Jim Dove rose like a zombie from his slumber and stretched. Trevor was almost dry from his shower. He ghosted about the house while I downed my first cup of motivation. And next I remember we were all climbing into the car and shuffling around like you do when you know you'll be sitting a long time. Like Church or Work. I had laid my Indian blanket (the one I got for Christmas from my Mom) over the back seat. For ceremony. We riffled through my tapes at the last moment to be sure I had brought all the necessary music. My second cup of coffee pooled a spot of steam on the windsheild as I backed up. And the world before us was wet and black and shining with morning Rain. We made over one thousand miles this first day.
You know, I can never remember the first one hundred miles or so. Too many butterflies. Mind is a light a checklist. Got everything? Hope so. But I do remember one dark little omen. The Rain had stopped by New York. I was feeling particularly optimistic about this. I hate to drive in Rain if I can help it. And I hear a squeak squeak from the back of the car. The rear wiper which had been brand new a few days ago had torn itself off almost completely. The rear window impossibly clean. Oops. Tied it back on with a hair elastic. I think it's still there. Small disaster. Oh well.
When heading West from the Northeast, the first real state is Pennsylvania. By real I mean great big and midwestern. It should live somewhere with Kansas and Nebraska methinks. Over four hundred miles across just like all great states. The first time I had ever been through Pennsylvania was during my trip to Idaho to live with my sister. It Rained on and off all day and I recall thinking that they must call the hills the Smoky Mountains because the clouds hung low to the ground and ripped themselves like great stretches of cotton moving from hillside to hillside and across valleys. Like huge puffs of white smoke. And it was the same this morning our first day out. Secret towns covered in tufts of cloud. Soft green summer Rain moving against us. Pink crumbled highway and the smeared and dried remnants of deer every two miles. Every time I come through I pray not to hit one. What a way to begin a journey. All this morning I am talking non stop to Trevor and Jimmy about crossing America. Like I have waited for this forever. Not just to cross country again but with companions so I can be the tour guide. "Smoky Mountains, ya see? Like smoke" I blather. They nod smiling. "And Imagine," says I "trying to cross this country on horseback. Or in a wagon train. Imagine that a guy is riding right next to us on a horse right now. Thinking he is making time. You know it happened."
The first time I had ever gone West I had made it as far as the Ohio state line on my first day. I actually had turned about at the state line went back into Penn. Found myself a hidden meadow behind a fireworks factory and spent the evening there. Crampt in the backseat but safe. So I had hoped we would make it as far this first day. To the Ohio line. The first state they call the Midwest. Mostly East if you ask me. But when we finally made the Ohio line the Sun was still afternoon golden in our eyes. Impossible for our late start. I have never explained our speed that day to my satisfaction. We decided to press on and not stop for the night until the green stretch known as Indiana. So south it was toward Columbus.
The warm of afternoon was like heaven in June. The drawl coming from the Woman at the eternal gas station was slowly turning. Midwestern. Coffee less significant to these towns. Truckers will drink coffee in any shape. Me too. We joked and punched each other and nibbled on our dried foods.
A friend of mine, Athena, who had once Fenced in tournaments as a younger girl, had given me a fantastic basket of homebaked goodies for our trip. Among them were treats long ago enjoyed by the Iroquois Indians (Athenas Nation) and other nutritious bars and breads and mixes of nuts and grains from around the world. Enough to feed four men all the way to the Pacific. Their were simply too delicious looking however and by the time we finally set out they were gone completely. So instead we dinned on trail mix: a creation of the late twentieth century, it's composed chiefly of any small and crunchy substances. The equivalent of pet food for humans. It's small and dry and keeps forever and is probably better for your jaws than anything else. We had two mixes, one of sweet maple and a spicy hot orange one with peanuts and bits of pretzel. And there are times on the road when two handfulls would hit the spot. Rub it out completely. So we crunched away heading south toward Columbus as I ranted about the Bypass. "Ya see, most highways go right through the downtown part of a city – the heart of it – where the towers are. And these are totally no fun to try and cruise through, what with the locals going block to block. So they make these big loops of highways around cities – so you can bypass – hence the name – the heart. Usually they have a number. . ." "Two seventy one it says here" reads Jimmy, squinting at the map. "Right. That ends with the original highway you're on. Get it? So we go south on seventy one and the bypass is two seventy one." Or some such nonsense. And I still can't believe it's not dark yet rolling this first long afternoon toward Columbus. Patchy clouds a mix of pink Sun and small Rainstorms. And just before Sunset our first breathtaker. One of those things that stands out in your memory like a mountain stands above the clouds.
A small valley became suddenly visible to the left. Chuck full of Rainbows. As though they lived there secretly. Great big beams like structures dropping out of the Sky into this little green and misty field. And borders of clouds on either side. It had opened up for us to peek in. A Rainbow would suddenly vanish behind us and another would explode up ahead. Then they were gone.
And soon enough, it was twilight and we jumped on the bypass and rounded twinkling Columbus.
To me all cities look the same. They seem largely circular like the impact marks from an explosion. Or an abnormal growth of great steely crystals. It begins with small buildings and houses, stripmalls and convenience stores at the circumference. Then larger more serious buildings surrounding the heart. Corporate Headquarters. Wholesale Distributors. Office Space for Lease. Finally the downtown central of any city – great stone fingers pointing angry at the Sky. Big hands reaching up out of the ruined earth. Towers. Metropolis and Rome. Black and sparkling in the night. And all cities look like this to me. Denver, San Fransisco, Salt Lake City all the same. Best to avoid the heart if possible. Or then again, if you want to brag that you've been somewhere, struggle through a main artery for a while at rush hour during the week. Will make you a certified veteran of any city. I survived Albequerque one Wednesday afternoon at five.
Columbus in the distance is a small group of spires. It never gets any closer as we sneak around on the clever bypass. And then we plunk off onto route 70 where we will stay for days. A pretty much straight line to Utah. Intimidating but who cares, it's almost dark now. And a mere handfull of miles to the Indiana border. Where Trevor had never been.
Trevor has family that lives in southern Ohio and for years has made the trek at holidays. As a younger man this seemed to me a Holy Pilgrimage. A lot farther than I ever went. At least once a year he and his folks and sister would load up into the car for an all day jaunt to see his Grandmother. But never beyond the Ohio line. Except once as I recall to see his sister in Arkansas. And he has been groomed these years for such a trip as ours. Trevor I consider to be the kind of brilliant broken heart America has produced for a hundred years or so. There is joy and there is sorrow but there is also Great Joy and Great Sorrow.
Joy is a hot blueberry pie cooling on the windowsill. Great Joy is the magic fabric of Family that holds tight and continues to spin out mysteries generation after generation. Finding your Grandfather's heart in your Daughter.
Sorrow is the loss of innocence or love. Great Sorrow is the death of Native America. Having lost Our Way as Humans on a Living Planet Earth. No more blueberry pies on windowsills.
Anyone can feel the small joys and sorrows of life. Not everyone can feel the Great Joys or Sorrows but some can. Poet warriors like Trevor have suffered many years in small rooms and in woodland glades and stone cold churches for blood they never saw spilled. For great mistakes made by Man before they were even born. Saints of another time weeping for the suffering of unborn children and trembling inwardly in reverence of living Sunlight. What a piece of work is man" Shakespeare asked. Ask Kerouac. He might have known. Trevor is such a piece. Owning a sheen of brilliance shared by his family and passed not in genes but in secret Somehow. Learned but not educated. Clever but romantic. Classical but not faded. Full but not closed. Open in fact. The perfect natured soul for a journey across this fading America. And crossing the Indiana border we had crossed his threshold. If he was nervous I wouldn't have known it but I wouldn't have blamed him one crumb.
At this point Jim Dove takes the wheel while I stretch out in the back seat for forty winks. A man who has driven perhaps as much as me he is oddly nervous. Well, not oddly exactly. We are eight hundred miles away from home base. But as I watch him grip the wheel with two hands I am certain of our safety and konk out instantly. Dreamless death nap in the dark car.
"Jim!" Trevor barks.
I bolt upright and Jimmy is swerving left and back onto the road. Seems he was a drifting a bit. Exhaustion takes over. My heart is beating like a hummingbird. No coffee will be necessary thanks. I am at first angry to have been awaken with the fear of disaster but glad to have slept seventy miles. "Ok" I growl, "pull over. I'll take her." And he does so gladly. I am refreshed from the little nap and suddenly thrilled. We are in Indiana. Farther than I could have ever hoped for our first day. And our gladness is mutual and our bones are weary. Ok. Let's find a place to sleep.
Just a few miles outside of Indianapolis we pull off the highway. Best to stay in a Truckers hotel if possible. These folks constitute a large percentage of motel and hotel stays beside major highways. You can see billboards for miles outside of Midwest cities bragging "$25.00 Per Person" and "$23.50 Single Occ". Price wars still on. Hold out for a cheapo. Staying in a motel is like eating in a restaurant to me. A necessary and why not enjoy it aspect of traveling America. They are all so different. I once stayed outside of St. Louis in a little yellow room that cost me about twenty bucks. It still smelled of smoke from the previous occupant. Looked straightened up but not cleaned. I couldn't have cared less. Slept like a log. And in the morning when coming down the stairs their was an old Indian man (from India not Native America) wearing a gold turban with a white Beard to Christmas. He seemed surprised to see me then smiled all knowingly. I was blessed.
So we are reading billboard and squinting in our exhaustion at room prices. Screw it. That looks good. And we pull off route 70 in a light Rain.
The motel looks old enough. Full of truckers and locals looking for a night out. "Corn silk blondes" mutters Trevor. What? "Corn silk blondes. Look at everyone around here." Sure enough. Blond hair on everyone. Boys and girls alike. I am musing this over as I go in to the motel office.
The man behind the counter looks like a retired Truck driver. In his probable fifties his skin is chestnut brown and worn like old leather. He doesn't falter at my Connecticut drivers license or my shoulder length brown hair or my Yankee dialect. Good man. In a glass tank beside the door is a huge grey pet Catfish. Bullhead they say. Half the size of the tank with white specks of scar near his mouth. Huge whiskers. Staring me down from across this small room like a cat. I can't believe it. While the man is ringing up the room I squat beside the tank. Catfish checking me out right back. I tap the glass. He whispers some intangible words. Poor bastard. Probably caught and tanked for show. What do I know? Maybe he's the previous motel owner put under a spell by some Indiana Corn Witch. He whispers again. Yikes.
The motel room is small but cheery enough. We jump on the beds in glee. I do this in all motels. Repressed instinct from childhood. All kids jump on beds. No parents will allow this but all kids do it anyway.
Outside in the parking lot a car of very rowdy folks pull up. All blonde. Looks like a family. Mom and Dad and kids. Look more closely. It's a party of mixed ages. Some folks getting a room to party in. Beautiful Princess of the Corn among them. Probably eighteen. Blonde white hair she spots me on the balcony. Turns quickly away and skips into the motel office. Heavy set mom smiles up at me. Then they are gone.
I head down to the car to retrieve clean clothes. The light Rain on my back feels good. This shirt and these jeans. A hot shower to come.
"Whoa you come a long way" she says. I turn about. Heavy set blonde Mom. Huge grin shows not a few teeth missing. Home spun blue and faded tattoo on her arm. Stands close. "Whatcha doin?" she asks. Husky Indiana drawl. I am glad of her forwardness. Talking to strangers in America. The only way to know for sure what is going on in their heads. "We're going to California" I say. She is taken aback. A long journey we are on. Not come to Indiana specifically. "Wow" she muses. "That's a long way." I know instantly that I have made it sound as if I am from California. No big deal. She and her clan are here for a night out. To drink a bit and turn the television up really loud. Make a mess and not have to clean it. I hear that. Out of nowhere Princess daughter appears. Jean shorts and white tank top and sneakers. Blonde locks and pink cream skin and doe eyed. Beautiful American Girl. Skips up to Mom. Glares at me over a Coke and is smiling behind the can. Bats an eyelash and then skips off in a hurry. "Whatsa matter Becky?" yells Mom. Not mom she says, Billy. Ok. "Ya ain't getin' shy on us, now" says Billy. But she is getting shy. Gone suddenly. Becky. Perfect. Where is here beau Tom? How about Huck? Not jokes for Billy though, just thoughts. Go to bed Timothy.
Back in the room we are stupefied by the miles behind us. I tell the guys about Billy and Becky. They nod sleepily. Then a hot shower from God. I looked out the window and caught one last glimpse of the Indiana Princess dancing across the parking lot in the Rain.
Day two. Though we have slept a solid eight hours I am only slightly more rested than yesterday. I sleep like a stone on the road. And eight hours is never enough. Warm humid Indiana morning. Grey skies still but it threatens to clear up and get hot. I return the key to the front desk. Same man. Does he ever sleep? Magical stamina from Truck driving days. The catFish is glad to see me again. Uncle Bullhead. Wags his grey tail. Free coffee. If you call it that, but I am grateful and will have two thank you. One in haste and one to sip.
Styrofoam cups and white powder to match. As the guys are brushing the last few teeth and making ready I am packing the car. From nowhere appears Billy. Styrofoam cup of her own in the morning mist. All a grin at me. "Somebody hit our car last night." She says. Points to the gold brown behemoth and it's crumpled rear fender. Still a grin. No matter. Just a bit of a damper on their night out. Though why she is awake I can't say. When we turned in they seemed to be just getting started. No Princess though. Still asleep somewhere waiting for Prince Charming or Tom to come kiss her awake. I raise my cup to her as she walks off. Nice meetin ya. "G'luck" she grins.
Jimmy nabs himself a cup of coffee. Trevor has been mostly immune to it's enslavement all his life. Not me though. And we cram our belongings into the car and it feels good to be back on the road. Funny because you fear secretly that you will hate the car in a few days. But not so. The soft grey seat still feels good against my backside. My favorite chair I guess. The guys seem to agree. Hand me the bird food. We are all a-smiling. Away we go.