friend’s rapt attention. The interior was a living museum, everything in a state of arrested decay––canned goods on the shelf, barrels of dry goods lining the floor. The cash register stuck on a $3.24 sale rung up, as the mining-equipment calendar attested, in 1947. “It’s like my grandfather’s store out in Milameck.” Kyle said. Dylan blinked back coolly, “Ah yeah, yer mom’s folks were from out woop woop.” His gaze lit on the saloon across from a brick bank building, “Reckon they have a skeleton propped behind the piano?”
Kyle and Dylan passed the one-room Methodist church and crossed a wide, deserted boulevard. It was hard to imagine this expanse of hard-packed rock as an epicenter of drunken brawls, grudge killings. Far from being a conduit of commerce, the street now seemed to function as an artery for silence to pour in. Converging on the weathered frontage, Kyle and Dylan peered into the last standing among dozens establishments that had sprung up to meet boomtown liquor consumption demands. The saloon still equipped with roulette wheel and poker tables, chips piled in anticipation of imminent action. Bottles of elixir, warped green and brown, glinted on the wood counter. A piano sans skeleton upright in the corner, sheet music for Clair de Lune on the stand. In a place of honor behind the bar, an oil painting of a voluptuous temptress––pale skin on bearskin, naked except for red garters. A fertility symbol and, ostensibly, what all these miners were breaking their backs to obtain. “Hard to tell if she is covering her pubes or pleasuring herself,” Dylan said. “At least her skin is smooth––like my gal last night, what was her name?” Kyle shook his head. “Smooth as a…” he pantomimed a complex series of actions involving tongue and phantom flesh. “And your girl….?” “Marie,” Kyle offered reluctantly––Dylan was not going to let this go. “That Marie girl was hairy.”
Kyle walked toward the false-fronted general mercantile––the town was not as compact as he’d imagined, buildings spread out in various stages of neglect and decay. Much of the town had been engulfed by fire over the years and he crossed patches of charred rock that bore testament to ancient calamity. As Kyle approached the store, Dylan stood in a rigid pose, hands cupped against the dusty window. He did not move as Kyle took a spot beside him at the four-paned window. Peering in, he understood the reason for his friend’s rapt attention. The interior was a living museum, everything in a state of arrested decay––canned goods on the shelf, barrels of dry goods lining the floor. The cash register stuck on a $3.24 sale rung up, as the mining-equipment calendar attested, in 1947. “It’s like my grandfather’s store out in Milameck.” Kyle said. Dylan blinked back coolly, “Ah yeah, yer mom’s folks were from out woop woop.” His gaze lit on the saloon across from a brick bank building, “Reckon they have a skeleton propped behind the piano?”
Kyle and Dylan passed the one-room Methodist church and crossed a wide, deserted boulevard. It was hard to imagine this expanse of hard-packed rock as an epicenter of drunken brawls, grudge killings. Far from being a conduit of commerce, the street now seemed to function as an artery for silence to pour in. Converging on the weathered frontage, Kyle and Dylan peered into the last standing among dozens establishments that had sprung up to meet boomtown liquor consumption demands. The saloon still equipped with roulette wheel and poker tables, chips piled in anticipation of imminent action. Bottles of elixir, warped green and brown, glinted on the wood counter. A piano sans skeleton upright in the corner, sheet music for Clair de Lune on the stand. In a place of honor behind the bar, an oil painting of a voluptuous temptress––pale skin on bearskin, naked except for red garters. A fertility symbol and, ostensibly, what all these miners were breaking their backs to obtain. “Hard to tell if she is covering her pubes or pleasuring herself,” Dylan said. “At least her skin is smooth––like my gal last night, what was her name?” Kyle shook his head. “Smooth as a…” he pantomimed a complex series of actions involving tongue and phantom flesh. “And your girl….?” “Marie,” Kyle offered reluctantly––Dylan was not going to let this go. “That Marie girl was hairy.”
It was not quite the knockout blow intended. Whatever one’s aesthetic preference, Marie was by far the more attractive of the girls to him––an artist and photographer, she could follow whatever habits she pleased and gain acolytes. What this was really about was Dylan’s denial of the fact that the she had chosen him. As a ‘God is a DJ’ alpha, to have this surfer runt––whom he had basically taken on a road trip out of sympathy––swoop in on what was rightfully his….. Opening their mouths to preempt each others’ well-chosen insults, the friends wound up cracking up. The girls were gone, the idiocy of the conversation blatantly apparent. Dylan grasped Kyle’s shoulder, “Oh man, I was just…. we were both pretty drunk.” Kyle nodded “Good times. Funny you should mention it though, Marie was hairy…. And you know what? I liked it.”
Dylan shrugged and took out his phone, placing it on the dusty glass. He took a picture of the bar and, presumably, his feminine ideal for posterity. Kyle looked out at the aching emptiness beyond town. A sharp wind had picked up and the sun was sinking fast. A middle-age tourist couple hurried past them along the deserted street, determined to reach Tahoe, points west. By the time they did an abbreviated circuit of the town and returned to the parking area the economy rental was a small dot, lost in a cloud of dust. The ranger’s truck was gone as well––strange, they had not seen any park official come or go.
Kyle preempted Dylan’s move toward the driver’s seat. “Uh-uh, my turn..” Dylan reluctantly gave way. “Anyway, the plan still stands, right? Follow the road out of town––” “Sure,” said Kyle uneasily, I’ll take it easy over the ruts and potholes… anyway, it’s your name on the rental invoice.” That was another of Dylan’s stubborn ideas: follow a 4x4 jeep track for 20 miles to avoid doubling back––if they made it without major mishap it would save them 60 miles on their way to Vegas. Dylan reiterated reasons for this act of two-wheel-drive lunacy with a tinge of nervousness, “The car has plenty of clearance, we’ve still got a couple hours of light…” Kyle started the engine and gave it an unexpected throttle of gas. “That we do––and I agreed to this so-called plan. Fasten your buckle mate.”
Dylan shrugged and took out his phone, placing it on the dusty glass. He took a picture of the bar and, presumably, his feminine ideal for posterity. Kyle looked out at the aching emptiness beyond town. A sharp wind had picked up and the sun was sinking fast. A middle-age tourist couple hurried past them along the deserted street, determined to reach Tahoe, points west. By the time they did an abbreviated circuit of the town and returned to the parking area the economy rental was a small dot, lost in a cloud of dust. The ranger’s truck was gone as well––strange, they had not seen any park official come or go.
Kyle preempted Dylan’s move toward the driver’s seat. “Uh-uh, my turn..” Dylan reluctantly gave way. “Anyway, the plan still stands, right? Follow the road out of town––” “Sure,” said Kyle uneasily, I’ll take it easy over the ruts and potholes… anyway, it’s your name on the rental invoice.” That was another of Dylan’s stubborn ideas: follow a 4x4 jeep track for 20 miles to avoid doubling back––if they made it without major mishap it would save them 60 miles on their way to Vegas. Dylan reiterated reasons for this act of two-wheel-drive lunacy with a tinge of nervousness, “The car has plenty of clearance, we’ve still got a couple hours of light…” Kyle started the engine and gave it an unexpected throttle of gas. “That we do––and I agreed to this so-called plan. Fasten your buckle mate.”
2.4 - TRACKS
The road, already bone-jarring as remnants of town faded, narrowed into a faint impression. Kyle navigated the tracks cautiously, gauging exactly how the Mustang reacted with certain types of terrain underfoot––calibrating when to gun the engine and thrust over ruts before the wheel lost contact, went spinning. Rounding the bend into a broad wash, all semblance of road was lost as track fragmented into a scatter of rocks and shards. Throttling down, not quite losing momentum, Kyle kept a tight grasp on the wheel and hugged the bank as closely as possible. There was an insistent sideways pull through 50 meters of breath-held drift, as time slowed and nerve endings coiled against steel––the Mustang somehow making it to the other side without skidding into deeper folds and crevasses.
As the road reappeared and finally leveled, Kyle took stock. Considering that the Mustang was not made for this, they were doing just fine. Notably absent was any sense of fear. In its place, the absolute calm that came after the warp-speed of entering a barrel. A feeling of complete control amidst constant acceleration within a wall of bone-crushing force. Positioning his board at the fulcrum of a cascade capable of taking him 40 feet, deeper, he remained steady, unhurried. Which was not to say he had not kissed reef-laced depths, plunged through the tumble-dry vastness of space… then up and up through ages of water, unable to breath–– simply exhilarated to be alive.
Kyle glanced at Dylan––rigid, drained of all expression, his mouth seemed on the verge of opening, then snapped shut. It took him a moment to recognize the pattern for what it was––dry heaves. Eyes back on the road, Kyle wondered what Dylan would say when words came. Would he admit that the time saved in no way compensated for an hour spent in hell? No. The idea had been his and there was no way he would cop to its intrinsic sketchiness. Kyle impulsively tensed his voice, as if considering the possibility of imminent breakdown, “How far do you reckon the nearest services are?” No reply. Then all chance of conversation was lost as the track started its descent toward a thin, horizon-scraping road.
Dylan gripped the passenger side with his entire body as Kyle sought out that hinge-tight connection between steering shaft and pedal. Attuned to the minute calibrations that kept them in line with what gravity required, he accelerated. Face drained of color, Dylan rolled down the window just in time, vomiting half-digested hamburger, spittle. Confronted with a pungent echo of In N Out, Kyle opened his window, letting in a crosscurrent of air. Without premeditation, an exultant yell came to his throat, almost a war cry––two months across America––Vegas, Utah, wherever. At the cusp of possibility, the freedom of it all––in a muscle-car sin cuidado.
The Mustang touched down again, hitting bottom, as a hard-packed track emerged and took them the last stretch to real pavement. And then progress was absolutely level, almost motionless, on a landing strip without lights. The car heading out of a crescendo of colors into brutal dusk. They settled into a sparse rhythm of conversational avoidance––Dylan embarrassed at his carsickness episode, tired. Kyle cued Pink Floyd’s Meddle and the car vibrated with piano strung across a wash of echoes. Several species of gulls hovering in mist as small furry animals crossed Northern seas. The exultant sound of a decaying empire, the inherent challenges in creating an architecture that worked for the diverse masses, circa 1970. By the time Kyle had moved on to Blonde Redhead, Dylan was asleep.
A new hurdle––the red flash of gas pump, needle approaching empty. Except for a couple of trucks that shuddered past, the road was empty too. The realization coming to Kyle that, by taking the "shortcut" they had hit a dead zone between filling stations designed to ensure cars had enough gas to make it onward. Creases seeped slow-burn across Kyle’s brow as miles of nothing sped by––a realization that they might well wind up stranded on the side of the road. Kyle glanced at the sticky In N Out cup in the center cupholder. How much water exactly did they have?
2.5 - DINER
Out beyond the last white line, the needle reached a point where being stranded was less a possibility than an expected outcome. Kyle swiped on his cell phone––the signal, having hovered between one bar and extended coverage for the past hour, was gone. He felt oddly indifferent about his predicament––it was like heading for shore through surf and heavy currents, having wiped out in a barrel. He was not gravely injured, he still had full use of his arms and legs––he would make it somehow. Kyle had seen two trucks pass in the past hour––there was regular traffic. Worse case scenario they would pull off to the side, flag down a ride in the morning, find a gas station. A night spent in bucket seats with half a liter of water and some trail mix was not ideal, but they would make it out alright.
Steeling himself for that final sputter of exhaust, Kyle made out a persistent smudge of light in the distance. It seemed too fixed to be headlights, too bright for a home. The road settled into an easy descent and Kyle was able to coast the last three miles––acutely aware that his foot on the pedal no longer generated any thrust. It was as if the diner had been positioned with the petrol-deprived in mind––he rolled to a stop in front of a well-lit sign that read FOOD GAS KENO, a single gas tank plastered with fading decals. Dylan shielded his eyes and groaned “Where the fuck are we?” Kyle was already out of the car, “Not sure. Let’s see if we can buy some gas––we’ve been coasting on fumes for the past hour.” They entered an establishment not far removed from the decaying buildings in Beattie. A diner with ancient black-and-white tile floor, rough hewn wood chairs and tables.
The scene inside did not conform to any era of America close to the present. An older couple in dungarees and boots sat at the nearest table, hats propped on the condiment tray. Another couple in similarly Western attire, halfway through dessert. At the far window a younger pair, silhouetted against deepening night. The man had a dark goatee and lineup of tattoos that extended from t-shirt to wrist. The woman wore black eyeliner, a faded Dinosaur Jr. t-shirt, and a red Swatch. He was halfway through his hamburger. She ignored her food and purposefully chewed gum. A wiry Native American leaned on the jukebox, beer in hand, giving the new entrants his unblinking attention. His grey hair was loosely tied in a pony tail, checkered shirt connected to jeans via belt with a silver buckle inlaid in a skull design.
The proprietor stood in the center of it all, poised and in control. She was an older woman, hair in a bun, apron around her waist––a model of certitude, with enough strands of hair hanging down her neck to convey a sense of ease. Looking across the counter she preempted Kyle’s parched words “You need gas, hun? Our cook’s on break for half an hour––he doubles as gas attendant and he’s got the key to the pump. In the meantime, why not have something to drink? I can fix anything off the menu.”
It was a numbers game Kyle thought, even in the furthest expanses of the West. You build it and they will fall in, hungry and mad from the sheer emptiness of it all. The proprietor leaned forward over the wood counter. “I understand, you’re in a hurry to get back on the road. Why don’t you take a seat, I’ll get you some ice water at least.” She busied herself scooping ice into large glasses, which she filled from the tap. Noticing Dylan’s look, “We get our water from underground springs … it’s the purest water you’ll find. We also have Tecate”––raising her voice so the entire room could hear––“Four dollar happy hour is in effect until Billy comes back.” She held her smile firm as Kyle glanced at Dylan and shrugged. “Let’s have a couple beers and take a look at the menu.” As they planted themselves at the counter, a sense of relief entered––somehow, against the odds, they had stumbled upon a haven where burgers and Willie Nelson––now on the jukebox crooning Sunny Side of the Street––reigned supreme.
A pair of menus under her arm, the proprietor set lime-wedged bottles on coasters. “I’m Lynn.” She placed the laminated menus on the table, excavation-worthy layers of price stickers accentuating each item. “Before you start examining our burgers, I should mention that we are known for our chili––a blue-ribbon award winner at last year’s Tonopah Country Fair. We serve it with toasted baguette and salad. I know it’s a little pricey but…” before she had finished, both friends were nodding. “Yeah, we’ll take that.” Lynn went through the ritual of taking an order, pulling pencil from behind her ear and a pad of paper from her apron. Giving them an easy smile, she swiveled her feet and passed into the kitchen, the door swinging on its hinges.
The chili came out in five minutes flat. Kyle tossed a pinch of grated cheddar into the still bubbling concoction. A medley of flavors burst on the tongue, jalapeño and blackened serrano peppers providing just the right burn. Whatever meat there was took a back seat to the black beans and aching piquancy of tomatillo––chayote providing a crisp counterpart. Reaching a point of general satiation halfway through the bowl, Kyle took a long draught of Tecate. He looked around––something was off… the other patrons were still engaged in ordinary conversation, yet there was an unsettling sense of being watched. He shrugged––not so odd really that attention would be on the travelers with exotic accents. He stole a glance at the proprietor. Busy wiping down a Falstaff mirror behind the counter, she alone seemed indifferent to his presence.
Noting the direction Kyle’s gaze, Dylan said in a loud voice, “It’s very good. The chili.” Lynn glanced into the mirror and flashed them a smile. “It’s an old family recipe, revisited and embellished. Folks here tell me it’s the only reason I’m still in business.” Turning around and slinging the damp towel over her wrist. “Of course the real reason is they have nowhere else to go. Isn’t that right, Stan?” The old man fidgeted uncomfortably, lifting his hat slightly, refusing to acknowledge that he had been listening in. Lynn leaned her arms on the counter, giving Kyle an appraising look, “Heading to Vegas?
“Yes. I reckon we’ve got what—another three or four hours on the road?"
“Sounds about right, if you follow the speed limit. Which I recommend you do, at least within a 30 mile radius of Pernsville. Officers sit around all day waiting for tourists to blast through. It’s how they pay for their salaries, library services, and municipal pickup. You’ll be in Vegas around midnight, I suppose. Got a place booked?”
“Yeah. We’re staying at a hostel, near the Elvis wedding chapel. We’ll see how it goes for a few nights.”
“Vegas is a hell of a city,” she said, giving a low whistle. “Hold onto your wallets.”
“Actually, you should talk to my friend about that…” Dylan motioned toward Kyle. “He’s planning to risk his savings on a few poker tournaments. Me, I never seem to pay for anything––perks of being a DJ.” Brushing off the subtle put down with a grin, Kyle took stock––in impresario mode, had Dylan just given the proprietor a wink and a smile?
Lynn turned her attention to the older couple, who were putting on their hats. The man gave her a rheumy-eyed look. “The pecan pie was delicious, as always. Tells those British fellas over there to try a piece––with ice cream, if they can handle it.” His gaze did not quite reach the two travelers. Lynn gave an easy smile, “You take care now, Stan. Drive safe.” Opening the door, he gave a tilt of the hat in Kyle and Dylan’s direction. His wife rolled her eyes, “It remains to be seen if he can drive in a straight line. Half the skid marks off the highway are ours.” Stan waited a heartbeat before replying, “Just testing out the suspension--lucky there’s nothing to hit out here.”
2.6 - COHUANGA
Letting loose a steady patter in the ancient metal urinal, Kyle’s thoughts turned to the day’s travels and the unexpected sequence of events that had taken them to a diner on the edge of the night. Connecting the threads, there was one common denominator––Dylan. Unsettled vibes had first asserted themselves in the Sierra foothills after a morning escaping persistent tendrils of Bay Area traffic. Waiting for burgers at In N’ Out, Dylan had seemed fidgety––continuously checking his phone, texting. When Kyle raised an eyebrow, a breath away from a comment on the obnoxiously connected, Dylan put the phone away. The instinct to text had been suppressed, not extinguished––a couple minutes later he excused himself to the bathroom.
Back on the road, Dylan had suggested that they visit a ghost town Kyle was certain neither of them had known about that morning. Not to say he was adverse to the detour––it was an opportunity to venture beyond Google's insistent blue line, leave the highway blur behind. In Beattie, Dylan had again set his sights on an unexpected route, this time as a way of making up for lost time. As exhilarating as Kyle found their kamikaze ride down a track that did not appear on any map, it had thrown their interpersonal dynamics in flux. Gone was the assumption that Dylan would lead and Kyle simply follow.
Washing his hands and exiting the bathroom, Kyle ran into Dylan in a beer-induced rush to expel fluids. Kyle settled back at the counter, his thoughts turning with interest––if not quite hunger––to pecan pie. He was leaning toward gastronomic sanity when an elegant solution presented itself. Pie à la mode, split two ways––the perfect peace offering after a day of low-level friction. Let pie be the bridge that brought their friendship into some semblance of normalcy. If Kyle had to humble himself, so be it.
Dylan returned from the bathroom as Lynn set out generous slices of pecan pie, topped with vanilla ice cream. That first bite transcended aching stomach––a perfect contrast of granularity, cold smoothness, insistent creaminess. Finishing his piece with surprising speed, Kyle leaned back and rubbed his stomach with a sigh. Dylan flashed a smile, “That was fucking good.”
Kyle and Dylan turned with a start. The Native American with graying pony tail had gravitated from the jukebox and stood before them with weathered eyes. Reading them as if from a far distance, from a time immemorial, he said in a disarmingly American voice “Cohuanga.” The flatness of his accent did not take away from the force of the utterance. There was silence as he hitched his thumb on belt, taking a long draught of Tecate. Then, as if everything made perfect sense,“After mile marker 168 you’ll see a dirt road on the right. Turn on it and continue until you find a pull-off with a large boulder." Kyle glanced at Dylan, who seemed to have his usual skepticism under control. If anything, his attention was rapt, receptive.
"Seek out the narrow trail marked by three stacked rocks. After a climb, you’ll reach an open area, with a large tree and a well. You can pass the night safely here, connected with spirits…. Cohuanga.” Draining beer bottle, the Native American walked to the door without a glance back, as the last strains of La Pistola y Corazon emptied into the night.
The road, already bone-jarring as remnants of town faded, narrowed into a faint impression. Kyle navigated the tracks cautiously, gauging exactly how the Mustang reacted with certain types of terrain underfoot––calibrating when to gun the engine and thrust over ruts before the wheel lost contact, went spinning. Rounding the bend into a broad wash, all semblance of road was lost as track fragmented into a scatter of rocks and shards. Throttling down, not quite losing momentum, Kyle kept a tight grasp on the wheel and hugged the bank as closely as possible. There was an insistent sideways pull through 50 meters of breath-held drift, as time slowed and nerve endings coiled against steel––the Mustang somehow making it to the other side without skidding into deeper folds and crevasses.
As the road reappeared and finally leveled, Kyle took stock. Considering that the Mustang was not made for this, they were doing just fine. Notably absent was any sense of fear. In its place, the absolute calm that came after the warp-speed of entering a barrel. A feeling of complete control amidst constant acceleration within a wall of bone-crushing force. Positioning his board at the fulcrum of a cascade capable of taking him 40 feet, deeper, he remained steady, unhurried. Which was not to say he had not kissed reef-laced depths, plunged through the tumble-dry vastness of space… then up and up through ages of water, unable to breath–– simply exhilarated to be alive.
Kyle glanced at Dylan––rigid, drained of all expression, his mouth seemed on the verge of opening, then snapped shut. It took him a moment to recognize the pattern for what it was––dry heaves. Eyes back on the road, Kyle wondered what Dylan would say when words came. Would he admit that the time saved in no way compensated for an hour spent in hell? No. The idea had been his and there was no way he would cop to its intrinsic sketchiness. Kyle impulsively tensed his voice, as if considering the possibility of imminent breakdown, “How far do you reckon the nearest services are?” No reply. Then all chance of conversation was lost as the track started its descent toward a thin, horizon-scraping road.
Dylan gripped the passenger side with his entire body as Kyle sought out that hinge-tight connection between steering shaft and pedal. Attuned to the minute calibrations that kept them in line with what gravity required, he accelerated. Face drained of color, Dylan rolled down the window just in time, vomiting half-digested hamburger, spittle. Confronted with a pungent echo of In N Out, Kyle opened his window, letting in a crosscurrent of air. Without premeditation, an exultant yell came to his throat, almost a war cry––two months across America––Vegas, Utah, wherever. At the cusp of possibility, the freedom of it all––in a muscle-car sin cuidado.
The Mustang touched down again, hitting bottom, as a hard-packed track emerged and took them the last stretch to real pavement. And then progress was absolutely level, almost motionless, on a landing strip without lights. The car heading out of a crescendo of colors into brutal dusk. They settled into a sparse rhythm of conversational avoidance––Dylan embarrassed at his carsickness episode, tired. Kyle cued Pink Floyd’s Meddle and the car vibrated with piano strung across a wash of echoes. Several species of gulls hovering in mist as small furry animals crossed Northern seas. The exultant sound of a decaying empire, the inherent challenges in creating an architecture that worked for the diverse masses, circa 1970. By the time Kyle had moved on to Blonde Redhead, Dylan was asleep.
A new hurdle––the red flash of gas pump, needle approaching empty. Except for a couple of trucks that shuddered past, the road was empty too. The realization coming to Kyle that, by taking the "shortcut" they had hit a dead zone between filling stations designed to ensure cars had enough gas to make it onward. Creases seeped slow-burn across Kyle’s brow as miles of nothing sped by––a realization that they might well wind up stranded on the side of the road. Kyle glanced at the sticky In N Out cup in the center cupholder. How much water exactly did they have?
2.5 - DINER
Out beyond the last white line, the needle reached a point where being stranded was less a possibility than an expected outcome. Kyle swiped on his cell phone––the signal, having hovered between one bar and extended coverage for the past hour, was gone. He felt oddly indifferent about his predicament––it was like heading for shore through surf and heavy currents, having wiped out in a barrel. He was not gravely injured, he still had full use of his arms and legs––he would make it somehow. Kyle had seen two trucks pass in the past hour––there was regular traffic. Worse case scenario they would pull off to the side, flag down a ride in the morning, find a gas station. A night spent in bucket seats with half a liter of water and some trail mix was not ideal, but they would make it out alright.
Steeling himself for that final sputter of exhaust, Kyle made out a persistent smudge of light in the distance. It seemed too fixed to be headlights, too bright for a home. The road settled into an easy descent and Kyle was able to coast the last three miles––acutely aware that his foot on the pedal no longer generated any thrust. It was as if the diner had been positioned with the petrol-deprived in mind––he rolled to a stop in front of a well-lit sign that read FOOD GAS KENO, a single gas tank plastered with fading decals. Dylan shielded his eyes and groaned “Where the fuck are we?” Kyle was already out of the car, “Not sure. Let’s see if we can buy some gas––we’ve been coasting on fumes for the past hour.” They entered an establishment not far removed from the decaying buildings in Beattie. A diner with ancient black-and-white tile floor, rough hewn wood chairs and tables.
The scene inside did not conform to any era of America close to the present. An older couple in dungarees and boots sat at the nearest table, hats propped on the condiment tray. Another couple in similarly Western attire, halfway through dessert. At the far window a younger pair, silhouetted against deepening night. The man had a dark goatee and lineup of tattoos that extended from t-shirt to wrist. The woman wore black eyeliner, a faded Dinosaur Jr. t-shirt, and a red Swatch. He was halfway through his hamburger. She ignored her food and purposefully chewed gum. A wiry Native American leaned on the jukebox, beer in hand, giving the new entrants his unblinking attention. His grey hair was loosely tied in a pony tail, checkered shirt connected to jeans via belt with a silver buckle inlaid in a skull design.
The proprietor stood in the center of it all, poised and in control. She was an older woman, hair in a bun, apron around her waist––a model of certitude, with enough strands of hair hanging down her neck to convey a sense of ease. Looking across the counter she preempted Kyle’s parched words “You need gas, hun? Our cook’s on break for half an hour––he doubles as gas attendant and he’s got the key to the pump. In the meantime, why not have something to drink? I can fix anything off the menu.”
It was a numbers game Kyle thought, even in the furthest expanses of the West. You build it and they will fall in, hungry and mad from the sheer emptiness of it all. The proprietor leaned forward over the wood counter. “I understand, you’re in a hurry to get back on the road. Why don’t you take a seat, I’ll get you some ice water at least.” She busied herself scooping ice into large glasses, which she filled from the tap. Noticing Dylan’s look, “We get our water from underground springs … it’s the purest water you’ll find. We also have Tecate”––raising her voice so the entire room could hear––“Four dollar happy hour is in effect until Billy comes back.” She held her smile firm as Kyle glanced at Dylan and shrugged. “Let’s have a couple beers and take a look at the menu.” As they planted themselves at the counter, a sense of relief entered––somehow, against the odds, they had stumbled upon a haven where burgers and Willie Nelson––now on the jukebox crooning Sunny Side of the Street––reigned supreme.
A pair of menus under her arm, the proprietor set lime-wedged bottles on coasters. “I’m Lynn.” She placed the laminated menus on the table, excavation-worthy layers of price stickers accentuating each item. “Before you start examining our burgers, I should mention that we are known for our chili––a blue-ribbon award winner at last year’s Tonopah Country Fair. We serve it with toasted baguette and salad. I know it’s a little pricey but…” before she had finished, both friends were nodding. “Yeah, we’ll take that.” Lynn went through the ritual of taking an order, pulling pencil from behind her ear and a pad of paper from her apron. Giving them an easy smile, she swiveled her feet and passed into the kitchen, the door swinging on its hinges.
The chili came out in five minutes flat. Kyle tossed a pinch of grated cheddar into the still bubbling concoction. A medley of flavors burst on the tongue, jalapeño and blackened serrano peppers providing just the right burn. Whatever meat there was took a back seat to the black beans and aching piquancy of tomatillo––chayote providing a crisp counterpart. Reaching a point of general satiation halfway through the bowl, Kyle took a long draught of Tecate. He looked around––something was off… the other patrons were still engaged in ordinary conversation, yet there was an unsettling sense of being watched. He shrugged––not so odd really that attention would be on the travelers with exotic accents. He stole a glance at the proprietor. Busy wiping down a Falstaff mirror behind the counter, she alone seemed indifferent to his presence.
Noting the direction Kyle’s gaze, Dylan said in a loud voice, “It’s very good. The chili.” Lynn glanced into the mirror and flashed them a smile. “It’s an old family recipe, revisited and embellished. Folks here tell me it’s the only reason I’m still in business.” Turning around and slinging the damp towel over her wrist. “Of course the real reason is they have nowhere else to go. Isn’t that right, Stan?” The old man fidgeted uncomfortably, lifting his hat slightly, refusing to acknowledge that he had been listening in. Lynn leaned her arms on the counter, giving Kyle an appraising look, “Heading to Vegas?
“Yes. I reckon we’ve got what—another three or four hours on the road?"
“Sounds about right, if you follow the speed limit. Which I recommend you do, at least within a 30 mile radius of Pernsville. Officers sit around all day waiting for tourists to blast through. It’s how they pay for their salaries, library services, and municipal pickup. You’ll be in Vegas around midnight, I suppose. Got a place booked?”
“Yeah. We’re staying at a hostel, near the Elvis wedding chapel. We’ll see how it goes for a few nights.”
“Vegas is a hell of a city,” she said, giving a low whistle. “Hold onto your wallets.”
“Actually, you should talk to my friend about that…” Dylan motioned toward Kyle. “He’s planning to risk his savings on a few poker tournaments. Me, I never seem to pay for anything––perks of being a DJ.” Brushing off the subtle put down with a grin, Kyle took stock––in impresario mode, had Dylan just given the proprietor a wink and a smile?
Lynn turned her attention to the older couple, who were putting on their hats. The man gave her a rheumy-eyed look. “The pecan pie was delicious, as always. Tells those British fellas over there to try a piece––with ice cream, if they can handle it.” His gaze did not quite reach the two travelers. Lynn gave an easy smile, “You take care now, Stan. Drive safe.” Opening the door, he gave a tilt of the hat in Kyle and Dylan’s direction. His wife rolled her eyes, “It remains to be seen if he can drive in a straight line. Half the skid marks off the highway are ours.” Stan waited a heartbeat before replying, “Just testing out the suspension--lucky there’s nothing to hit out here.”
2.6 - COHUANGA
Letting loose a steady patter in the ancient metal urinal, Kyle’s thoughts turned to the day’s travels and the unexpected sequence of events that had taken them to a diner on the edge of the night. Connecting the threads, there was one common denominator––Dylan. Unsettled vibes had first asserted themselves in the Sierra foothills after a morning escaping persistent tendrils of Bay Area traffic. Waiting for burgers at In N’ Out, Dylan had seemed fidgety––continuously checking his phone, texting. When Kyle raised an eyebrow, a breath away from a comment on the obnoxiously connected, Dylan put the phone away. The instinct to text had been suppressed, not extinguished––a couple minutes later he excused himself to the bathroom.
Back on the road, Dylan had suggested that they visit a ghost town Kyle was certain neither of them had known about that morning. Not to say he was adverse to the detour––it was an opportunity to venture beyond Google's insistent blue line, leave the highway blur behind. In Beattie, Dylan had again set his sights on an unexpected route, this time as a way of making up for lost time. As exhilarating as Kyle found their kamikaze ride down a track that did not appear on any map, it had thrown their interpersonal dynamics in flux. Gone was the assumption that Dylan would lead and Kyle simply follow.
Washing his hands and exiting the bathroom, Kyle ran into Dylan in a beer-induced rush to expel fluids. Kyle settled back at the counter, his thoughts turning with interest––if not quite hunger––to pecan pie. He was leaning toward gastronomic sanity when an elegant solution presented itself. Pie à la mode, split two ways––the perfect peace offering after a day of low-level friction. Let pie be the bridge that brought their friendship into some semblance of normalcy. If Kyle had to humble himself, so be it.
Dylan returned from the bathroom as Lynn set out generous slices of pecan pie, topped with vanilla ice cream. That first bite transcended aching stomach––a perfect contrast of granularity, cold smoothness, insistent creaminess. Finishing his piece with surprising speed, Kyle leaned back and rubbed his stomach with a sigh. Dylan flashed a smile, “That was fucking good.”
Kyle and Dylan turned with a start. The Native American with graying pony tail had gravitated from the jukebox and stood before them with weathered eyes. Reading them as if from a far distance, from a time immemorial, he said in a disarmingly American voice “Cohuanga.” The flatness of his accent did not take away from the force of the utterance. There was silence as he hitched his thumb on belt, taking a long draught of Tecate. Then, as if everything made perfect sense,“After mile marker 168 you’ll see a dirt road on the right. Turn on it and continue until you find a pull-off with a large boulder." Kyle glanced at Dylan, who seemed to have his usual skepticism under control. If anything, his attention was rapt, receptive.
"Seek out the narrow trail marked by three stacked rocks. After a climb, you’ll reach an open area, with a large tree and a well. You can pass the night safely here, connected with spirits…. Cohuanga.” Draining beer bottle, the Native American walked to the door without a glance back, as the last strains of La Pistola y Corazon emptied into the night.
2.7 - VERY APE
Back in the driver's seat, Dylan showed surprising restraint as the highway drew tight against the ridge line. There were a number of valid reasons for Dylan’s reluctance to accelerate. He might well be gun shy after their off-the-grid skid and tumble from Beattie––determined not to revisit the kind of high-velocity motion that caused him to lose his lunch. He could be following Lynn’s advice and staying well within the speed limit––though they were still a hundred miles from Pernville. One thing was certain––sleeping out under the stars was not an option. They had dismissed the old man’s suggestion as face-value crazy, with no need for further qualification.
Several minutes passed and Dylan continued to ginger-foot his way across a landscape that beckoned for speed. Kyle gave his friend a long look. There was no hint of insurrection, no sharp-eyed movements of the sort that presaged his more impulsive actions. Yet as the miles slipped past, they were definitely not gaining speed––if anything they were slowing down. Kyle kept his eye out for the next mile marker––165––“You’re not actually thinking of…?” Dylan gave him a preternaturally calm smile, like a poker player slow rolling the nuts. “Tell me you’re not…?”
“It’s a no-brainer, isn’t it? We’re well nackered from our exploits, and fucking exploits they were. I can think of nothing more appealing than a night spent out under the stars.”
“Not a good idea” Kyle said, fighting back a surge of anger. Having taken his peace offering to heart, Dylan was asserting his alpha dominance again. “This is some low-budget horror movie shit. An old Native American who knows every backcountry nook and cranny directs us to a remote spot in the desert, where ancestral spirits roam. There is only one way this scenario ends….”
Dylan gave Kyle an unusually probing glance, as if realizing that he could no longer steamroll his way to a desired outcome. “I know it has been a long day, with many missteps––mostly on my part. My sincerest apologies for all that. But look where we are––surrounded by a million stars, on an open road. This is what travel is all about….” They took in an intricate network of constellations, a shooting star flaring behind ridges that rose dark and steep. “It’s a no brainer––we stop here, call it a night. Connect with the native spirits, head out to Vegas tomorrow well-rested. Inspired, having received mystical blessings, you go on to win the poker tournament––cause and effect.”
Unconvinced, Kyle was about to put his foot down when a ripple of acoustic guitar filtered through the car speakers. “Road trippin' with my two favorite allies/ fully loaded we got snacks and supplies/ it’s time to leave this town, it’s time to steal away/ Let’s go get lost anywhere in the USA.” The car slowed to a crawl as fingers of harmony twined in arpeggiated intimations of a mythic road trip up some forgotten coast. With the mood-shifting instinct of a true impresario, Dylan had unearthed memories of their trip to Noosa, a week shy of his 18th birthday. Against a backdrop of crashing surf, two sticks in the nature, Kyle had found a girl forever engrained in his memory as Blue. Sunk in the shadows at the edge of the fire, a bottle of Tequila planted in the sand, they had kissed and kissed. It was his first time with a woman, engulfed in intimacies he had instinctively known, yet never quite imagined. A sense of blinders opening, a recognition that he was on the verge of something––destiny. Your smiling eyes, just a mirror for the sun. Caught up in a desire to break through bonds and constrictions, they had settled in the darkest reaches of the beach. Pulsing in time inside each other with each crashing wave. When he’d awoke she was gone. Blue. “What’s the name of that place again?”
“I forget, something very Grape Ape.“Cowa.…”
Kyle laughed despite himself. “That old man must have smoked you out with some kind, to exert this level of mind control. You are definitely one toke overbouldered.”
Dylan gave a look of mild surprise, followed by a broad grin. “Took you a while, mate.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small plastic bag and opened it, revealing half a spliff, nearly as thick as it was long. Kyle took the bag and held it a couple inches from his nose, taking in a scent of quality, outdoor sinsemilla. Lingering doubts quieted, he passed it back to Dylan “You got this from….”
“The Native American. Not a bad parting gift, eh? When I got out of the bathroom, he happened to be heading out the back door to have a smoke. After thanking the cacti and the cosmos, we passed around a spliff of Bob Marley dimensions––you see mere remnants.”
“You’re saying that his coming up to us before he left, laying directions on us to this place, was an honor of sorts? That his herb logic indicated us as worthy of experiencing Cowa….”
“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I remember now. It’s Cowachunga, mate. And yeah, that’s what it amounts to, I reckon.”
The music, having skimmed the surfaces with porcelain fragility, muscled into the funked up ‘hit me’ mode of Around the World. Turning up the volume, Dylan slowed the Mustang to a crawl––mile marker 168. “Lighten up mate. We’ll lay back under the stars and finish this spliff, dream of silver screen flotation.” Kyle could only nod, the echoes of trips past swirling in his mind. Let’s go get lost, let’s go get lost in the USA.
Back in the driver's seat, Dylan showed surprising restraint as the highway drew tight against the ridge line. There were a number of valid reasons for Dylan’s reluctance to accelerate. He might well be gun shy after their off-the-grid skid and tumble from Beattie––determined not to revisit the kind of high-velocity motion that caused him to lose his lunch. He could be following Lynn’s advice and staying well within the speed limit––though they were still a hundred miles from Pernville. One thing was certain––sleeping out under the stars was not an option. They had dismissed the old man’s suggestion as face-value crazy, with no need for further qualification.
Several minutes passed and Dylan continued to ginger-foot his way across a landscape that beckoned for speed. Kyle gave his friend a long look. There was no hint of insurrection, no sharp-eyed movements of the sort that presaged his more impulsive actions. Yet as the miles slipped past, they were definitely not gaining speed––if anything they were slowing down. Kyle kept his eye out for the next mile marker––165––“You’re not actually thinking of…?” Dylan gave him a preternaturally calm smile, like a poker player slow rolling the nuts. “Tell me you’re not…?”
“It’s a no-brainer, isn’t it? We’re well nackered from our exploits, and fucking exploits they were. I can think of nothing more appealing than a night spent out under the stars.”
“Not a good idea” Kyle said, fighting back a surge of anger. Having taken his peace offering to heart, Dylan was asserting his alpha dominance again. “This is some low-budget horror movie shit. An old Native American who knows every backcountry nook and cranny directs us to a remote spot in the desert, where ancestral spirits roam. There is only one way this scenario ends….”
Dylan gave Kyle an unusually probing glance, as if realizing that he could no longer steamroll his way to a desired outcome. “I know it has been a long day, with many missteps––mostly on my part. My sincerest apologies for all that. But look where we are––surrounded by a million stars, on an open road. This is what travel is all about….” They took in an intricate network of constellations, a shooting star flaring behind ridges that rose dark and steep. “It’s a no brainer––we stop here, call it a night. Connect with the native spirits, head out to Vegas tomorrow well-rested. Inspired, having received mystical blessings, you go on to win the poker tournament––cause and effect.”
Unconvinced, Kyle was about to put his foot down when a ripple of acoustic guitar filtered through the car speakers. “Road trippin' with my two favorite allies/ fully loaded we got snacks and supplies/ it’s time to leave this town, it’s time to steal away/ Let’s go get lost anywhere in the USA.” The car slowed to a crawl as fingers of harmony twined in arpeggiated intimations of a mythic road trip up some forgotten coast. With the mood-shifting instinct of a true impresario, Dylan had unearthed memories of their trip to Noosa, a week shy of his 18th birthday. Against a backdrop of crashing surf, two sticks in the nature, Kyle had found a girl forever engrained in his memory as Blue. Sunk in the shadows at the edge of the fire, a bottle of Tequila planted in the sand, they had kissed and kissed. It was his first time with a woman, engulfed in intimacies he had instinctively known, yet never quite imagined. A sense of blinders opening, a recognition that he was on the verge of something––destiny. Your smiling eyes, just a mirror for the sun. Caught up in a desire to break through bonds and constrictions, they had settled in the darkest reaches of the beach. Pulsing in time inside each other with each crashing wave. When he’d awoke she was gone. Blue. “What’s the name of that place again?”
“I forget, something very Grape Ape.“Cowa.…”
Kyle laughed despite himself. “That old man must have smoked you out with some kind, to exert this level of mind control. You are definitely one toke overbouldered.”
Dylan gave a look of mild surprise, followed by a broad grin. “Took you a while, mate.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small plastic bag and opened it, revealing half a spliff, nearly as thick as it was long. Kyle took the bag and held it a couple inches from his nose, taking in a scent of quality, outdoor sinsemilla. Lingering doubts quieted, he passed it back to Dylan “You got this from….”
“The Native American. Not a bad parting gift, eh? When I got out of the bathroom, he happened to be heading out the back door to have a smoke. After thanking the cacti and the cosmos, we passed around a spliff of Bob Marley dimensions––you see mere remnants.”
“You’re saying that his coming up to us before he left, laying directions on us to this place, was an honor of sorts? That his herb logic indicated us as worthy of experiencing Cowa….”
“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I remember now. It’s Cowachunga, mate. And yeah, that’s what it amounts to, I reckon.”
The music, having skimmed the surfaces with porcelain fragility, muscled into the funked up ‘hit me’ mode of Around the World. Turning up the volume, Dylan slowed the Mustang to a crawl––mile marker 168. “Lighten up mate. We’ll lay back under the stars and finish this spliff, dream of silver screen flotation.” Kyle could only nod, the echoes of trips past swirling in his mind. Let’s go get lost, let’s go get lost in the USA.
2.8 - INCIPIENT MOON
Kyle and Dylan scanned the darkness as the Mustang slowed to inch-by-inch progress. The high beam petering out a few feet off the road, engulfed in night––a hint of moonrise over the ridge only accentuating the lack of artificial lights. There was a good chance they had already passed the turn-off. Kyle squinted hard as a hint of tracks veered off the road. “Shit, I think that was––” the car shot into reverse across center-ridged divider as Kyle flailed for something to hold onto. He lurched forward as the brakes screeched in assertion of control over an engine seeking alpha. Holding the sides of his seat tightly he readied himself for lift off––Dylan was clearly set on reasserting himself in the most reckless way possible. Instead, there was an awkward clearing of the throat. “Sorry, I’m not used to putting this thing into reverse."
Dylan eased the Mustang onto unmarked track with excruciating slowness, as if expecting the worst––the sort of disintegration that had occurred after Beatty. The car’s grip on the road holding surprisingly firm as they skirted the edges of the ridge. Dylan gradually accelerated, trusting that the road would allow steady progress. After a quarter mile there was a significant rise, larger rocks and areas of erosion causing constant jitter. A sense of anticipation building with each successive bend. It was not simply the idea of reconnection with herb under a star-brushed sky. There was also the prospect of friendship unearthed at its most primal foundation––the reestablishing of connections submerged over time in a staccato of jobs, girlfriends, self-inflicted deadlines.
“What are we looking for again?”
“A boulder, some rocks….”
`“Stacked––”
“I reckon. I forget.”
“We must be getting near––”
After a couple miles of free association, the track widened. The boulder, as advertised, was large and round. It looked as if it had been there for aeons––was too solidly set in place to be otherwise. Cutting the lights, Dylan was the first out. Kyle stopped him from charging ahead, “Let’s gather a few things out of the trunk. Some water and a sweater. If this is anything like the outback, it gets bloody cold.” They rummaged around, putting together a backpack full of essentials. “And let’s take it slow––there is only one car and a big vast fucking desert.” Letting his eyes adjust and registering that his advice had been accepted without rebuttal, Kyle probed the first line of rocks. Half a minute in, keeping the shadow of the car within view, his eyes adjusted fully and he came across three rocks balanced on a boulder. “Here, I think I found––shine a light.” Dylan came huffing in his direction, pointing a light from iPhone. In the absence of connectivity, the device was relegated to a flashlight.
About 10 feet past the stacked rocks, elevation started in earnest––the rock face sheer and high. At first glance there was no way up. “Do another sweep, slowly.” Kyle walked along the rock face, his shadow lengthening as the light shifted behind him, scanning for sign of a break. Nothing. A lizard emerged from somewhere, skittering down a crack and out of the light. Continuing for four or five paces, Kyle caught himself. Where exactly had the lizard come from? Could be from a ledge, a fissure, could be… backpedalling, he took a close at that section of the rock face, running his hand across grainy rock. There, obscured from vision, an unexpected gap––a pathway cut at a sharply oblique angle. “Shine a light…” Then they were within narrow crease, in near total darkness, a thin band of stars guiding them. A growing sense of claustrophobia––there was no room to turn, no way of escape. Steep, rudimentary stairs. Hands groping ahead, gaining elevation, yearning toward an expanse of stars anchored by incipient moon. There could be only one reason for this tortuously constructed crease, Kyle thought––the way to Cowachunga was designed to be hidden. He navigated the final set of stairs through sandstone and emerged as if through spiral staircase winding to the turret of a lighthouse. And then they were out, following a wide path through broad wash to a plateau, set against another, gentler rise. Dylan reached the top first and stood motionless for a moment before turning to Kyle, “You gotta see this mate."
Kyle and Dylan scanned the darkness as the Mustang slowed to inch-by-inch progress. The high beam petering out a few feet off the road, engulfed in night––a hint of moonrise over the ridge only accentuating the lack of artificial lights. There was a good chance they had already passed the turn-off. Kyle squinted hard as a hint of tracks veered off the road. “Shit, I think that was––” the car shot into reverse across center-ridged divider as Kyle flailed for something to hold onto. He lurched forward as the brakes screeched in assertion of control over an engine seeking alpha. Holding the sides of his seat tightly he readied himself for lift off––Dylan was clearly set on reasserting himself in the most reckless way possible. Instead, there was an awkward clearing of the throat. “Sorry, I’m not used to putting this thing into reverse."
Dylan eased the Mustang onto unmarked track with excruciating slowness, as if expecting the worst––the sort of disintegration that had occurred after Beatty. The car’s grip on the road holding surprisingly firm as they skirted the edges of the ridge. Dylan gradually accelerated, trusting that the road would allow steady progress. After a quarter mile there was a significant rise, larger rocks and areas of erosion causing constant jitter. A sense of anticipation building with each successive bend. It was not simply the idea of reconnection with herb under a star-brushed sky. There was also the prospect of friendship unearthed at its most primal foundation––the reestablishing of connections submerged over time in a staccato of jobs, girlfriends, self-inflicted deadlines.
“What are we looking for again?”
“A boulder, some rocks….”
`“Stacked––”
“I reckon. I forget.”
“We must be getting near––”
After a couple miles of free association, the track widened. The boulder, as advertised, was large and round. It looked as if it had been there for aeons––was too solidly set in place to be otherwise. Cutting the lights, Dylan was the first out. Kyle stopped him from charging ahead, “Let’s gather a few things out of the trunk. Some water and a sweater. If this is anything like the outback, it gets bloody cold.” They rummaged around, putting together a backpack full of essentials. “And let’s take it slow––there is only one car and a big vast fucking desert.” Letting his eyes adjust and registering that his advice had been accepted without rebuttal, Kyle probed the first line of rocks. Half a minute in, keeping the shadow of the car within view, his eyes adjusted fully and he came across three rocks balanced on a boulder. “Here, I think I found––shine a light.” Dylan came huffing in his direction, pointing a light from iPhone. In the absence of connectivity, the device was relegated to a flashlight.
About 10 feet past the stacked rocks, elevation started in earnest––the rock face sheer and high. At first glance there was no way up. “Do another sweep, slowly.” Kyle walked along the rock face, his shadow lengthening as the light shifted behind him, scanning for sign of a break. Nothing. A lizard emerged from somewhere, skittering down a crack and out of the light. Continuing for four or five paces, Kyle caught himself. Where exactly had the lizard come from? Could be from a ledge, a fissure, could be… backpedalling, he took a close at that section of the rock face, running his hand across grainy rock. There, obscured from vision, an unexpected gap––a pathway cut at a sharply oblique angle. “Shine a light…” Then they were within narrow crease, in near total darkness, a thin band of stars guiding them. A growing sense of claustrophobia––there was no room to turn, no way of escape. Steep, rudimentary stairs. Hands groping ahead, gaining elevation, yearning toward an expanse of stars anchored by incipient moon. There could be only one reason for this tortuously constructed crease, Kyle thought––the way to Cowachunga was designed to be hidden. He navigated the final set of stairs through sandstone and emerged as if through spiral staircase winding to the turret of a lighthouse. And then they were out, following a wide path through broad wash to a plateau, set against another, gentler rise. Dylan reached the top first and stood motionless for a moment before turning to Kyle, “You gotta see this mate."
2.9 - IMMERSION
Free from the dusty constricts of jeans and t-shirt, Kyle reclined in the deep, rock-lined pool. He had expected to experience this sort of deep relaxation––if at all––poolside in Vegas, flush with tournament winnings––but this was here, now. Immersed in an elemental heat that trumped the still warm night, he was not quite able to shake a sense of disbelief.
Freedom instincts rusty, there had been a moment of intense awkwardness stripping in front of a friend for whom epilation seemed part and parcel of an image as emerging DJ. Deflecting attention from dangling appendage, Dylan gave an off-kilter Tarzan yodel and splashed into the heavy, mineral-laden water. Settling himself gingerly opposite, Kyle felt any lingering sense of self consciousness dissipate as he gave himself to a feeling of sub-gravitational bliss––the confined surface contours hiding a surprisingly spacious confluence of geothermal nooks and fissures, cavernous passageways to a molten mantle, if not the very center of the earth.
As the water grew uncomfortably hot, Kyle realized that the largish rocks along the edge of the pool were set at varying heights––a harmonious assemblage of filmy, sulfurous perches, designed for cyclical rotation. After two minutes of steadily increasing heat he shifted to the next rock and then he was out, gasping for air on the patio-flat rocks encircling the pool. Trying not to succumb to complete lethargy, he took stock of his surroundings––20 feet beyond the pool stood a stone well, bucket attached to winch and rope. Next to it a lone tree, undoubtedly the excreted product of a bird’s courageous journey from the Sierras to one of the few desert spots with reliable water. Thick with gnarled bark, inured to daily lashings of the sun, the tree’s roots spread outward along the rock and down into minute fissures, drawing sustenance from an eternally moist wellspring.
The meaning implicit in a solidly-constructed well gradually imprinted itself in Kyle’s consciousness. This was not simply some backcountry hippy hollow designed for trips and giggles––the entire tableau had been arranged with practical purpose. If not indicative of a permanent settlement––scant chance of that, Kyle thought, remembering the vast desolation of their traverse––it was a well-tended retreat. Could be Native American in provenance, yet there was something rather too tidy and well maintained––Cowachunga did not exude a sense of broken-in acceptance of the place in which one’s ancestors had been born. Rather, it seemed an artfully rustic reshaping, as if a boutique spa designer had been parachuted in to develop high-level concepts related to earth, stars, belonging. A perfect vista for shamanic rituals of the new age variety, to a Moby soundtrack.
Dylan pushed himself out of the water and reached over to pants that lay crumpled near the pool, soaking up moist mineral elements. He fished out his iPhone and stretched on the patio-like rocks on the other side of the pool, holding the device at various angles, seeking reception. Kyle cooly observed this uncanny pantomime of a vampire lifting a coffin lid, recalling his friend’s odd texting frenzy earlier in the day. Dylan gave a distinctly dissatisfied sigh, resigning himself to the fact that, even at elevation, they were well beyond the range of cell tower reception.
Remembering the ostensible purpose of their detour, Kyle felt a sudden urge to get his friend off his texting kick and back on board with their excellent agenda. “You were right about one thing––this place is one of mind expansion, not slasher movie endings.” Dylan nodded distractedly, not quite receiving the hint. “Let’s burn one down?” Message received, Dylan fished into crumpled pants for connective pathway to higher consciousness. Lighting up he intoned, either in stoned rapture or with residual irony, “Thank you native spirits….” The sharp flick of fire gave way to a familiar waft, sweet beckoning sinsemilla. Lungs expanded, holding it in––five seconds, ten. Kyle waited, instincts attuned to second-hand appreciation of mere galaxies. Andromeda, Ursa Major. As if from a great distance––
“Ah sorry for noshing the duff, here you are… It’s far from cashed.”
Kyle gave the only sensible reply, Vulcan greeting, indicating continued adherence to a code devised by a loose group of friends a decade ago. A group of college students inclined to meditate on waves and tightly packed bowls, though not all had surfed or smoked. Carlos Jaeger, for one, had been a spearfish diver twenty years their senior––lived in a 1920s bungalow across the beach and limited his female encounters to Mucky Duck one-night stands. Then there had been Jorma, who fluently spoke three Vulcan dialects. Deriving the first from his native Finnish, he had constructed the others along the lines of linguistic divergences suggested by Japanese and ancient Aramaic.
These life-enriched misfits had connected with the college age surfers most evenings at the cliffs, receiving what Jorma called cosmic pinpricks, or soulful mango––the sunset deepening, boards planted in the sand. Jorma had been the first to go––stowing away on a cargo ship bound for Borneo, on a walkabout that amounted to escape from an oppressive multiverse. Now that Kyle thought about it––and he was most definitely feeling the effects of the weed––there had never really existed a formal group. Kyle’s ex-girlfriend Carly had perceived as much, two weeks into their short-lived relationship––making it clear that she saw no higher purpose in the random assortment of slackers and beach drifters he considered very close friends. This was during their phase of vinyl discovery, before they had mastered all the incidental strums and she had dumped him for a rescue chihuahua.
Handing Dylan the glowing nub of a joint, Kyle examined his friend with semi-sharpened focus, trying to puzzle out what he had become. How had he turned into someone so fretlessly urbane, wrapped in the artificial trappings of uber-smoothness, a fixture for voluptuous women to play with, fiddle knobs, ingest… it was as if his friend had been abducted by an alien race, spit out as denuded automon. And yet, he was not soulless…. and it was those knobs that had brought them here. Dylan’s unexpected rise to virality had come through the mass appropriation of his funked down reworking of a combination of Fishbone baseline and Big Star harmonies. A distinctive rhythmic hiccup that laid a hidden dragnet amid bpm propulsion, creating a sense of complete dissolution. More to the point in the pleasure-fixated now, an urge, when suitably out of one’s mind, to freak out completely.
Not for the first time, Kyle considered the unlikely arc of Dylan’s rise to semi-fame. The original composition, Stella Neuter, had not gone viral, but left an algorithmic imprint that was identified by Soundcloud beat raiders as yummy––within days it had been tweaked, appropriated, and snuck into top level tracks by DJs spanning Tulum and the Crimean coast. The beat was submerged within Khlöe’s chillout anthem Captain Quirk, exposed as the spiky foundation of Nik Fuh’s Balzonic, and sped up, distorted in Freakzone 7’s Taint Select. Ultimately it had found its way into Mallzbrat’s pop trash gem Bratwurst and Indefinite Jest’s* eponymous grindcore debut. The rhythmic propel proved so infectious that it was finally lifted by Father John Misty as the xylophone and tub bass bridge in the ska folk shanty When Your Tits Are Out, I Am Hungry.
As if in response to its mind numbing ubiquity, Kyle had skipped everything electronic in his in-car song selection thus far––Radiohead’s Amnesiac was the closest he had come to pure beats and even that was a moment of transition, not immersion. Here on this journey, he wanted to reclaim a sense of being physically present, firmly planted on the earth. Dylan, to his credit, had latched onto the analogue vibe. It was he who suggested The Byrds at the beginning of the trip and now the Red Hot Chili Peppers, at their most chill and sublime––though with crafty purpose of getting them to this place. “Pass that duff, mate.”
*totally coincidental, but nice writing.
Free from the dusty constricts of jeans and t-shirt, Kyle reclined in the deep, rock-lined pool. He had expected to experience this sort of deep relaxation––if at all––poolside in Vegas, flush with tournament winnings––but this was here, now. Immersed in an elemental heat that trumped the still warm night, he was not quite able to shake a sense of disbelief.
Freedom instincts rusty, there had been a moment of intense awkwardness stripping in front of a friend for whom epilation seemed part and parcel of an image as emerging DJ. Deflecting attention from dangling appendage, Dylan gave an off-kilter Tarzan yodel and splashed into the heavy, mineral-laden water. Settling himself gingerly opposite, Kyle felt any lingering sense of self consciousness dissipate as he gave himself to a feeling of sub-gravitational bliss––the confined surface contours hiding a surprisingly spacious confluence of geothermal nooks and fissures, cavernous passageways to a molten mantle, if not the very center of the earth.
As the water grew uncomfortably hot, Kyle realized that the largish rocks along the edge of the pool were set at varying heights––a harmonious assemblage of filmy, sulfurous perches, designed for cyclical rotation. After two minutes of steadily increasing heat he shifted to the next rock and then he was out, gasping for air on the patio-flat rocks encircling the pool. Trying not to succumb to complete lethargy, he took stock of his surroundings––20 feet beyond the pool stood a stone well, bucket attached to winch and rope. Next to it a lone tree, undoubtedly the excreted product of a bird’s courageous journey from the Sierras to one of the few desert spots with reliable water. Thick with gnarled bark, inured to daily lashings of the sun, the tree’s roots spread outward along the rock and down into minute fissures, drawing sustenance from an eternally moist wellspring.
The meaning implicit in a solidly-constructed well gradually imprinted itself in Kyle’s consciousness. This was not simply some backcountry hippy hollow designed for trips and giggles––the entire tableau had been arranged with practical purpose. If not indicative of a permanent settlement––scant chance of that, Kyle thought, remembering the vast desolation of their traverse––it was a well-tended retreat. Could be Native American in provenance, yet there was something rather too tidy and well maintained––Cowachunga did not exude a sense of broken-in acceptance of the place in which one’s ancestors had been born. Rather, it seemed an artfully rustic reshaping, as if a boutique spa designer had been parachuted in to develop high-level concepts related to earth, stars, belonging. A perfect vista for shamanic rituals of the new age variety, to a Moby soundtrack.
Dylan pushed himself out of the water and reached over to pants that lay crumpled near the pool, soaking up moist mineral elements. He fished out his iPhone and stretched on the patio-like rocks on the other side of the pool, holding the device at various angles, seeking reception. Kyle cooly observed this uncanny pantomime of a vampire lifting a coffin lid, recalling his friend’s odd texting frenzy earlier in the day. Dylan gave a distinctly dissatisfied sigh, resigning himself to the fact that, even at elevation, they were well beyond the range of cell tower reception.
Remembering the ostensible purpose of their detour, Kyle felt a sudden urge to get his friend off his texting kick and back on board with their excellent agenda. “You were right about one thing––this place is one of mind expansion, not slasher movie endings.” Dylan nodded distractedly, not quite receiving the hint. “Let’s burn one down?” Message received, Dylan fished into crumpled pants for connective pathway to higher consciousness. Lighting up he intoned, either in stoned rapture or with residual irony, “Thank you native spirits….” The sharp flick of fire gave way to a familiar waft, sweet beckoning sinsemilla. Lungs expanded, holding it in––five seconds, ten. Kyle waited, instincts attuned to second-hand appreciation of mere galaxies. Andromeda, Ursa Major. As if from a great distance––
“Ah sorry for noshing the duff, here you are… It’s far from cashed.”
Kyle gave the only sensible reply, Vulcan greeting, indicating continued adherence to a code devised by a loose group of friends a decade ago. A group of college students inclined to meditate on waves and tightly packed bowls, though not all had surfed or smoked. Carlos Jaeger, for one, had been a spearfish diver twenty years their senior––lived in a 1920s bungalow across the beach and limited his female encounters to Mucky Duck one-night stands. Then there had been Jorma, who fluently spoke three Vulcan dialects. Deriving the first from his native Finnish, he had constructed the others along the lines of linguistic divergences suggested by Japanese and ancient Aramaic.
These life-enriched misfits had connected with the college age surfers most evenings at the cliffs, receiving what Jorma called cosmic pinpricks, or soulful mango––the sunset deepening, boards planted in the sand. Jorma had been the first to go––stowing away on a cargo ship bound for Borneo, on a walkabout that amounted to escape from an oppressive multiverse. Now that Kyle thought about it––and he was most definitely feeling the effects of the weed––there had never really existed a formal group. Kyle’s ex-girlfriend Carly had perceived as much, two weeks into their short-lived relationship––making it clear that she saw no higher purpose in the random assortment of slackers and beach drifters he considered very close friends. This was during their phase of vinyl discovery, before they had mastered all the incidental strums and she had dumped him for a rescue chihuahua.
Handing Dylan the glowing nub of a joint, Kyle examined his friend with semi-sharpened focus, trying to puzzle out what he had become. How had he turned into someone so fretlessly urbane, wrapped in the artificial trappings of uber-smoothness, a fixture for voluptuous women to play with, fiddle knobs, ingest… it was as if his friend had been abducted by an alien race, spit out as denuded automon. And yet, he was not soulless…. and it was those knobs that had brought them here. Dylan’s unexpected rise to virality had come through the mass appropriation of his funked down reworking of a combination of Fishbone baseline and Big Star harmonies. A distinctive rhythmic hiccup that laid a hidden dragnet amid bpm propulsion, creating a sense of complete dissolution. More to the point in the pleasure-fixated now, an urge, when suitably out of one’s mind, to freak out completely.
Not for the first time, Kyle considered the unlikely arc of Dylan’s rise to semi-fame. The original composition, Stella Neuter, had not gone viral, but left an algorithmic imprint that was identified by Soundcloud beat raiders as yummy––within days it had been tweaked, appropriated, and snuck into top level tracks by DJs spanning Tulum and the Crimean coast. The beat was submerged within Khlöe’s chillout anthem Captain Quirk, exposed as the spiky foundation of Nik Fuh’s Balzonic, and sped up, distorted in Freakzone 7’s Taint Select. Ultimately it had found its way into Mallzbrat’s pop trash gem Bratwurst and Indefinite Jest’s* eponymous grindcore debut. The rhythmic propel proved so infectious that it was finally lifted by Father John Misty as the xylophone and tub bass bridge in the ska folk shanty When Your Tits Are Out, I Am Hungry.
As if in response to its mind numbing ubiquity, Kyle had skipped everything electronic in his in-car song selection thus far––Radiohead’s Amnesiac was the closest he had come to pure beats and even that was a moment of transition, not immersion. Here on this journey, he wanted to reclaim a sense of being physically present, firmly planted on the earth. Dylan, to his credit, had latched onto the analogue vibe. It was he who suggested The Byrds at the beginning of the trip and now the Red Hot Chili Peppers, at their most chill and sublime––though with crafty purpose of getting them to this place. “Pass that duff, mate.”
*totally coincidental, but nice writing.
2.10 - TORTUGA
Joint cashed, Kyle rifled through his backpack and tossed unfamiliar items in Dylan’s general direction. The crimson boxers came as a surprise––a goateed baby devil smoking a stogie, giving a wink and cheeky grin as his trident impaled a broken heart. Kyle held up the boxers with appraising eye before tossing them over.
Dylan shrugged uncomfortably, “Gift from Alice––you know, the gal I’ve been seeing on and off.”
“Fit for a DJ with skin as smooth as a baby’s ass,” Kyle couldn’t resist.
Dylan squirmed, “That was her doing as well… Alice insisted that if she was going to exfoliate, I’d better submit to the same fate or face her wrath.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow, determined to be grown up, metrosexual, about all this.
“I told her I was too old for this shit and she shook her 20-year-old ass for all it was worth. That’s the way it works––I am not sure if you have ever been placed in this kind of situation….”
“For better or worse, I have not. But then I date women around my age. I’m sure I would have stood my ground, but…. well, we’ve been friends for ages––you could tattoo Calvin & Hobbes on your dick and I would be ok with it. If that is the only change over the past four years….”
Slipping pants over incriminating boxers, Dylan looked around. “We’d better get some sleep. It’s been a long day and we’ve got to make your tournament in Vegas tomorrow––I have some money riding on the outcome, as I recall.”
Kyle winced inwardly at this reminder that his friend was financing a good portion of a poker event he could not otherwise afford to enter. He was, as was known in the parlance, Dylan’s horse. “The Native American at the diner mentioned something about there being a place to sleep here, right?
Dylan nodded, pointing his 4G flashlight in the direction of the well and the tree. Sure enough, an unnaturally square shadow manifested itself under the tree. Stepping closer, it became apparent that this was not some mold-infested mattress with busted springs. Set neatly in a wood frame, it was a backwoods model deluxe. Kyle walked over and pressed the surface––tightly woven of straw, it had a firm, tatami-like spring. There were pillows in a burlap bag at the base and he shimmied them out, squeezing a material that was light and crunchy––some type of husk.
“Pretty nice,” Dylan said, flopping down with a heavy groan. “They forgot to leave a mint on the pillow, that’s about all.” The mattress was big enough to comfortably accommodate three or four people. Reclining nearer to the edge than was strictly necessary, Kyle took in clusters of stars, raw scars against the skin of eternity.
“This really is a place,” Dylan said.
“It is a place,” Kyle granted.
Neither was quite sleepy. As they lay in silence looking upward, a number of animal sounds asserted themselves… the rustle of small rodents, a muted cricket chirp. A whistle of wind passing below, not quite reaching this hidden, elevated plateau.
“It was good, the Tortuga.”
“It was good,” Kyle replied. San Francisco seemed so far away.
“The time spent with those girls… they were with it in the best way.”
“Shagadelic.”
There was a shared moment of remembrance––more natural this time, and then it was all right, old times. It had been magic. Sitting out on the side steps of the Green Tortuga, a stones throw from Chinatown beat 101, a place that was hip before hip had a name. Where goateed German immigrants named Doc espoused Marxist views, while jazz cats wailed in gutters, hats tilted down, assuredly gone. Kyle sensed the neighborhood had been assimilated, upgraded, gutted, turned into dot.com heaven––but there was still enough old blood, new immigrant blood, adventurous, ghost-seeking blood to make it interesting and diverse.
Remnants of mystery lingered––passageways under Chinatown extending down Grant Street to the old bay shore, where scuttled ships lay stacked on each other in layers of muck and mud that culminated cliff side, at Telegraph Hill. The stink not yet filled in, the little inlets where men would wake up on lurching rowboats headed out to larger vessels that did not dare show their face to anything but the night fog. Shanghai’d, pressed into service aboard whaling ships on long-haul voyages in search of madness, where the only possibility of disembarkation was Hawaii, Tahiti––if you managed to get off, pray you found a missionary, or a local chief in need of a head hunter (sic) mercenary.
This was all phantasm of course, a romanticized vision of a peninsula that had been romanticized since the moment it was discovered. Countless seekers subsumed in its entrepreneurial fervor, others spit out as if from the fifth level of hell. A city where the usual rules did not apply, as long as the Darwinistic rules of life in the shadow of nature’s fiercest disruptor, the earthquake, were respected. You could build a Google-funded fortress on side of a hill and still be in deep shit the moment the earth opened and swallowed things whole.
Kyle had come across Marie like an anchor after a day of restless movement. He and Dylan had made their way through Chinatown, across hidden parks, up endless stairs to Coit Tower, down again and up along the straight finger of cable car tracks across Russian Hill, to Ghirardelli Square and back along piers, fighting the clam chowder throngs. Looking out to Alcatraz amid a crazy beat of seal bark, he had been filled with a certain sense of.… what, he was not sure, it was complex. And back again, along an unknown street framed by clean-lined stucco apartments in pastel hues, Italian delis with humble sandwich counters and Giants’ pennants. The team had just flamed out against the Dodgers, maybe next year.
Kyle had met her in the kitchen, adjacent a circa-1920 ballroom. Having taken an hourlong nap, he was helping out with the twice-weekly communal meal passed down, fairly intact, from Tortuga’s hippy-era DNA. Closing a refrigerator stuffed with bagged food and beer, hostelers’ names scrawled in permanent marker, he was confronted by not quite a gaze––she had not actually looked up, though he was sure she was not unaware of his presence. There was something almost feral in her interest as he searched the cupboard for soy sauce.
The first step into Marie’s good graces, Kyle thought, should have been his knowledge of a particular combination stir-fry techniques that was known to induce gastronomic bliss. The flavors dependent on those critical first minutes of sautéing garlic, onions, ginger together in nemawashi––the mingling phase. The garlic caressed by an evaporating lick of sesame oil under delicate heat, until the smell of the divine emerged. Then the bulkier veggies––string beans, bok choi in a flash of intense heat, building a crisp throne for the crown jewel: beef, chicken––in this case, tempeh. Only they had not reached that point, had not ascended the steps of umami.
It had all happened in an instant, Marie brushing his hand as they stood at their respective chopping boards, telepathically signaling a stung blurriness of vision. She had tugged his wrist with surprising urgency and led him to a sink where they had run hands through water before escaping the vaporous kitchen in a rush. Pushing the side door onto a street that dead-ended against Telegraph Hill, they had encountered a perfect chill. Sitting on steps that slanted into the evening sidewalk, their conversation had taken paths he did not quite remember, touching on gentrification, dot com bazillionaires, the plight of hostelers who could barely scrape together $50 for a dorm room bed… it was all blurred music, a wash of sound that quickly heated into a jam.
Joint cashed, Kyle rifled through his backpack and tossed unfamiliar items in Dylan’s general direction. The crimson boxers came as a surprise––a goateed baby devil smoking a stogie, giving a wink and cheeky grin as his trident impaled a broken heart. Kyle held up the boxers with appraising eye before tossing them over.
Dylan shrugged uncomfortably, “Gift from Alice––you know, the gal I’ve been seeing on and off.”
“Fit for a DJ with skin as smooth as a baby’s ass,” Kyle couldn’t resist.
Dylan squirmed, “That was her doing as well… Alice insisted that if she was going to exfoliate, I’d better submit to the same fate or face her wrath.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow, determined to be grown up, metrosexual, about all this.
“I told her I was too old for this shit and she shook her 20-year-old ass for all it was worth. That’s the way it works––I am not sure if you have ever been placed in this kind of situation….”
“For better or worse, I have not. But then I date women around my age. I’m sure I would have stood my ground, but…. well, we’ve been friends for ages––you could tattoo Calvin & Hobbes on your dick and I would be ok with it. If that is the only change over the past four years….”
Slipping pants over incriminating boxers, Dylan looked around. “We’d better get some sleep. It’s been a long day and we’ve got to make your tournament in Vegas tomorrow––I have some money riding on the outcome, as I recall.”
Kyle winced inwardly at this reminder that his friend was financing a good portion of a poker event he could not otherwise afford to enter. He was, as was known in the parlance, Dylan’s horse. “The Native American at the diner mentioned something about there being a place to sleep here, right?
Dylan nodded, pointing his 4G flashlight in the direction of the well and the tree. Sure enough, an unnaturally square shadow manifested itself under the tree. Stepping closer, it became apparent that this was not some mold-infested mattress with busted springs. Set neatly in a wood frame, it was a backwoods model deluxe. Kyle walked over and pressed the surface––tightly woven of straw, it had a firm, tatami-like spring. There were pillows in a burlap bag at the base and he shimmied them out, squeezing a material that was light and crunchy––some type of husk.
“Pretty nice,” Dylan said, flopping down with a heavy groan. “They forgot to leave a mint on the pillow, that’s about all.” The mattress was big enough to comfortably accommodate three or four people. Reclining nearer to the edge than was strictly necessary, Kyle took in clusters of stars, raw scars against the skin of eternity.
“This really is a place,” Dylan said.
“It is a place,” Kyle granted.
Neither was quite sleepy. As they lay in silence looking upward, a number of animal sounds asserted themselves… the rustle of small rodents, a muted cricket chirp. A whistle of wind passing below, not quite reaching this hidden, elevated plateau.
“It was good, the Tortuga.”
“It was good,” Kyle replied. San Francisco seemed so far away.
“The time spent with those girls… they were with it in the best way.”
“Shagadelic.”
There was a shared moment of remembrance––more natural this time, and then it was all right, old times. It had been magic. Sitting out on the side steps of the Green Tortuga, a stones throw from Chinatown beat 101, a place that was hip before hip had a name. Where goateed German immigrants named Doc espoused Marxist views, while jazz cats wailed in gutters, hats tilted down, assuredly gone. Kyle sensed the neighborhood had been assimilated, upgraded, gutted, turned into dot.com heaven––but there was still enough old blood, new immigrant blood, adventurous, ghost-seeking blood to make it interesting and diverse.
Remnants of mystery lingered––passageways under Chinatown extending down Grant Street to the old bay shore, where scuttled ships lay stacked on each other in layers of muck and mud that culminated cliff side, at Telegraph Hill. The stink not yet filled in, the little inlets where men would wake up on lurching rowboats headed out to larger vessels that did not dare show their face to anything but the night fog. Shanghai’d, pressed into service aboard whaling ships on long-haul voyages in search of madness, where the only possibility of disembarkation was Hawaii, Tahiti––if you managed to get off, pray you found a missionary, or a local chief in need of a head hunter (sic) mercenary.
This was all phantasm of course, a romanticized vision of a peninsula that had been romanticized since the moment it was discovered. Countless seekers subsumed in its entrepreneurial fervor, others spit out as if from the fifth level of hell. A city where the usual rules did not apply, as long as the Darwinistic rules of life in the shadow of nature’s fiercest disruptor, the earthquake, were respected. You could build a Google-funded fortress on side of a hill and still be in deep shit the moment the earth opened and swallowed things whole.
Kyle had come across Marie like an anchor after a day of restless movement. He and Dylan had made their way through Chinatown, across hidden parks, up endless stairs to Coit Tower, down again and up along the straight finger of cable car tracks across Russian Hill, to Ghirardelli Square and back along piers, fighting the clam chowder throngs. Looking out to Alcatraz amid a crazy beat of seal bark, he had been filled with a certain sense of.… what, he was not sure, it was complex. And back again, along an unknown street framed by clean-lined stucco apartments in pastel hues, Italian delis with humble sandwich counters and Giants’ pennants. The team had just flamed out against the Dodgers, maybe next year.
Kyle had met her in the kitchen, adjacent a circa-1920 ballroom. Having taken an hourlong nap, he was helping out with the twice-weekly communal meal passed down, fairly intact, from Tortuga’s hippy-era DNA. Closing a refrigerator stuffed with bagged food and beer, hostelers’ names scrawled in permanent marker, he was confronted by not quite a gaze––she had not actually looked up, though he was sure she was not unaware of his presence. There was something almost feral in her interest as he searched the cupboard for soy sauce.
The first step into Marie’s good graces, Kyle thought, should have been his knowledge of a particular combination stir-fry techniques that was known to induce gastronomic bliss. The flavors dependent on those critical first minutes of sautéing garlic, onions, ginger together in nemawashi––the mingling phase. The garlic caressed by an evaporating lick of sesame oil under delicate heat, until the smell of the divine emerged. Then the bulkier veggies––string beans, bok choi in a flash of intense heat, building a crisp throne for the crown jewel: beef, chicken––in this case, tempeh. Only they had not reached that point, had not ascended the steps of umami.
It had all happened in an instant, Marie brushing his hand as they stood at their respective chopping boards, telepathically signaling a stung blurriness of vision. She had tugged his wrist with surprising urgency and led him to a sink where they had run hands through water before escaping the vaporous kitchen in a rush. Pushing the side door onto a street that dead-ended against Telegraph Hill, they had encountered a perfect chill. Sitting on steps that slanted into the evening sidewalk, their conversation had taken paths he did not quite remember, touching on gentrification, dot com bazillionaires, the plight of hostelers who could barely scrape together $50 for a dorm room bed… it was all blurred music, a wash of sound that quickly heated into a jam.
Then an unexpected vision, African American shuffling to a beat beamed down from the ether, scraggly white beard indicating lack of shave for months. The eternally wise look he gave them sitting on their seagull and pigeon poop encrusted stairs. As if to say there would always be a place for him, whatever San Francisco’s current evolution––he would be there, guarding the streets––once you were this far out there was no turning back.
His growling shadow gave way to a cluster of out-for-drinks hipsters, an Asian girl holding her little brother’s hand protectively, a Charles Bukowski lookalike lurching to a strip club, $20 already out of pocket in sweat-palmed obedience to the Gods of ass and lonely eyes. Evening fading, Marie’s friend had come out through the door, Dylan in tow––they had apparently connected inside, in search of their errant traveling companions. How had that worked again…. This niggling doubt brought Kyle to the here and now. “How exactly did you get together with….?
Emerging from a far off place, whatever thought pattern had hitched him to its wheel, he gave a sharp look of interest––“I went looking for you in the kitchen after my shower, you said you would be helping out in the kitchen. The girl with the unpronouncable name and I converged at the scene of whatever had transpired: two chopping boards sharing a pile of half-cut onions. We deduced that you two had escaped the fumes, don’t ask me how––she was a sharp one, guiding me through the only door that led to the street….
Unlikely as it seemed that they would independently pair up, it made sense. Here was causality, a convincing explanation for the casualness with which the two greeted them, heading down the steps to Broadway in a flurry of purpose. Remerging around the corner five minutes later with a bottle of Brother Thelonius and two hot slices of pizza, to be shared around. “The tempeh stir fry…” Kyle had protested to dismissive shrugs all around. Sights set on the holy grail of road trip baptism, drink and sloppy sex, Dylan had suggested that the hassle of hungry backpackers could wait. They were here together miraculously as a group, out of the hostel––the time was right for cutting loose.
On Marie’s suggestion, they had planted themselves at the counter of a hole-in-the-wall pho restaurant between an Chinese produce store and a hardware store. From the clientele and no-frills ambience, Kyle was sure the place was run by first generation immigrants. Obeying ancient, unspoken boundary lines, bistros like Naked Lunch had not migrated this far up Broadway––this block still had an unadorned 70s vibe and intimations of shady, backroom goings on––it was as it ever should be. Then to the next bar and the next, everything building to the coupe-de-grace, foggy nipple.
Stumbling through thick fog back to the Green Tortuga, the girls had invited them to forgo the six-bunk experience and ravish them in their semi-private. A tiny room with a surprisingly spacious feel, due to the window bunk––perfect for a…
“Did you fuck?” Dylan asked, with what felt like hidden purpose.
“No,” the cautious reply. “Just a hand job under the covers. You?”
Dylan shrugged… “Same. The handie was enough mate, more than expected. Anyway, it wasn’t proper to go further, considering our proximity.”
This unexpected display of delicacy, respect even, left Kyle unconvinced. What it amounted to was a tacit admission that they had fallen short. Yet fucking had not really been on the agenda. The act of intimacy was enough. Which meant….
“Those girls were true technicians.” Dylan sighed, as if replaying in his mind why he had had not taken the reflexive next step of trying for a full shag.
“It was of a moment. No need to disturb the wa when you have been drained.…” Kyle turned over and was fast asleep.
His growling shadow gave way to a cluster of out-for-drinks hipsters, an Asian girl holding her little brother’s hand protectively, a Charles Bukowski lookalike lurching to a strip club, $20 already out of pocket in sweat-palmed obedience to the Gods of ass and lonely eyes. Evening fading, Marie’s friend had come out through the door, Dylan in tow––they had apparently connected inside, in search of their errant traveling companions. How had that worked again…. This niggling doubt brought Kyle to the here and now. “How exactly did you get together with….?
Emerging from a far off place, whatever thought pattern had hitched him to its wheel, he gave a sharp look of interest––“I went looking for you in the kitchen after my shower, you said you would be helping out in the kitchen. The girl with the unpronouncable name and I converged at the scene of whatever had transpired: two chopping boards sharing a pile of half-cut onions. We deduced that you two had escaped the fumes, don’t ask me how––she was a sharp one, guiding me through the only door that led to the street….
Unlikely as it seemed that they would independently pair up, it made sense. Here was causality, a convincing explanation for the casualness with which the two greeted them, heading down the steps to Broadway in a flurry of purpose. Remerging around the corner five minutes later with a bottle of Brother Thelonius and two hot slices of pizza, to be shared around. “The tempeh stir fry…” Kyle had protested to dismissive shrugs all around. Sights set on the holy grail of road trip baptism, drink and sloppy sex, Dylan had suggested that the hassle of hungry backpackers could wait. They were here together miraculously as a group, out of the hostel––the time was right for cutting loose.
On Marie’s suggestion, they had planted themselves at the counter of a hole-in-the-wall pho restaurant between an Chinese produce store and a hardware store. From the clientele and no-frills ambience, Kyle was sure the place was run by first generation immigrants. Obeying ancient, unspoken boundary lines, bistros like Naked Lunch had not migrated this far up Broadway––this block still had an unadorned 70s vibe and intimations of shady, backroom goings on––it was as it ever should be. Then to the next bar and the next, everything building to the coupe-de-grace, foggy nipple.
Stumbling through thick fog back to the Green Tortuga, the girls had invited them to forgo the six-bunk experience and ravish them in their semi-private. A tiny room with a surprisingly spacious feel, due to the window bunk––perfect for a…
“Did you fuck?” Dylan asked, with what felt like hidden purpose.
“No,” the cautious reply. “Just a hand job under the covers. You?”
Dylan shrugged… “Same. The handie was enough mate, more than expected. Anyway, it wasn’t proper to go further, considering our proximity.”
This unexpected display of delicacy, respect even, left Kyle unconvinced. What it amounted to was a tacit admission that they had fallen short. Yet fucking had not really been on the agenda. The act of intimacy was enough. Which meant….
“Those girls were true technicians.” Dylan sighed, as if replaying in his mind why he had had not taken the reflexive next step of trying for a full shag.
“It was of a moment. No need to disturb the wa when you have been drained.…” Kyle turned over and was fast asleep.
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