by Greg Fields
“Who’d notice? The folks in these parts are used to sniffing cow dung all day. We’re not likely to offend these crusty nostrils.”
“Come on, Conor. Be charitable.”
“I’m tired. I don’t feel like being charitable.”
“Where are we going to be tired tomorrow?”
“I don’t know, Mac. What do you think?”
“Well, if we get out of here alive, we could head north and go through Canada.”
“I’m not wild about that. We’d be backtracking, for one thing. Besides, I thought we wanted to stay domestic.”
“Are we off to discover America?”
“Someone has to. What do you think about the South? It’s a different world down there, or so I hear. It might be worth a look.”
“All the way south, like Houston, New Orleans, Alabama? Is that what you mean, or are you thinking Kentucky and Tennessee?”
“If you’re going to do something, you may as well do it all the way, don’t you think? Let’s head for the Deep South.”
“Do you speak Southern?”
“No, but we can pick up a dictionary along the way.”
They had carried their maps into the diner with them. Now, as they ate, they spread out the United States along the edge of the table as they moved their plates toward the wall. Between bites they mapped out a route southwest, through Colorado, across a corner of New Mexico and then downward like a stake through the length of Texas to Houston. From there they would head along the gulf to New Orleans, Mobile and Pensacola. At that point, they agreed, they would take stock once again and determine which direction appealed to them from there.
“Do you want to go interstates the whole way?” asked Finnegan.
“What’s the alternative?”
“To go off the beaten path a bit. State highways. County roads.”
“I’m not sure I want to mingle with the natives.”
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to avoid it.”
They had eaten quickly. It was still relatively early, not yet five o’clock. “You know, we’re going to have to find a motel tonight,” said Finnegan. “Our sleeping bags are still soaked.”
“Tough break. That means we’ll probably have to shower and shave and change clothes.”
“Yeah, goodbye to the rustic look.”
“And none too soon. I feel like the floor of a city bus.”
Finnegan paid the bill and they returned to the car. Again, the regulars watched them as they left. “I felt like we were trespassing, Conor,” McIlweath commented. “Jesus, we were like Jesse Jackson at a meeting of the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“Yeah, but that may have been our fault.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. We just can’t expect the world to welcome us at every turn.”
Ironic, thought McIlweath, that such a statement should come from the lips of Finnegan.
They spent the night in a motel just across the Colorado border. They had driven until the sun set and by the time they checked into their room both were exhausted. Just the sight of the beds made them feel luxuriant. As they walked into the air-conditioned room the cool air hit them fully, almost physically, like a slap in the face. The carpeting, standard motel issue, seemed exceedingly soft. They took turns showering and shaving, then immediately went to bed. Finnegan unpacked an alarm clock and set it for 4:30 AM.
The next day they drove and drove, endlessly, through the great mountains southward. As before, they started fresh, in the cool air of pre-dawn. But the day wore on and it grew hotter. The mountains diminished, grew less majestic, and eventually gave way to the flatlands of New Mexico, then the grassy, infinite plains of Texas. There were no cities once they passed through Denver until they got to Amarillo. They stopped for a mid-afternoon bite there and got lost. It took half an hour to find their way back to the appropriate interstate in the appropriate direction. The horizon hung thick with dark thunderclouds, but the rain remained in the distance. The air hung heavy and humid. It was deadly hot.
All day Finnegan and McIlweath had said very little. Tedium had crept over both of them, and neither felt the energy or the urge to say much. They communicated silently, like spouses after years of marriage. This, too, was a marriage of sorts, a forced unity. As linked as conjoined twins, they spun through this experience, in the same process, in the same transition. And although each tended to define it differently, in the last analysis it was the same, possessing the same elements. They were crossing a bridge. What they would be aware of the rest of their lives was that they were crossing it together, unlikely partners united by the accident of logistics.
Back on course, they passed through Amarillo, then headed across the plains toward Dallas and Fort Worth. It would be well past dark when they arrived. As late afternoon burned into early evening an odd tranquility settled over the two of them. Their bodies reconciled to their constrictions, and their minds, facing no great or immediate challenges, relaxed. They fell into harmony with the motion of the automobile, felt the air cool as the sun went down. The mood fell upon them both equally and simultaneously. During such a time this trip presented to strain at all. To the contrary, the young men intuitively concluded that life’s purest and most natural state was on the road, with responsibilities only to themselves, where roamed the ultimate freedom. Fatigue left them, replaced by the exhilaration of youth, of power, of change, an infusion of divinity. The land stood before them, they moved to it, they embraced it, absorbed what parts of it they liked and let the unabsorbed retreat back into the loamy soil like rainwater.
In such a peculiar mood, the first such mood of their journey, both Finnegan and McIlweath could indeed believe that they were somehow favored above the common vein. Serenity obliterated all obstacles. What lay on the horizon behind the gathering thunderclouds could only be good and comforting and fine.
“So, Conor,” McIlweath spoke as he looked out the window at flatlands washed in the filtered light of a clouded sunset, caught in the moment’s quiet mood, “where does all this lead?”
“What do you mean?”
“All this. Escape, and freedom, and the open road. College. Growing up. Growing out. Where are we heading with all this?”
Finnegan paused, caught in his own evening-spawned reflections. “I’m not sure how to answer that. How deeply do you want to go?”
“Tell me what you want to do in this life. Where are you heading?”
“Ah, Jesus, Mac. How can anyone know at this stage?”
“You’ve got ambitions, Conor. That’s no secret. Start with the specifics, and we’ll see where they lead.”
“Well, to be specific, and more than a little superficial, I’d like a career in the law, I think. I want to be a lawyer.”
“Another lawyer. Just what we need. Okay, say you’re a lawyer. Then what? Do you expect to get married, settle down into a fixed career?”
“Eventually, yeah. But I don’t want to get too comfortable too soon.”
“Comfortable?”
“The middle-class American scenario—a house in the suburbs, station wagon, country club, 2.4 kids all above average, Golden Retriever.”
“I’ve got a hunch we’re starting to go deeper now.”
Finnegan smiled. “Yeah, I guess so. But it’s not easy to put goals into a simple form. ’I want to be a lawyer.’ How is that any different from what thousands of other people are saying to themselves this very moment? It’s not, not in the least. But I really mean so much more than that. I don’t want to lump myself with everyone else.”
“How are you different, then? Other than not wanting to live in the suburbs.”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you, but I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I think by and large the way we live points us down paths that have little meaning. We live for ourselves, we grab for what we can, we screw over anyone who’s in the way and call it happiness. And when you think about it, that’s exactly what’s been drummed into us sin
ce our first conscious moments. The American Dream is all based on material goods, personal gratification and excess, and we’re each conditioned to play our part in keeping the dream alive. Nobody thinks too much about those on the outside of it. But they’re there. We saw them in that diner outside Yellowstone. They’re all around us, and we make them invisible—the poor, the addicts, the kids without fathers, the poor bastards so traumatized by fighting a war that they practically wet themselves when someone claps his hand. No one gives a damn about anyone outside his little circle of success and attainment and comfort.”
He continued, “And I don’t think there’s any way to change that, at least not during our lifetime. We’re too cynical, too complex, too interconnected. Not to mention too brainwashed into thinking that we’ve already built the greatest civilization the world has ever seen. So there’s no incentive to alter it, to make it more inclusive.
“But if a man can’t change the whole of society, I believe he can at least affect his part of it. I think he’s obligated to leave a positive imprint on what’s around him. On who’s around him. If he can’t change the world, he can change his world. Does any of this make sense?”
“I’m with you so far,” said McIlweath.
“So if I get to be a lawyer, I don’t want to practice law solely for my own good. I don’t want to try to turn the world on its ear either. But I think I can be an attorney with enough of a social conscience to try to make things better in some way. I don’t even know the particulars. Maybe inner city work, or maybe government. And I’m convinced that I can go through life with attitudes that will leave that positive imprint. On everybody—family, friends, clients, even total strangers.”
“What kind of attitudes?”
“They’re not easy to define. I suppose a sense of decency, a sense of fairness. Charity, in the most classic meaning. The belief that every one of us has something to offer, has some dignity.”
“That sounds pretty religious, Conor.”
“It’s not. In fact, I see it as the opposite of my rather strange Catholic teachings. I think man comes first. We’ve got to provide for each other. We can’t trust to God. The best we can do is invoke His name in our efforts, but that in itself is incredibly dangerous. And hypocritical.”
“So basically,” said McIlweath, “you want to be a lawyer, but you want to be a nice guy, too.”
Finnegan laughed. “Way to cut through the pretensions. Yeah. A nice guy. To bring about some change where I can. To stand up against this maddening trend toward depersonalization. To be socially aware, and socially alive. All that. Affecting the quality of life for anyone who comes into my environment. Mac, I just don’t think we can live our lives for ourselves alone. That becomes incredibly lonely, I think. It must. If you live like that, what’s left behind you when you’re gone? What legacy? Nothing. You’ve contributed nothing. A family, maybe, but chances are they’ll have the same set of values, or lack of values. It’ll all be self-perpetuating.”
“But do you think it’s easy to live that way?” asked McIlweath.
“I guess I don’t have much faith in modern man. I think society breeds self-interest. It encourages it. Our whole commercial structure is based upon acquisition, more and better, on having more than the other guy. Our power structure is just a collection of special interests, fueled by money. Democracy is dead, if it ever really was alive. Another myth strangled by greed.”
Finnegan rolled on, “Look at most of the advertisements you see these days. How many of them even describe the products they’re trying to sell? They’re selling quick gratification, status without complications, without challenge or effort. Our system places us in competition with one another, and we take it personally if we don’t have what everyone else does, if our neighbor gets more than we do. We tell ourselves we’re failures because our car is too old, or not fast enough, or we drink the wrong cola, or our television is too small, or we wear last year’s fashions. And we accept those values like sheep, blind-eyed and unquestioning. Then, in our frustration, we circle the wagons, Mac, and take shots at whatever rides around us. I don’t want to live like that.”
“Do you think you’ll have a choice?”
“I’ll force a choice. I’m not afraid of being an outsider, if that’s what it means.”
“That sounds odd to me, Conor, coming from you. I mean, you’ve always been in the center of things.”
Finnegan did not respond right away, and when he did his words were calmer, fully measured. “I know. It’s been pretty easy up to now. And I guess I’ve never really stood up for anything. We’re a cruel species, Mac, right from the start. The way people ignored you back home was unfair, and I knew it, but I never did much about it. I could have been a better friend when I thought that you might need one, but I was too wrapped up in myself. So I can imagine it might be a little difficult to picture me stepping out of ’the center of things’, as you put it. I don’t know myself. All this talk sounds impressive, but when it comes right down to it, who knows? I might wind up like everyone else, scrambling for a buck, underpaying my taxes and flirting with my administrative assistant.”
“You never know, Conor. But if you mean what you say, you’re in line for more than your fair share of disappointment.”
“What about you, Mac? What do you see for yourself?”
“Too early to tell,” and with that McIlweath dismissed the subject, at least his side of it. They settled back and drove on in silence.
By the time they reached Dallas they were ready to stop. Even in late summer, with its long days, it was dark well before they reached the northernmost suburbs. With McIlweath behind the wheel Finnegan looked hard at the lights—lights of the tall buildings, lights of the traffic on the arteries, lights of the airplanes above them. They had been so long in the prairie’s flatness that the city seemed an anomaly, a giant bauble to be turned and inspected by its own light. Drowsy until they reached the city, Finnegan perked up as soon as the glow from the lights came into view.
South of Dallas, then, headed for Houston and the Gulf, they once again met the plains. They had not eaten since Amarillo. In the boredom of the dark drive they discovered their hunger. McIlweath pulled off the interstate into Waxahachie and they found an all-night diner. Both were disheveled and tatty, but this time no one noticed. They ate their usual meal of hamburgers, salads and soft drinks. Back on the road.
With food in their bellies they found they could drive no further. Finnegan, back behind the wheel, drove ten miles down the interstate, saw a rest area and pulled in. McIlweath had already fallen asleep in the passenger seat. Finnegan locked the door, rolled on his side facing McIlweath, and, cramped, sore, but contented, joined his friend in slumber. The night passed quickly, and in the morning boredom loomed again.
***
It rained in Pensacola. Actually, it had rained all that day as they drove eastward from New Orleans along the Gulf. It rained in Mobile as they crossed the bay. It rained hard, and the water level seemed high, even though neither Tom nor Conor had any way to judge. It just seemed high, and dangerous.
They had decided to find a motel in Pensacola. The past two days had been dull. New Orleans, which they had expected to be a highlight, a gem tucked into the southern crescent, provided no enchantment. They were both tired, dreadfully tired, and they got lost looking for the French Quarter. Finnegan drove, McIlweath tried to make sense of the city map. Traffic pushed them along too quickly to read the street signs or to plan an appropriate, rescuing turn. They were too stubborn to stop for directions. They drove around New Orleans for two hours and, in the end, lost interest in finding the French Quarter. Frustrated and short of temper, they opted to skip seeing anything at all of the city. Instead they would drive on. “To Pensacola,” McIlweath said, “where we can find a decent place to sleep.”
“Why Pensacola?” asked Finnegan.
“I like the name,” snapped McIlweath, and stared out the bleary window.
They ch
anged places in Alabama, and McIlweath was driving as they entered Pensacola late in the afternoon. This would be the earliest they would stop, but neither could stand any more that day.
As they passed an intersection McIlweath saw a blue and white city patrol car pull out from a side street behind them. Its light flashed a red rhythm.
“He can’t be after us,” said McIlweath aloud.
“Who?” asked Finnegan, straightening himself at once in his seat.
“The cop behind us.” But even as he spoke the patrolman was motioning them to the roadside. McIlweath’s heart leapt into his throat. He had never before been stopped. He had never had to deal with the police in any way. And he had heard stories, perhaps true, of the Deep South and its lawmen.
The policeman pulled his car to the shoulder ahead of theirs. He had no partner.
“He’s huge,” said Finnegan quietly as the policeman approached the car. “He looks like a shaved gorilla.” McIlweath almost quaked with nerves.
“License and registration, please.”
McIlweath handed him his license while Finnegan pulled the registration from the utility compartment. McIlweath’s hands shook visibly. ’Great’, thought Finnegan. ’Let’s give this guy a reason to think we’re guilty of something.’ For his part, he was far more curious than worried.
The officer looked over both documents and noticed the difference in names. “Who’s Mr. Finnegan?” he asked.
“That’s me,” said Conor, leaning over. “This is my car.”
The policeman returned to his car and spent some time on his radio. McIlweath continued to shake in silence.
When the officer came back, he asked, “Where you boys headin’?”
McIlweath responded quickly in a voice that had risen several octaves, “We’re on our way to college, officer. In New Jersey. We’re just passing through.”
Finnegan joined in brashly, “Actually, we’re looking for a motel here. Could you recommend one? We’d like to spend the night in your lovely beachfront city.”
McIlweath shot Finnegan an open-mouthed glance, near panic in his eyes. What the hell was he doing?