10/2/97
It was timely to pick this book up then. Sitting in a truck with Alex after turning the last page of my life's last chapter. Driving cross-country to Cali. It was time to start a new chapter. So far so good. Windows open. Shoeless. Redman tobacco. Billy Joel. Alex's foot flush with the floorboard.
Set off days ago- after Dad's big-tie dinner and Mom's kick-ass kick-off party. Alex and I decided as we returned the keg the next morning that we didn't yet realize how much fun we'd had the night before on account of the busyness from serving 400 pounds of food to 60 people. Stopped by Cincinnati to sup with Alex's 'rents. Then we drove for only a few hours till we had our first adventure. Seems the truck's flipping gismo that lets air into the gas tank wasn't working properly. As a result, gas only trickled through the pump at a steady one-cent per second. So like a confused puppy, I decided to stick a finger in to map out the problem. The problem seemed minor enough until only a few seconds later it became apparent I wasn't getting the finger back any time soon. Aside from some incidental pain, partial numbness, and the occasional nightmare involving missing fingers, the only major suffering incurred during the next 1/2 hour was the embarrassment of getting the entire gas station's work shift to assist us with soaping up the finger, unscrewing the fuselage panel, and prying it out while simultaneously locating the number of the local paramedics. Pretty happy to be out of that one, so I won't dwell here to record for posterity all of the probable realities that coursed through our minds.
We then pulled around to a mostly vacant lot to fix the fuselage flipping gismo. I was sticking this screwdriver up and around the section and POP it sprung off, fell in, and drowned a soapy/gas death. "Fuck it," we said and hopped back in the cab. That's when we realized the truck's engine wouldn't turn over.
So I once used this trick on a 1977 Toyota Corolla with 200,000 miles, where I'd roll the vehicle a few yards, jump in, and crank the ignition... Since we were sitting on a hill, the truck would only roll backwards. Fine- except by the time we realized the trick wouldn't work, stepped on the brakes, and skidded to a halt, we were jutting halfway into the only other occupied space in otherwise mostly-vacant lot. The way we figured it, the owner of the big, black van must have heard about our spastic ways and had the good sense to take off before we could do damage to any of his ride. Wise decision.
So, after walking the hot-sun-mile or so to the nearest open mechanic's shop and recounting the details to incredulous Midwestern faces, it was explained that the problem couldn't have been caused by either the gas tank missing piece or by the soapy infusion (released the finger) and so we walked back to discover a dead battery which resulted from leaving the headlights on during the ordeal.
By then it was certain that one of God's own angels were watching over us because I still had confidence that we'd get out of this. All of a sudden some Alfonso or Alonzo, a complete caricature of an Indiana farmer, narrowly missed escaping our guilt-inspired plea for a jump and VROOM she stahhted right up! Just one more deep breath and a quick look around to secure the situation. We hopped back in and... That's when I decided it might be a good time to put the gas cap back on...
It's been a few hours since Alex took over the driving before I could do anymore damage and I guess one could say we're getting it wired. Just one other thing I should perhaps note here: before we took off from New York City a bus ran over the loading ramp of our truck and bent it so badly we had to fix up some Swiss Family Robinson contraption to hold it in place. Oh yeah, and right before that, some big-assed-trucker-dick-head pulled up and, in all his patience, drove through the artificial alley of buses, double parked cars, and rental trucks to smash into our driver's side mirror. Anyway-- now we had her rolling and nothing was gonna stop our gone-old truck from hitting San Diego in time for the best winter's surf to hit the coast since ever. Long live El Nino! We had no job. No house. Little money. But we had each other. OK. I had the better end of that deal, but still-- We were goin' to Cali! CALI BABY!
10/3/97
Driving on. It was day 3 by now and we had reached Oklahoma, close to the halfway point. By nightfall we'd be able to clear Texas, so we could take her nice and slow-like through New Mexico to dig the dessert, the lightning, and whatever else New Mexico-white-sand-zone had to bless. If past filling stations were filled with excitement we've made up for them during the last four stops, taking 40 minutes to fill the barely functional tank. At least time was on our side.
The night before we had slept with cows in a beautiful grass and tree lined pasture. Cows were right up against our truck! Alex and I lit up Evan and Brad's party favors and we proceeded to scare ourselves to pieces by looking at our shadows. Every time I heard "Moo," I tried to make out shapes for distance measurement, but was without contact-lens-less. Also we were jutting out a quarter of the way into the single lane farm road, so I didn't sleep so well. But this afforded me the opportunity to wake at first morning's light to an awesome sunrise. Meditating in golden clouds and green washed cow yard and fresh air-breathing with Alex-morning-silhouette up against the sky line- she was all T-shirt-changing and I was all morning hard-ons. Drove to roadside Cholesterol House with tobacco smoke and plastic gift shop chasers. I half expected Mel to pop out of the scene running away from shrieking kiss-my-grits ladies.
Back on the road with fresh chaw and county music. When in Rome, or should I say Paris... Texas that is. 12-dollar tolls and 40 minute gas fillers. What else could a guy want? "We've got a portable tree house and yoooouuuu don't!" I kept waiting for the novelty to wear off and boredom to set in. But we had waited for this for so long and thought it would suck much worse and basically it RULED! Shitty music. Bad smells. No boss. No destination. More security than ever.
10/5/97
Isn't life grand. Only a few short days ago, I was driving along sort of feeling guilty for not taking advantage of the life and the adventure that waits for those who seek. Just driving along, thinking of Tim and the cross-country adventures he recounts. Feeling pretty small after reading Big Sur. Go: Live for the day. OK, but I seem to have my finger stuck in the gas tank. Can you tell life to hold on a sec?
The night before last presented us with an opportunity to "make our own road." We pulled off and found this great spot somewhere in New Texlahomaville. Wasn't a car or house as far as the eye could see. Alex and I fell asleep right there under Big Time sky and all. So paranoid were we and exhausted too from Mary Jane's antics the evening before, that we just crashed ourselves into sleep-oblivion. At about 3:00am we were startled awake by some awfully hungry-sounding coyotes. We totally screwed up the drill where Alex gets the hammer while I slip on my eyeglasses and remove the screwdriver holding back the door from closing. Instead I panicked Alex from REM into standing straight up and somehow put my glasses on backwards and neither of us remembered the hammer. Thankfully and by no efficient prodding of our own, the wildebeests went off in some other direction. It took us about an hour or so to calm down enough to get back to sleep. My thoughts kept shooting back and forth between "OK, I've had enough adventure. Can the adventures please stop now," to that time in Costa Rica when I was attacked by bats, thinking, "Whatever... how bad could rabid coyotes really be?" So we got back to sleep and about two hours later it all happened again. Only this time it was no drill. But by now we'd had practice and we were ready. This time we executed the team protection ritual without a flaw and in four flat seconds we were armed and dangerous. It was at this point that I got up the courage to peek out and will-never-not-once forget my first words of that early morning, "Alex... whatever it is... it's TINY." We still didn't know what it was but proceeded with a cautious balance of pretzels and hammer. And then we saw what our inspiration and gut-feeling-living had opened up for us. It was a 3-month-old puppy. At that time I had absolutely no plans of touching the thing let alone ADOPTING it, but Alex later said she knew I would as soon as I fed it. Of course we had to give him a name - "Sam-I-am," after the character in the children's book.
Sleep had become a non-issue by this point so we gathered up our gear and packed it in. Puppy and all. We went and took our first-ever truck stop shower, which was only made possible by the overwhelming puppy- distraction since we would have otherwise been too chicken to go in with a clear head. But it seemed that truckers and the service industry that supports them comprise America's most genuine and generous population and we ended up catching a really good shower after all.
Later we tried backing into a spot outside the restaurant with the trailer attached to the truck and almost took out a 100-year-old 200-foot-high signpost landmark. Of course we sneaked in as though we couldn't believe those idiots in the Ryder rental truck kept making so much racket out there.
Puppy adoption. Truck-stop-shower. Tower-crash. And we haven't even sat down to breakfast yet. Later in the morning, we made the trip to Wal-Mart to pick up doggie stuff. In Middle America, people say things like, "made the trip to Wal-Mart" to mean an everyday occurrence the same way in urban areas, people say things like, "only two stops on the subway." But I swear, for Alex and me, this trip to the Styrofoam-capital of the heartland will surely stand out as a high-point when we look back to consider which part of our trip afforded us the best view of local color. Wal-Mart isn't a store. It's a Saturday afternoon activity. Having just driven through and totally dug all the big vast-vastness of America-space and natural-nature green and brown, we were blown away by all the man-made stimuli at Wal-Mart. At least we can now say and mean, "we know what all the hubbub's about." Now that we obtained all the doggie surplus we set out to find a watering hole to shampoo off his fleas. It became such a challenge to find a place to do this that Alex finally joked we should take him to a carwash. 45 minutes and 15 attempts later we finally negotiated with the proprietor of, yes, a carwash to let us spend six bucks on some water. Our good puppy stuck with us through that nightmare and didn't run away. I guess it could now be said that he'd be ours and we'd be his for life.
So we hopped back in the cab and got on with moving on, and made this sharp turn somewhere or other. Alex and I drove on for hours and then pulled over to rest. We went to get some gear out of the awesome shelves that Tim had rigged up between the cab and the cargo hold and as we turned around we were utterly shocked to find a three-foot-in-diameter plate glass, tabletop barring our way to the shelves. The profound unlikelihood of this occurrence could only be hinted at by way of words here - if the reader could imagine two drivers turning around and finding a water buffalo sitting right behind them. Honestly, the odds of the water buffalo to this three-foot plate of glass freeing itself from its wedged in spot, jumping over a big black couch, flinging through the limited space between household objects and rolling to a safe spot intact (and unnoticed, no less) through a 1/4 inch slot whose path lay perpendicular to its original position were about 3-to-1 water buffalo. So we took a break and hop back in and spend about twenty guilty minutes morning the mishap of the bird whose path aligned itself with ours and then finally cracked a joke to crack the guilt-tension. We saw this sign that read, "Navaho, New Mexico." "Navaho, New Mexico" sounds just like this song we sing that goes, "Have to go to Mexico (...for mushrooms)." So... in between petting happy puppy, punching for punch buggies, counting license-plate-states, and other Ryder-truck-trucks with similar car-tows (all four wheels of the auto off ground), we were now able to happily add "Navaho New Mexico for mushrooms!!!"
Then we passed through the state whose official flower should be a used car, and pulled into the National Park that Alex had been talking about for days. White Sands. Boy, was she ever right. Sam-I-am and I have Alex to thank for one of life's 10 greatest sunsets turning bluish-pink and soft-like-butter as we peed and jumped down giant-cool-dunes and ran back up and jumped back down. Puppy-head rolled over on his back for the first time giving Alex and me the last vestiges of unconditional trust. We didn't let him down and pet him so hard we almost wore out the stomach fur.
Peanut-butter, jelly, and Puppy Chow for all! Then to the Holiday Inn parking lot where coyote-free sleep, bathroom facilities, and Styrofoam-coffee was ours for the taking. We think puppy-face made his first stinky-tuna but as of yet this remains unconfirmed. I guess he doesn't want us meddling with his shit. So much for unconditional trust, but this we could live with. The next morning we had the best breakfast ever at another truck stop. Chicken-fried-steak, flash-flood-coffee, and all the fixings. Thanks, Flo. We're in the cab now just crossing the Arizona border. By nightfall we'll be pretty close to our new home. Hope it's got a backyard!
Seth Chalnick
Moonlight Beach
