Side Roads and Dandelions

by W.H. Harrod

  ~~ Chapter Twenty-One

  Not by a long shot did Allison forget about her companions’ childish behavior in Needles, but she realized they did need to change their focus in preparation for the upcoming stop in Rosamond, California. This stop constituted a critical confrontation for Bobby, and they needed to do everything they could to help him get ready. Barstow had been their exit point from the interstate highway system, and for the next two hours, they traveled a two lane state highway until they arrived at the city where Bobby’s fate awaited him.

  “Hey, Bobby,” said Allison, “I forgot to tell you in all the excitement that I did locate the address for a Mr. Rodrigo Mendoza in Rosamond. I checked a city map back at the Barstow pit stop and found the location. It looks to be close to the downtown area. By my best guess, we will be there by about 5 a.m., or in another two hours. Is there anything we can go over with you to get you prepared for the meeting? Anything at all?”

  Allison had taken over the driving chore from Sam at the most recent stop. She awaited Bobby’s response, but nothing happened.

  “Bobby, did you hear what I -”

  Bobby cut her off abruptly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Allison got the message. She decided to let Bobby make the first move when she drove the bus up to the front of the house. Until then, she would not mention the subject again.

  “Is today Tuesday or Wednesday?” asked Sam.

  “It’s officially Wednesday, March 19, 2003. We have less than twenty-one hours until the deadline, the way I figure it,” responded Allison.

  “Actually,” responded Sam, “we probably have less than that if you go by what the President said during his nationally televised speech Monday night. I read in a paper, back at Winslow, that he gave Saddam forty-eight hours to get out of the country, or else. That would make the deadline at 8 p.m. tonight east coast time, not midnight, by my rough calculations.”

  “What? Why didn’t you say something earlier? How much time does that leave us? Let’s see, it’s after 3 a.m. here which makes it after 6 a.m. on the east coast, so that would give us about fourteen hours to get to San Francisco if we want to be there before the war starts. Damn! We need to hurry.”

  “Actually, we’re doing okay. It’s only about three hundred fifty miles from Rosamond to San Francisco. I picked up one more tidbit which will probably make your day even more enjoyable relating to the information the White House put out Tuesday, which further clarifies the President’s threat to invade Iraq. They are now saying our troops are going into the country one way or another to make sure we take control of those weapons of mass destruction that no one, except the administration, is sure even exist. With that in mind, I don’t know that we have to be in that big of a hurry any more. The war is inevitable, regardless.” As Sam finished speaking, he acted as if he halfway expected to see Allison start slinging invectives in the directions of the heavens, but amazingly, nothing happened.

  “No, we need to be there if we can,” responded Allison in a surprisingly reserved manner. “It’s important to have people standing in the streets protesting this invasion. We need to be a part of this process – the government needs to bring the citizens in on the decision making. Even if Sam is right about most of the people being unwilling to live with the consequences of losing access to the oil, we need to be held responsible for our behavior as a country. If the people support the war, they need to demand the right to say when. I don’t believe we can hide behind a bunch of unapologetic corporate shills and claim we never knew what was going on. If it’s to be our destiny to plunder the earth to ensure that our country can support a lifestyle that is way beyond the ability of the rest of the world to subsidize, then let’s at least stand up as a country and admit it.”

  Sam and Ernest looked to one another following Allison’s assessment of the matter and nodded. Perhaps Allison wasn’t the only one who wanted the leaders of the country to deal with its citizens in a more forthright manner. If they were going to be imperialists then let them own up to it and be done with it. While we’re at it, we might also determine that it serves no purpose to pretend that we are the world’s standard bearer for enlightened Christian behavior. The message loses something when the messengers, or their emissaries, are busy slinging five hundred pound bombs into civilian population centers.

  “Allison, I have an idea about how we can get to our destination on time if you want to hear it,” said Sam.

  “I’m listening, go ahead,” answered Allison.

  “We would have to divert away from the route that we traveled south on in ‘69, and instead, go on over and pick up Interstate 5 which will take us north quicker. Knowing how you feel about retracing those metaphorically pregnant strips of asphalt we now refer to nostalgically as side roads, I’m almost afraid to suggest it.”

  “How much time can we save?” asked Allison.

  “Oh, maybe an hour or two.”

  “We should do it then,” she said without hesitation. “We’ll go the old route the next time.”

  “What time is it now?” asked Bobby, jumping in.

  “It’s almost 4 a.m.,” answered Allison.

  “You think we might be able to stop and get some coffee and maybe a bite to eat before we go to see the Mendozas?” asked Bobby. “I don’t think I want to be waking those people up before daylight, plus I usually do better if I have something solid in my stomach. That is, of course, unless I have something liquid in my stomach instead, but seeing how that’s kind of what this is about, me not finding it necessary to put liquid confidence in my stomach, food will most likely be the better choice. Don’t you think?”

  “Food usually works best for me on these occasions,” said Ernest in seriousness.

  “Absolutely, the food,” joined in Sam in all seriousness.

  “I’m for the food, too,” added Allison. “We could all probably use some sustenance about now. Just hold tight and I’ll find a place.”

  Allison pulled into yet another 24/7 truck stop parking lot on the outskirts of the community where PFC Rodrigo Mendoza said farewell forever to his family and friends in 1968. As she brought the vehicle to a stop she suddenly realized that up until now it had all been rehearsal, but soon, real life altering events loomed before them. From here on, no more trial runs. It counted, and it affected people’s lives, some for the better and some, possibly, for the worse.

  During their walk to the restaurant Bobby looked to Allison as if he were being led to the electric chair to pay for his past indiscretions with his life. She had a crazy notion that Bobby wanted someone to offer him some assurance. The task before him this morning appeared to be every bit as disconcerting to him as the Vietnam firefights he participated in. It occurred to Allison right then that more caffeine for Bobby would not help matters. She wondered if maybe Ernest had a mild sedative she could slip to Bobby via a glass of milk or in something similarly innocuous.

  Once inside, they opted to sit at a table instead of a booth for a change, anything to break up the monotony of eating the same kind of food, in the same kind of restaurants. As she sat down, Allison lost track of where they were. Were they in Oklahoma? New Mexico? No they were in California at another greasy truck stop restaurant where she always ended up being grateful for the order of dry toast and some type of fruit that had not been soaked in grease prior to being offered for consumption. Her companions, of course, thought they were at the Ritz. Men craved greasy food more than sports or sex, Allison decided, after watching her companions consistently wipe up any residue or oily liquids remaining on their plates with anything that appeared marginally edible, while moaning with delight.

  Allison decided Ernest was the absolute worst. He consumed so much grease that she came to the conclusion he must have a plug somewhere to let that coagulated goo out of his system occasionally -his blood didn’t flow through his veins, it slid. No wonder he moved around so easily as a large person; he floated on grease.

  Allison did get Ernest
aside long enough to ask if he had any ideas on how to calm Bobby down before they went to visit the Mendozas. He said he had something helpful in his bag in the form of an herbal tea. He agreed that Bobby did not need the caffeine.

  By this time, the members of the group cared less what local patrons or truck drivers thought of four middle-aged individuals arriving in a multicolored vehicle straight out of the ‘60s. Whatever sense of social proprieties they brought with them earlier lay vanquished on the side of the road in the name of field expediency. At this level of existence things begin to sort themselves out into basically two categories: mission essential and who gives a crap. Presently, more and more items found their way into the latter category.

  The first item ordered from the typical, way too friendly for this early in the morning waitress was hot water for the tea Ernest retrieved from his bag for Bobby. Bobby agreed to drink the tea, joining Allison in a light breakfast prior to making his visit to the Mendozas’ home. Ernest and Sam carried on in the best tradition of their knuckle dragging ancestors and ordered huge platters of the greasiest items on the menu.

  Allison watched as Bobby calmed down by degrees. The chamomile tea Ernest provided did the job, and then too, maybe Bobby had come to terms with his mission on his own accord. Everyone enjoyed their respective meals and looked to be in no rush to leave the temporary safety of the roadhouse table piled high with dirty dishes and cups.

  Looking through the plate glass front window, Allison observed the sun coming up over a ridgeline to the east announcing the arrival of another sunny day. Although Bobby would be the first in the group to come up to bat, she realized that the reasons they traveled all this distance in such a hurry awaited each of them in the coming hours. No one acted as if they were in a hurry to leave the safety and the comfort of their present surroundings. What harm resulted in lingering awhile longer in the company of good friends?