Truck Stop Jesus

by Storm, Buck

  “You don’t look eighty,” Paradise said.

  Lan winked and puffed again. “I love you very much. My mother was a dust-bowl-days farm wife. I never knew my dad. Mom’s story was he got himself killed in a farm accident when I was a baby. I later came to find out he’d lit out for California before I was even born. Killed in a knife fight over a poker game in Salinas. By a woman, no less. My mom, she married again. The way I see it now, with a few miles behind me, she plain old made bad choices as far as men were concerned. My stepdad, he was a real piece of work. He could knock you in the head from the next room. I worked every summer. Saved my dimes and nickels, and when I turned fifteen, I bought myself a pile-of-rust Indian motorcycle. Took a month to get the thing running, but once it did, I headed west and never looked back. Wound up in Los Angeles in ’52. Washed dishes, waited tables. Worked the docks down in Long Beach for a while and from there I wound up getting a job on a tramp steamer making runs to the South Pacific. That’s where I learned to love the sea.”

  “Nineteen fifties in Los Angeles. That must have been quite a time,” Doc said.

  “Oh, it was. Good time to be young and alive. One day, I bumped into an ex-shipmate of mine in a bar in Torrance. He’d gotten a job on a movie set as an extra. In a western—those were the thing at that time. Asked if I was looking for work. I wasn’t particularly. In fact, I was planning on shipping out again in a few days, but the thing sounded interesting. I thought I might meet John Wayne or Gary Cooper, maybe. So I tagged along with my buddy, and before I know it, I’m dressed like a cowboy and standing in a fake saloon on the Warner Brothers lot.”

  Doc leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Really? What movie was that?”

  “Dead Man’s Bluff. Never made it to the screen. But they did ask me to come back again. The next day that shipmate and I got into a bit of a scuffle over one of the saloon girls. Not on camera, mind you. I laid him out flat. Dropped him like a dead fish. Felt bad about it. Funny thing is, he wound up marrying that dame and the way she turned out, I figure I dodged a bullet. They didn’t invite me to the wedding—imagine that.”

  “Did the studio fire you, then?” Paradise asked.

  Lan took another puff. “Nope. In fact, the director wound up giving me a line. I was big and tough looking. Definitely not shy. The whole thing came pretty natural. That one line led to another and then a small part in a picture. That’s when a studio producer asked me if I’d be averse to changing my name. He said Clarence Hardy was a lousy cowboy name. I said sure, why not? I’d never really liked Clarence anyway. He said since the movie we were on was set in Arizona, what would I think about Prescott for a last name? Sounded good to me, so there it was.”

  Some hint of recognition tugged at Paradise. “Wait … Prescott? Lan? Were you … are you … are you saying you’re Landon Prescott?”

  Another puff from the pipe. “Ding, ding. Lady wins a prize.”

  Paradise looked at Doc, who seemed to be having a hard time picking his jaw up off the table.

  “You’re actually saying you’re the Landon Prescott?” Doc said.

  “The one and only, as far as I know.”

  Paradise studied the craggy face carefully. “Yes. I see it now! Landon Prescott! Lan, you were the biggest movie star on the planet! You were everywhere! A-list of A-lists!”

  Doc picked up, sounding just as excited. “Then you disappeared into thin air. When was it? Nineteen seventy? ’Seventy-one?”

  “March, 1971. Remember it like yesterday. I’d just wrapped The Longest Night in Rome with Lana Lee as my leading lady.”

  “But why would you leave? I mean, you’re Landon Prescott! You had everything anyone ever dreams of!” Paradise said.

  “Not everything, girl. And not everyone dreams the same. I had more money than I could spend in two lifetimes. I had fame. Everybody knew my name, or, at least, my film name.”

  Paradise struggled to understand. “But what, then? What didn’t you have? Why run from all that?”

  “I didn’t have the quiet of a South Pacific island beach. I didn’t have the thrill of a squall line on the horizon and a sail full of wind left over from a spun-out Atlantic hurricane. Or the satisfaction of tired muscles after a hard day’s work. By then, I’d spent so much time acting out life I’d forgotten what it felt like to live it for myself. To be a man. I didn’t have love. Or family. Lana Lee was America’s sweetheart and my love interest for three consecutive films, but off camera, she was a real piece of work. More interested in chasing rock stars and dropping acid than anything else. It was all fake, you know?”

  Doc sipped from his water glass. “But how? You just disappeared and never surfaced. I’ve watched TV specials, read articles—everyone thought you were dead. Maybe even murdered.”

  “My favorite was abducted by aliens,” Lan said.

  “For a while, you were supposed to have holed up in a hotel like Howard Hughes,” Paradise said.

  Lan shook his head. “The answer is D—none of the above. It wasn’t that dramatic. I laid low in Italy for a while. Grew a beard. Romanced a local girl till her father gave me a swift kick out the door. Then one day I went to sea. Just another lowly deckhand—no offense, Easy.”

  Easy puffed his pipe and showed his white teeth. “None taken, boss.”

  “I bummed around on this ship and that—worked a schooner off the African coast for a while. Old school, that one. Practically pirate stuff. Hiked around in Central America. Then somehow I found myself in Puerto Rico. That’s where I found the Lazarus. Although, like I told you, she was the Gladys Myrtle then. Cruel, cruel name.”

  Doc leaned back in his chair. “Landon Prescott. I just can’t believe it. How did you meet Paco?”

  “Ah! That’s a story for another dinner. Suffice it to say, New Orleans, some crates of medicine. A bottle of rum—that one was my fault. Oh, and a British missionary lady with a very persuasive way about her and a need to get to Honduras under the radar. Paco and I had some long talks on that sail. And what he said made sense. We’ve kept in touch ever since. He talked about you a lot, Doc. In fact, I saw you get that hit with the Red Sox. Watched it on a TV with an antennae made out of a clothes hanger. Glorious black and white on a guy’s back porch in Havana.”

  “You knew Doc played baseball?” Paradise said.

  “If you knew Paco, you heard every detail about Doc and Jake. But even without Paco’s press, Doc here was the next big thing. Golden boy of the sports world. Red Sox said you’d take them to another World Series.”

  Paradise raised an eyebrow at Doc. “You were that good?”

  “Better than good,” Lan said. “Great. Doc was the talk of the MLB for a while there.”

  A sense of loss stirred deep within Paradise. An odd feeling because it wasn’t for herself this time, but for another lost dream. “I’m sorry, Doc. How can you bear it? It was everything to you.”

  His eyes met hers. “Not anymore.”

  Easy dropped down through one of the hatches, and the stereo grew louder. Flamenco guitar accompanied by heartfelt raspy Spanish.

  Lan stood. “Ah, the Gypsy Kings. Let’s dance, Miss Scarlett.”

  Before she could respond, Paradise found herself swept off her chair and into the big man’s arms.

  “You can cut in later, Doc. But let me take her around the mast a couple of times.”

  Paradise couldn’t swallow her laugh. “Do I get a say in this at all?”

  “You’re my date for the sunset, right? Argue, and you walk the plank. You know what? You’re a pretty good dancer … You ever been to Luxembourg?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Good Day for a Sail

  Paradise usually took sleeping in to the level of an art form, but dawn stars still dotted the cabin’s portholes when her eyes opened to her first morning at sea.

  Roll over and go back to sleep? Would have worked normally, but the Sandman dodged and skirted, taunting from the edge of the abyss.

  Her feet found the
smooth, wooden floor. There were a couple of built-in drawers under the bunk, and she opened them out of curiosity. One held a few worn pairs of men’s swim trunks, a pair of size thirteen flip-flops, and a puka shell necklace—the other, only a double extra-large white men’s dress shirt. Opening her big, red suitcase, she dug out one of her Esther-Dash-Williams-Dot-Com swimsuits and slipped it on. She used the dress-shirt for a cover-up and put the puka shells around her neck for good measure.

  Very Starlet goes Caribbean. She was sailing, right? What did Doc say? Go big or go home …

  The delicious smell of fresh coffee drew her to the salon. The galley was empty, but a percolator bubbled on the gimbaled stove. She found a mug in the cupboard and some coconut flavored creamer in the refrigerator, poured, then made her way to the salon door, trying hard not to spill against the rocking of the boat. Sea air whipped her curls into her face as she stepped out onto the deck. She pushed them away with her free hand, still balancing the coffee mug in the other.

  “Miss Jones … Fresh wind today, huh?” Easy manned the big wheel. His smooth brown face crinkled in the growing light. “You like da’ coffee?”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “Honduran. We get it from a friend in San Pedro Sula. Best in the Carib. Why you up so early, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not usually. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Ah, dat’s cause you a saila’. Born to it. I seen right away. You feel fresh wind in your bones dis morning. Me too.”

  Paradise loved the lilt of his voice. “The wind has come up, hasn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. Look up!” Easy stuck a boney finger forward.

  Paradise turned. She’d seen movies, television, but nothing had prepared her for the sight that rose into the heavens above her. What seemed to be a square mile of sail stretched up along the towering wooden mast against the graying sky. Two more sails caught the wind forward. Words caught in her throat.

  “It’s beautiful, yes, Miss Jones?” Easy said.

  “More than beautiful! And please, call me Paradise.”

  “Ah. Yes, Paradise, ma’am. I call you dat. Look now, dat big sail on the tallest mast? Dat’s the main sail. This smaller one, it’s da’ mizzen.”

  “What about the ones on the front?”

  “Ain’t no front on a boat, Miss. Fore and aft. But dem two sails are jibs. Carry a lot of wind, ol’ Lazarus does.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Paradise said again.

  “C’mere, now. You steer dis lady. Let you feel what it’s like to hang between wind and sea, heaven and earth, huh?”

  “Really? I can steer?”

  “You bet! I’ll stand right behind to help. Don’t worry, now!”

  Easy took her mug, and she moved behind the wheel. It tugged slightly in her hands and shuddered just a little. She looked up at the sails again. “Am I really driving?”

  “No, miss. You’re steering. You’re sailing! Men been doing the same for t’ousands of years, you know?”

  “Where are we going?” Paradise asked.

  “We going west. See dat compass dere? Away from da sun comin’ up. Land out over dat way somewhere. We hit it sooner or later. Got to get you off here, Lan says. Send you on to da movies. Me? I’ll keep sailin’. Nothin’ on land hold any interest for ol’ Easy no more.”

  The wind picked up and blew spray in her eyes. She wiped it with a quick hand. “Don’t you have a family, Easy?”

  “Used to. Before AIDS came. Disease everywhere, dough. So many people! My wife and son, they up and died. I wished I had AIDS back den, too. Wanted to die with dem. But Jesus, he decide who come and go. He say, not yet! So I got drunk instead. For years I got drunk. Den I found da boss, and he brought me on board here. We went sailing. Da boss is my family now. One day I’ll see my wife and son again up in Heaven. Till then, I’ll go sailing. Help Lan with what he needs. I love him. He’s a good man.”

  “He seems wonderful. I’m sorry about your wife and son, Easy.”

  “Me too. But I’ll see again. Dey in the arms of Jesus.”

  Truck Stop Jesus drew Paradise’s attention. Water dripped from his plastic beard. He smiled.

  “Easy, do you believe in Jesus?” she asked.

  “Oh sure. My wife? She always talked about him. I laughed at her. Told her Jesus was a story for children and white people. I asked her, where was Jesus when she was sleeping around with all da sailors? Back in da old days? But she don’t listen. She just prayed. She just smiled and prayed. Prayed for me, prayed for my son, prayed for everyone. I knew she was different from da old days. I knew she changed when she met Jesus, but I didn’t want to admit. I was afraid he’d take my rum, ya know? When da sickness took her, I was so mad. Den my son, too. I wanted to die. I asked Jesus—why? Why dem? My son was just a little ting! No bigger than a mango! And my wife was kind … I got a bottle and went to da cane fields.” Easy reached out and corrected Paradise’s steering slightly to the left. “Watch dat compass now. Western heading.”

  The Lazarus leapt into a wave and crashed down the backside.

  “She’s picking up. Good sailing today!” Easy said. He handed Paradise her coffee, miraculously all still in the cup, and took back control of the wheel.

  Lan appeared in the doorway, hair wild in the wind. “Good morning, Miss Scarlett! How did you sleep?”

  “Wonderfully. Really, wonderfully. This is a different ocean from the one last night, isn’t it?”

  “I told you she’s a fickle lady,” Lan said. “Fair winds today, though. Good for sailing. This old girl loves a good wind. Thanks, Easy. I got her now.”

  “Yes, boss. My eyes is heavy. Quick nap, eh?”

  Easy waved at Paradise and headed below deck.

  “He’s got a room down there no bigger than a closet,” Lan said. “I told him years ago to take any cabin he wanted, but he loves his little spot next to the engine room. He’s a good man, that Easy.”

  “He says you rescued him.”

  Lan glanced at her, then up toward the sails. “See that handle there to your left? Crank it clockwise a couple turns. We’ll trim her up a bit.”

  Paradise did as she was told.

  “That’s good,” Lan said.

  “What did I do?”

  “You trimmed the main. That means you pulled it in a little tighter. More power from the wind.”

  Paradise sat and leaned back, letting her hair fall loose in the wind over the rail behind her. “I love this, Lan.”

  “I can tell.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you love sailing?”

  “No, why did you leave? The films? You had it all. I still can’t understand it. Was this it? Is this enough?”

  Lan’s weathered face focused on the horizon. The sun crept out of the sea behind him, backlighting his blowing hair.

  “It’s a wide world, girl. A never-ending horizon. Yeah, for a year or two there, I thought I was happy. I thought, like you say, I had it all. Money, women, attention. Things I couldn’t have imagined back on the farm. But then I got this feeling. Crept up gradually, I guess. Like I was wading around in the shallow end of the pool. Getting my knees wet, but I couldn’t find the deep end. You know, the place where real life happens. Like I was hungry, but couldn’t get enough to eat. The parties, the awards, the movies—they became two-dimensional.”

  “So you left. Just like that.”

  “Always been my modus operandi. If you decide to do something, do it. You find something that makes you happy, grab on and don’t let go.”

  “Like the girl? In Italy? Did she make you happy?”

  Lan’s smile lines deepened. “Oh, for a minute or two. I was on the run, though. Didn’t know it, but I was. I needed the sea. Her father did me a favor, really.”

  A hard gust of wind pushed the huge sails, and the ketch leaned hard to the right.

  Tiny fingers tickled Paradise’s insides. “You’re sure it’s safe? Leaning like this?”

  “On a b
oat, we don’t lean. We list. And yes, it’s safe. This is a good day for a sail, girl.”

  “But we’re headed back to shore? To Texas?”

  “Should be able to see it pretty soon. Gotta get you back to La La Land, right? Although I do hate to waste a day like this puttering through that oily harbor drink and all those plastic party boats around Corpus Christi.”

  The Lazarus crested a swell and salt water blew high into the air, splashing onto the teak decks before running off in sheets.

  “Well, you said a couple days … I have two weeks, right? At least, sort of. Arnie’s going to lose his mind. Let’s sail today … spend one more night, maybe. But only if I can steer again.”

  “Ha! That’s my girl! Here, take her. Hold this course. I’m gonna go grab a cup of joe. Be right back.”

  The wheel felt good in her hands. It filled Paradise with a sense of control. The boat crested another rolling swell, and an unintentional gasp broke her lips.

  Jesus grinned.

  “What now?” Paradise said.

  “You. You can’t stop smiling.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m glad …”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The Queen of the High Seas

  Paradise didn’t leave the Lazarus cockpit all day. Lan stood with her, pointing out parts of the boat and giving her instruction. She learned that left was port and right starboard. She learned that rope was only rope until it found its way onto a boat, then it was line. Lan told her the lines that adjusted the sails were called sheets and showed her what winches controlled the main, mizzen, and two jib sails, and how some of the winches had been converted from manual to electric to make the boat easier for a small crew to handle.

  A fascinating new world. Like stepping back in time. Even Burt, pounding on the walls of her subconscious, couldn’t dampen the enthusiasm and joy flying freely on the Gulf winds.

  “Prepare to jibe!” Paradise shouted.