by W.H. Harrod
~~ Chapter Seventeen
“I expect I should turn the driving responsibility over to one of you guys fairly soon,” said Sam, breaking the long silence. “The sign says Winslow is up ahead, and we need to make a pit stop anyway. Any volunteers?”
“I’m ready,” said Ernest. “I’ve been napping on and off for the last few hours, and I feel rested.”
“I’m feeling better,” added Bobby. “I should be ready to help out pretty soon.”
Allison didn’t respond, but continued her self-imposed silence following Sam’s revelations regarding the real reasons the country was headed for war. At first she was incredulous, but as the information was assimilated, she began to see that his reasoning was not that farfetched. Then should we even be doing this? Did she fit into the category of protestors who Sam vowed would turn around and go back home if they knew what they would have to give up if the country dropped out of the fight for fuel? Another question also came to mind. Is it all or nothing? Can’t there be an in between position? Why can’t everyone share? She needed to ask more questions before she could form an opinion or even ask herself the hard questions. Why didn’t he mention this on the phone the other night? she suddenly thought.
“I have a suggestion,” said Allison. “Let’s get a couple rooms at one of the cleaner looking motels that are sure to be in abundance at the next major exit and take a few hours to rest and clean up? I, for one, feel pretty raunchy.”
The guys looked surprised but also relieved at the opportunity to take a break from the traveling. They seconded the idea without delay. Sam said to leave it to him and began to watch for road signs announcing facilities located at the individual exits.
They pulled into one of the better know chain motel-restaurant complexes located near a Winslow exit. Sam exited the vehicle and said he would take care of getting the rooms and for everyone to sit tight for the moment. No one acted surprised at his offer or attempted to persuade him to do otherwise. Sam was a doer, so why not let him do that which made him happy?
Sam secured the rooms while the other members of the party sat quietly with not a single one of them daring to end the drought relative to discussing their trip or the reasons for them coming along in the first place. Sam’s comments had placed a pall over everything. They needed to have a serious discussion regarding, ‘what the hell they were doing here,’ as Sam put it so eloquently, but not until they had showered and rested.
It’s amazing what a hot bath followed by a short but peaceful sleep on a real bed can do to help a person’s disposition, thought Allison as she exited her thoroughly messed up room to join the others at the restaurant adjacent to the motel. They had all agreed on a 5 p.m. meeting time. This allowed for a half hour in the individual hot tubs in each suite secured and paid for by Sam and a two and a half hour nap. The only casualty was her ‘60s dress that needed a washer and dryer before becoming wearable again. Foremost in her mind was the need to resolve the dilemma posed by Sam’s unflattering assertion that most of the protestors coming to San Francisco would turn around and go home if they knew the real consequences of the demands they were placing on their political leaders.
Entering the restaurant she felt disappointment at seeing she was the last to arrive. She left the room early in hopes of further diminishing the stereotypical image of persistently tardy females. Hell with’em, she decided. Who wants to be so chronographically retentive anyway?
An outsider may well have concluded that these old friends hadn’t seen each other in years based on the loudness of their greetings. They looked refreshed and up to some serious socializing. Without having to say it, Allison knew that this meeting could determine which way the bus turned when they headed back to the interstate. Would they continue west or would they abort and turn back towards home?
Sam made the suggestion that they enjoy their meal prior to entering into any discussions about their journey. The group agreed with his idea.
If judged only by the light conversation and laughter during the meal, it would be hard to argue that weighty decisions awaited the group as soon as the last bite of delicious bread pudding was downed. But finally the time came, and Allison as unofficial group leader introduced the subject as diplomatically as she could.
“Gentlemen, I think it’s time we talked about some things relating to our adventure which seems upon review to have gotten started a bit prematurely, at my urging, and prior to my having performed sufficient due diligence. With Sam’s comments in mind, I propose we search our consciences and ask ourselves where we really are in relation to making the personal sacrifices that may very well be required if Sam’s insightful analysis of the situation is anywhere close to being correct.”
“We could go around the table and start with Bobby, but knowing what he has already told us about his being out of touch for the most part the last few years, I think we can agree to spare him this bout of soul searching. So why don’t we move on to -”
“Hold it a second, Allison,” said Bobby before she could finish her sentence. “I’m thinking I have something I need to say after all. A couple of things you’ve said on the way here got me to thinking. If you guys don’t mind, I would like to put my two cents in, for what it’s worth.”
All of his friends at the table looked surprised at Bobby’s unexpected participation, but they welcomed anything he wanted to say.
“I think we know what’s going to happen to me sooner or later once I get back to Oklahoma. I really don’t want to live feeling that way any longer. I’ve told you what would make me want to stay alive; it’s getting my family back from Dallas. They are not coming back from Dallas if things stay as they are. I’ve been told that already. If I want my wife to come home I have to go out and find the guy who went away to war and bring him home again. Not the emotional cripple who finally made it home in ‘69. Allison, you asked me earlier if you could help me to find some reason to want to live. I’ve been thinking a lot about that offer, and there might be one thing that would help, if I could get up the nerve to do it. California’s where I would have to go. That’s the reason I stayed out there so long trying to build up my nerve, but I never could, so I came on home with you guys and tried to forget. But it looks like I never did.”
“What is it you need to do?” asked Allison.
“I’ll wait to see what’s going to happen first,” said Bobby. “If we decide not to go on, there’s no need to talk about it, is there?”
They could tell by Bobby’s attitude that he was done talking for the moment. Allison reluctantly looked over to the person sitting to Bobby’s left, Sam.
“Okay troublemaker, you’re up,” she said playfully.
Sam stared at Bobby as if he meant to demand he finish the rest of his story before they moved on to him. “Well, my friends,” said Sam, “all that I can tell you, for sure, is that I am struggling big time. I have not uttered similar words to a living person in the last thirty years. However, if I can’t admit to you people that I am a tremendously conflicted person, who can I tell it to? I don’t know what to do. I’m here because I’m desperate for answers or some meaning. I feel that my entire life has become a meaningless journey to accumulate money and prestige, and if it keeps up this way, I will probably go down to Bobby’s to find his gun and, likewise, put myself out of my misery. Knowing what I know, protesting in the streets of San Francisco appears to be a meaningless and counterproductive activity. Yet, Allison’s crazy idea hit me like a breath of fresh air. I’m looking for something, too, and though I’m not sure it’s in the streets of San Francisco, I know it’s not back in Chicago. I’m with Bobby.”
Sam turned his head to the left towards Ernest. Allison understood his signal and turned to face Ernest, also.
No one said anything, but Ernest knew he now held center court. “I’ll try to make this as short as possible. Do you folks recall why I went to California originally in ‘68?” he asked.
Allison did. “You went there to kill white peopl
e,” she answered.
“Do you recall what I was attempting to do when the professor stalked me in the alley that night in Berkeley?” he asked next.
Again Allison answered. “You were planning to kill a white man,” she responded one more time.
“That’s correct,” Ernest answered. “So it should come as no surprise to you that I have been summoned back to the bay area again for the specific purpose of killing a white man.”
All three of the listeners’ jaws dropped as he finished his short explanation for going back to California. This man is one big time unsuccessful white man killing machine, thought Allison.
Ernest kept the floor whether he wanted it or not. The confused expressions on the faces of the other three people at the table gave an indication of their total lack of understanding. He had a lot more explaining to do.
“I hoped I wouldn’t have to tell you about it, but it seems things have changed from when we first started. You were right about me, Sam. I haven’t kept up with the world news in the last several years. I came to the conclusion long ago this area was pretty much a waste of time for the average folks. I decided to concentrate my energy on taking care of what I could where I lived, and I believed that eventually if everybody else would try to do the same, the world and national problems would take care of themselves.”
“To tell you the truth, I have never wanted to go back. I didn’t leave anything back there. I met more mean and crazy people, present company excepted, of course, during that short period of my life than I have met in the last thirty-four years. When Allison called and told me she was coming I had a good idea what she wanted to do, and I wasn’t surprised when she confirmed my suspicions when she arrived. During the week prior to her call, I received two phone calls from a colleague of Professor Putzkammer. He said the professor is in the advanced stages of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. According to the caller, the professor has nothing left but his mind, and he’s ready to end his life, only California has no Right to Die law. It’s illegal to help someone die either by euthanasia or assisted suicide. He managed to send word that he wanted me to come out and help him end his pain. I said no the first time, but then they contacted me again and pleaded for me to at least come out and see him before I said no. Right after that Allison called, and I took it as a sign I was supposed to go and see the professor and refuse his request face to face. He did, after all, save my life many years ago. I have to keep going, even if I end up hitching rides.”
“How old is the professor?” asked Allison. “I don’t think I ever knew.”
“He’s seventy-two,” said Ernest. “The guy who called said he was seventy-two.”
This shocking news silenced the group as each individual filled their minds with recollections of the strange professor with the long ponytail who risked his own safety to help them so many years ago.
Now it was Allison’s turn.
“So,” said Allison, “it would seem that I’m the only real protestor on the bus. Is that what I’m hearing?”
No one responded to her statement, but no one looked away either. Allison knew how the game was played -- whoever spoke first lost the high ground in the following discussion, argument, debate, or whatever you wanted to call it. This time her opponents were veterans. They had been to the wars and came back to tell their stories. Their collective stares penetrated right through the hardened exterior shell she had wrapped her mortally wounded spirit in following her return home in ‘69. Bobby was there; he knew what she was hiding from. Although the other two suspected the worst, they never spoke of it. These guys knew bullshit when they heard it. She had to tell the truth.
“I do care deeply about the dangers that confront our young people,” she started out. “I care about their future and happiness, and I will go to the streets in San Francisco if I resolve it will serve their best interest. I will do that gladly at the risk of my personal safety. I do want something else, though. Like you, I have an alternative purpose that is vital to my mental well being. I want to look into the eyes of that son-of-a-bitch that raped and beat me that night in that ditch in Berkeley before Bobby knocked him off me and saved my life. I know who he is and where he is. Overtime I cleared away enough of the horror and the hurt to visualize his face and remember where I had seen him before that night. I want to look him in the eye and tell him how he hurt me to my soul. I want him to pay for what he did.”
Everyone had had their say and each had voiced their determination to continue the journey. Allison was barely able to contain her relief as she collected herself and added a postscript, “Though our side roads may now be wide roads, the Dandelions are still heading west.”