Waiting for the Man

by Arjun Basu

  Goin’ Out West

  We entered Illinois and I felt, for the first time, West. Growing up, this is where I figured the West began, when I thought of the West at all. Terms such as Midwest didn’t enter my vocabulary until much later. All Midwest ever said to me was not east. The east stopped a few miles from the coast, somewhere in New Jersey. Everything between where I grew up and the Pacific was something else.

  The flatness of the land was like a plate. And it didn’t stop. Miles and miles of farmland surrounded us and on it, we saw farmers working, driving plows and combines and tractors, we saw the land being irrigated and sprayed and tilled. It was being worked. I needed to see these things to know that outside the Odyssey the world continued, people had jobs, things to do, vegetables to grow. Farming is the first rung on the ladder of a functioning world. I needed these things because ever since the crowd grew around my front steps and the media made me into a news item, my life had become a kind of reality TV, a permanent webcast, a diversion from what the world was. I caught glimpses but I could never be sure that perhaps I was not the center of the world’s attention. Driving past the farms, seeing people live, I understood how easy it was to be fooled by your surroundings, how the presence of a few reporters made it easy to think the world cared about what you did, or that somehow your story, the story that the media claimed to be beaming to everyone, was nothing more than the story of someone living their life, and because it was different, it was news. I understood that the media had to make celebrities feel their fishbowl existences so that they knew they were special and worthy of the millions of dollars they commanded. That kind of money needs validation.

  The farmers were going about feeding the world and no one much cared about them. Except at election time.

  Every once in a while the Man sat in the backseat. This made me euphoric, and then he would disappear again. Sometimes, I would see him sleeping back there, or rummaging through the cooler. But he was there. Even when he wasn’t. He didn’t talk to me, not anymore. He wasn’t inside like he had been on the steps. But he was there. On the roof of the minivan for all I knew.

  Takeshi was mesmerized by the endlessness of the fields, by the amount of food he had already seen and had continued to see. Something about the world was making sense to him, I thought, something very basic. The realities of the economics of the world were careening by his window. He took picture after picture. “You make food, we make cameras,” he said.

  “We make food that feeds the people making movies with your cameras,” I said. “And then you watch the movies and become more and more American.”

  “And you drive our cars,” he said. “Like this one.”

  “And you eat our burgers,” I said. “I know from my job, you guys love American food.” I used to have a job.

  “You watch your movies at home on our TVs,” he said. “You eat sushi. You eat ramen.”

  “Movies by Sony,” I said. “On Sony TVs and DVD players and home theater systems.”

  “It’s all connected,” he said.

  The road was straight for the most part and we passed towns with silly names as we aimed for St. Louis. If my being in Illinois gave me some sense of being west, getting to St. Louis would be the confirmation. I remembered the Gateway Arch from watching the Mets play the Cardinals, the big white arch that looks like the canniest piece of product placement McDonald’s had ever placed, right by the Mississippi, the monument you had to pass, or at least see, to know you were west. The Mets would get smoked in the shadow of the Arch by Ozzie Smith, starting one more impossible double play, or later, by Mark McGwire clubbing another moonshot.

  You see the Arch from a great distance because the land around it is so flat. It appeared on the horizon like a shining white hill until I noticed it was an arch and that I could see right through it. There’s something hallucinatory about it. Takeshi kept saying, “Cool.”

  The cell phone rang, and it startled me. Dan hadn’t called me yet. I answered it. “The media want us to stop in St. Louis,” he said.

  “I have no intention of stopping,” I told him, accelerating the Odyssey.

  “Some of my colleagues want to get off,” he said.

  “Good for them,” I replied. “They have real lives to lead.”

  “If you don’t stop, the bus won’t,” Dan said in a tone that sounded like a threat.

  “I’m not worried, Dan,” I said. “I can only stop when I need to.”

  “Some of the national outlets have people waiting there. Replacements. There’s also some local media that are interested in interviewing you,” he said. “And the mayor’s office called. He’d like to see you, too.”

  “You’re not giving me a good reason to stop,” I said. I had figured the press conference in Terre Haute would have been enough for a little while. I kept forgetting the incredible appetite of the media for news, for content, things to fill the channels we zoom by while sitting on our plush La-Z-Boys in darkened homes. We are insatiable, after all. We eat our Pringles and drink our Cokes and when it’s all gone we want more. The news guys know their careers are a distracted viewer away from the toilet. It’s a tough way to live.

  “I’m a bit surprised,” Dan said. “I was under the impression things would be different.”

  “Because of Terre Haute,” I said.

  “And I thank you for that,” he said.

  “I puked and the whole world knows about it,” I reminded him.

  Dan laughed. “That was unfortunate,” he said. “But you’re OK now, right? That’s the most important thing.” He didn’t sound sincere.

  “We’ll stop when I need gas,” I said. “I’m in a good mood for once. Don’t ruin it.”

  Ahead of me, at a large interchange, I saw signs for Kansas City and I followed them. “Where are you going?” Dan asked.

  “West,” I said, bored. How many times did I have to tell him this?

  Dan was thinking. I could hear him think. Behind him, I could hear the voices of the media. Some sang “Kansas City.” I heard complaints about not stopping in St. Louis. “The Gateway Arch is supposed to be something,” he said. “You can go to the top, you know, in these noisy, archaic pods. I can’t believe they let people in them, but there you have it. I went a few years ago. It’s worth a stop.”

  “We’re not tourists,” I told him.

  “I’m not suggesting you are,” Dan said defensively.

  “You’re thinking of a photo op,” I said. Dan was using my opening in Terre Haute to see how nice I could be. I may have felt better about things, but that didn’t mean I was feeling nice. “I’ll stop when I need gas,” I said, closing the door on him. I surprised myself with my tone, by how quickly I could take my feelings of peace and happiness for granted.

  I hung up. Though I don’t think that’s what you do with a cell phone. The vocabulary can’t keep up with the technology. Did I turn it off? I pushed a button.

  The land around us became wooded and we hit some hills. But the road was razor straight and that damned “Kansas City” song got caught up in my head. I had images of smoky honky-tonks and large cattle lots and the George Brett Pine Tar Incident.

  We had long passed over the Mississippi and were now, officially, West. No one could deny this. The river cut the nation in two and I expected to see the Man on the side of the road with a sign. I expected to find him standing in the middle of the interstate, his hand up commanding the Odyssey to stop. Something dramatic. I tried to picture the meeting and I couldn’t because my expectations were so inflated as to render my imagination mute.

  We entered a service station and it had just occurred to me that the perfect location for a service station was some anonymous nowhere people chose not to settle. I felt silly thinking this, realizing how long it had taken for me to figure this fact out. It was not a salient observation.

  Takeshi was thrilled to see a McDon
ald’s and ran from the Odyssey as soon as I had parked it. I got out and waited for Dan to walk over and try to convince me of something else. The black bus rolled to a stop in that part of the parking lot reserved for large vehicles and Dan exited and ran toward me.

  We’re not done, the Man said. And I looked for him but could not see him.

  “We’re losing at least a quarter of the bus,” Dan said with alarm, his undone shirt flapping by his sides.

  “You got a cigarette?” I asked. I had the urge to smoke constantly and was thinking of going inside the station to buy a pack.

  Dan tossed a pack of Marlboro Lights my way. “We’re losing some very important media,” he said.

  I held out my hand for a lighter and Dan reached into his pocket and gave me one. “Keep it,” he said. “Keep the cigarettes, too.”

  I lit my cigarette and felt instantly, infinitely, better. “It was going to happen,” I said, exhaling. “You knew that. You can’t be that optimistic.”

  Dan began to pace. He radiated an awesome nervous energy. He took another pack of Marlboro Lights out of his breast pocket and tapped out a cigarette. I lit it for him. He stopped pacing. “I’m not trying to be optimistic,” he said and he took another drag of his cigarette, “but what I’m worried about is coming this far and losing everything. There’s a story here and the people leaving now aren’t telling the whole thing.”

  This was, in a different way, the same fear I had, a fear that was tempered by a kind of hope that felt boundless. Dan had nothing to hold back his fear. Everything he had perhaps feared before the journey was about to come true. “I’ll speak to them again,” I said. “I don’t care if they leave but I can’t stand your desperation.” I was angry at Dan for making me feel this way but his eyes were pools of loss, and he hit my sympathy button. He meant to do this, just as he had when he called me outside of St. Louis. Dan was too smart to chance anything. And like me, he was a guy a long way from home with nothing to show for it. “But no questions,” I said.

  We walked to a small patch of grass next to the parking lot and I sat on a picnic bench. Takeshi found us and joined me. He opened a paper bag to produce a Big Mac, a large fries, and a Coke. Behind us, a map of Missouri with a convenient arrow pointed to our exact location made for nice visuals for the TV guys. Dan assembled the media. He told his colleagues not to expect the news conference to become regular but that he had requested I make a statement, now that we were beyond the Mississippi.

  Dan stepped away. I looked into the tired, unscrubbed faces of the media and felt sorry for them. “You guys are a mess,” I said. Nothing. No reaction. They wanted me to provide the sound bite they needed to file their stories. I cleared my throat. Takeshi ground his face into his burger. “We’ve been on the road for a while now,” I started. And I realized that I had no idea how long it had been. Nights and days had lost their meaning for me. I could not recall the time of day we passed St. Louis or Terre Haute or Indianapolis. I had no idea what time of day it was. The clouds obliterated the sun and any hint I might have had. “I appreciate what you have all had to go through to get here. Honestly, I do. We could all use a shower about now.” There were murmurs of agreement from the media. “However, I really believe we’re getting close to our goal. We’ve crossed the Mississippi. That’s the West in anyone’s book. And though the Man was not very specific about where he would reveal himself, he did tell me to go west. And so here we are. And he’s back. The Man’s back and once in a while he tells me to keep going. Honestly. And that’s what I’m doing.” I paused. I wanted to reach into my pockets and pull out a cigarette but I was worried about my mother seeing me smoke on television. I smiled thinking this. “I just want you to know I’m looking. We’re moving forward. I’m not trying to pull anyone’s chain here,” and decided to do exactly that. Something about the look on the reporters’ faces made me want to lay it on thick. “Something profound is happening. Something amazing is going to happen. Something of a transcendent nature. I just don’t know what that something is.”

  There was a sound bite. “Thanks, guys,” I said. I got up quickly and ran toward the Odyssey. The reporters ran after me, throwing questions. I wasn’t in the mood to play catch. I got in and waited for Takeshi. He got in, Big Mac in one hand, Coke in the other, and I turned the ignition. The Man was in the back, smiling. And then he yawned. “You should be taking pictures of this,” I told Takeshi and pulled out. The reporters stood in the middle of the parking lot, stunned.

  I drove to the gas pumps. Dan ran after me. I got out to fill the tank.

  “Oh please,” Dan said under his breath.

  I ignored him. I picked up the nozzle and pushed a button to choose my gas. I put the nozzle into the tank. “If we lose interest, you definitely lose as well,” he said.

  “You lose!” I shouted. I took a breath. The smell of fumes. The beeps of the gas pump as the tank filled up. The energy that would move us.

  I watched the numbers on the pump climb and climb. “We were just friends,” Dan said, confused.

  “We still are,” I said. “I mean that.”

  Dan put his hands in his pockets and waited for me to fill the Odyssey. When I pulled the nozzle out, he checked the tally on the pump and went to pay the bill. I waited for him. “I was just hoping you’d show some consideration,” he said upon returning.

  “That’s an interesting word,” I said.

  “These are my colleagues,” he said. “I feel a sense of responsibility toward them. I made them a promise. The same thing you promised me, by the way.” Dan was breathing so heavily I thought he would explode.

  “I’m doing my best,” I said. “Sometimes I don’t know if I’m lying or not when the camera’s on me. I don’t like the idea that I might be performing. I resent that I’ve lost my compass for sincerity.”

  “That’s rich coming from a man who used to write ads,” he said. He looked toward the reporters who were still huddled together in a group looking like lost dogs. He sighed. “They’re just tired.”

  “We’re all tired,” I said.

  “Kansas City?”

  I nodded. “Unless I’m told otherwise.”

  “Unless you’re told otherwise,” Dan repeated.

  He turned and walked slowly to his bus. The reporters and cameramen and technicians awaited his news with an awful kind of desperation. I watched Dan as he spoke to these people and their disappointment in what he had to say was obvious, even from a distance. Shoulders drooped. Shouting. There was a lot of shouting. Dan looked my way for help but I had none to offer. What help could I have possibly given Dan and his band of tired journalists? They chose to follow us, or they were told to. Someone had made the decision to get on the bus. Paymasters. Editors. Producers. Executives. To accompany me on my search. I could look at Dan standing with his lost tribe and not feel a bit of guilt. They had brought themselves here.

  Dan went into the bus. Angie came out. He had woken her up. She walked toward me, her hair tied in a ponytail. She wore a T-shirt and khakis. She looked undeniably suburban. “Hi,” I said.

  “Mutiny on the bus,” she said.

  I had nothing to say about it. “Did he send you to, what?” I said.

  “I’m an emissary,” she said.

  “Tell him we’re still friends,” I said.

  “He wants something in Kansas City,” she said.

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” I said.

  “You look like shit,” she said, smiling.

  “And you have this den-mother thing happening,” I said.

  “Stop flirting,” she said and returned to the bus.

  I got back in the Odyssey and pulled away. Takeshi was asleep, still clutching his Coke. The inside smelled like a Big Mac. It wasn’t a bad smell. But it was a smell that seemed manufactured to warn you it wasn’t healthy. There’s something in the smell of fast food that r
epels. It’s in the chemical makeup. The repellant notes just aren’t as powerful as the parts that entice us. Where do you want to go? the Man asked and there he was in the backseat, studying a map. Where do you want me to go? I asked him. I’m following you. I’m doing what you’re asking me to do, I said. And the Man turned the map upside down. I mean, where do you want to go? he said. Tell me, I replied. I had a hard time driving. And then he was gone. And I felt suddenly alone. And less hopeful. I felt as if I were failing a test, even though I was in the middle of the country, doing what I had been asked.

  Missouri rolled past our window. Takeshi woke up, took in the surroundings, and then reached back for something in his backpack. He pulled out a map. “My God,” I said, alarmed, puzzled by the symmetry of this. I felt, deeply, that the insinuation of direction, of knowing, would torpedo the whole thing. A map would deny the meeting with the Man of its magic. “No maps,” I said. “Put it away. Bury it in your backpack.” To his credit, Takeshi didn’t understand my concern. Had he understood, I think, I would have let him off right there.

  “It’s just a map,” he said, zipping up the backpack. “You have maps in your phone, too.”

  “Don’t get me started,” I said. I wanted to smoke again. I rolled my window down and lit a Marlboro. Takeshi did the same.

  “Who is the Man?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “If I knew . . .” And I stopped. There was no way I could answer the question. It was an impossibility. There was nothing in my past that would have prepared me for any of this. I had listened to the Man because it was outside the realm of my normal life. It wasn’t a voice I could ignore. “I really don’t know,” I said.

  “You’ll find out,” he said. He took a picture of the passing scenery.

  In the distance, I could see the faint outline of the skyscrapers of Kansas City. The trees and farms had given way to plains. We were in a different geography now. The tall grass and wheat bent in the wind off the highway. The land was gold and yellow and green. Behind me, I noticed for the first time the absence of the black bus. The highway behind was a straight line and I felt I could see all the way to St. Louis but I could not see the bus. And I thought this would please me. But I was worried.