Wandering, wandering, wandering through the wastelands of the American highways. John and I traveled. We were the essence of the classic highwaymen. The kind young dark haired women fell for in old Irish romance tales. A modern day Viking cruise straight to Valhalla that was the goal of our journey. Isn't that goal of most men. Just exactly why we were traveling neither of us could say, we simply traveled.
There's a rather unique disenchantment to the open road. Maybe it was failures of wannabe beatnik dreams. Maybe it was John's 57 T-Bird; faded from cherry red to golden wheat, engine roaring with the pride of many a teenage victory behind her wheel. Maybe it was the lack of modern amenities, AC doesn't come outta old dragsters to well. Perhaps it was the never ending travel Death Valley to the Everglades and back and forth. Or maybe it was America. A dead soul with ancient crows guarding the true Garden of Eden. Who cared. I sure as hell didn't.
John and I met in the army. Served in the gulf together. We didn't see shit, but I glorified stories of my father so much that we'd practically written our own war experiences via Vietnam rehashing. I never saw Nam. But I liked to talk about it. I just always remembered the stories my father told me. And I'd share them with John who in turn would always give that slight sardonic grin. He loved the stories as much as I loved telling them.
"Secretly inside the border of Cambodia or so the memory goes. On recon for my platoon. A Gook village burning. NVA's punishment for a V.C. folly. The animals tied to their stables burning alive. The aroma of bacon biscuits and sausage dogs fills the air, blistering the hairs at the end of the nose. Burning and hollering, horrendous sounds coming from life. Like a child pulling one to many times on his toy, a Cow says... I wondered if those screams were human or just animal. Upon the hill, through my field of bayonets. Soviet technology being put to good use."
“Man every time you tell that story. You romanticize. How and the hell can you romanticize war man?” asked John.
“Just do.” I said.
“Well do me a favor lay off the T.S. Eliot routine will you, it gets old. Next you’re going to be telling me about Father McNutt.” John said.
“That’s pastor McNutt.” I said.
“Whatever.”
Pastor McNutt was a GI in the Second World War. He served with my granddad overseas in the Philippines. My Grandfather told me that he used to walk around picking up papers off the ground saying. “That’s not it.” After about a year of the man doing this the officers got concerned and sent him to a headshrinker. The shrink was unable to decipher the cause of his lunacy and gave him his release papers. Upon returning to the barracks Pastor McNutt proudly waved around his paper saying, “That’s it.”
Just south of Dothan Alabama we stopped at a truck stop. It was one of those older seedier joints, which served grits and bacon bits to any local yokel that bothered to stop in. A sordid place that contained useless hi-way junk for sale, over priced caffeinated drinks, glowing signs of neon Budweiser, a well-traversed place intended for riff-raff only.
In the restaurant munching on salty burgers and moist French fries we saw her. A child nearly, was pestering the clientele for a ride. A little Sue Lyon if I ever saw one. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen well formed well developed. She wore a pink and red flowery dress, her blonde hair draped down her neck in a ponytail, with a blue ribbon holding it up.
“Hot damn,” said John. “I haven’t seen a piece of ass look that good since I saw Rita Hayworth in Lady from Shanghai.”
John had a penchant for old movies. He always said the forties had the best looking broads. Sometimes I believed he was right. I nodded at him with memories of Hayworth in Gilda.
“Hey little sister, need some help?” John asked.
She smiled very innocently. Her blue eyes darted our way. I could only imagine what she thought. Two men, pale, dark glasses on one, Marlboro smoking type cats.
“Hiya.” She said. “Where are you going, boys? “
“Nowhere and everywhere all at once darlin.” John said.
“Cool. Mind another passenger?” she asked.
“Come on little sis, come on.” Said John.
And with that we had one more companion on are ever stretching spiral across America.
When I was a little boy my favorite movie was Shane. I loved Alan Ladd. I watched it every time I could. I always wondered if Shane would be a good father for me. Or would he abandon me just like he did that little boy. Just like dad.
We rode, and rode, and rode. To the Everglades to New York then took ol’ Horace Greely’s advice and went west.
Our trip consisted of stops for food, sleep, and drugs. Never a permanent residency. We stay in a big city long enough to score and take off. Racing in competitions along the way to make bread. We carried very little, a few articles of clothing and toiletries. John carried a small black leather bag that was aged over a century. Inside it was his father’s one gift to him. As a boy, John once said, he loved playing with his bowie knife.
Just outside of Tucson. A memorable moment took place. John, Cordelia Valentine, yes that was the name she gave us, and myself were smoking a joint and staring at the city from off a rocky cliff.
“So I left the firm for the road, I was a lawyer ya see. I never looked back.” John said.
John was never a lawyer, just another yarn for a pretty girl.
“Why’d you leave the firm?” Cordelia asked.
“To rekindle my dead youth.” John said.
“Did you?”
“Damned if I know. Hell I never knew what my youth was about in the first place.”
“So darlin,” John asked, “Why are you running?”
Slowly taking a drag off the joint. Cordelia replied.
“I was the youngest of three daughters. My dad got tired of me, abandoned me a few months back.”
“He abandoned me, could you believe it?” she said oddly suggestively.
“No,” John said, “I can’t.”
We had just got thought the shit when John found her. Look at this he said. And I did. A Gook girl, thirteen who knows, who cares. He had pulled out his knife He cut her clothing from her. He had his way with her. Then he gave her to me. I stared down at her tan naked ice-cold body. An eternity of peeping. Lifelessness. John asked if I wanted her. I shook my head no. He then pulled out his knife and cut her throat. We returned back to the platoon. I loved that story
“Man your dad had some crazy adventures.” Said Cordelia.
“Yeah, they’re a gas. Real far out.” Said John.
“Yeah they’re kinda groovy.” Cordelia said.
“Yeah, groovy.” I said.
We traveled John and Cordelia fucked. Then we’d travel some more. It was kind of like a family trip to Disneyland, minus the screaming brats. Once we reached Las Vegas, we bought a decent amount of smack. Enough to satisfy all of us for a few weeks. Unfortunately things never turn out as they’re planned.
I remember sitting with my children watching A Fistful of Dollars. My boy in particular, loved the movie. He wanted to be “The Man with no Name.” I asked him why. He said because. He said the little boy in Shane was actually “The Man with No Name”. He said Shane’s abandonment caused his darkness. He said “The Man with no Name” though basically good would forever be a rogue, an outlaw torn. I smiled and patted his head and said sure thing son. Sure thing.
“Heavy memory man.” Said John.
“Is that one about your dad?” asked Cordelia.
“Yes.” I said.
It was on Sunday, just south of Reno, I believe when John up and left. He didn’t do this often. John and Cordelia had been fighting, over what I can’t remember. We’d all just banged up. And then the fight broke out and he left. We were in a dank and moldy Day’s Inn. Cordelia sat weeping dazed on the ground from a potentially lethal hit, she passed out. Where John was going he didn’t say, not that it mattered a whole lot. The ancient leather bag was John’s only presence in the dismal motel room.
As Cordelia lay I stared at her vacantly. Heroin kicking in hard, I stared at her. At her pink red flowery dress aged a darker tint from rain, dust, and living. Her skin no longer healthy but pale, pale as my face and John’s. Her golden locks died jet-black. It was on Sunday that she got up off the dark mildewy floor.
“Where’s John?” she asked.
I shrugged and lit a Marlboro, pinpoint eyes protected by my shades of black.
“He left me, he left me!” she cried.
I stared at her, not knowing what to say to her delusions.
I nodded toking at my cigarette.
Cordelia then went through John’s leather bag and found the bowie knife. With daddy’s gift in her hand she turned and looked at me.
“Goodbye.” She said.
I stared unmoving, still taking drags off my cigarette. I watched as she slit her wrists. She bled and bled. I put out my cigarette. Her dying body writhed and landed in Christ’s pose on the ground. I stared at the second coming no more. I stared for hours.
When John returned he freaked but eventually we cleaned up the mess. We ditched the body in the deserts of Nevada.
Wondering, wondering, wondering down the interstate John hummed a Velvet Underground tune.
“Sunday morning, something something.” John hummed.
At that moment I thought of Cordelia.
“Its nothing at all.” John hummed quietly.
And we continued towards Valhalla and all her heavenly glory.
I just took the "If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?" quiz and got: Film Noir! What about you?
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