by G S Oldman
~ ~ ~
The first show was that night at a club in Portland. It was also the shortest leg of the trip and Prez, who had spent enormous time and energy on it, felt confident the "Faux Yo Love Machine" would do well on the longer jaunts too. Next morning they headed out to Twin Falls, ID, and the journey was on in earnest. Out past the thresholds of familiar cities, excitement breaks down to patchwork chasings of towns, rest areas, gas stations and a desire to see or voice something poetic about it. The joking "Are we there yet?" can only invoke so many laughs before the driving becomes all duty and patience. When Bryan played his country mix tape the complexion of the adventure sank in as Willie Nelson sang "On the Road Again." From that point, the temperament within the van changed. They were all in it together with spooky moments of personal revelations-some spoken, some kept silent.
June wasn't sure if she missed airline travel or not. An America she had never seen was unfolding before her. Despite the sheer convenience of flying, this was a land that could not be fathomed from a great altitude. Air routes lacked mythology, whereas the culture was brimful of lore like the Lewis and Clark expedition, the Pony Express and the Rock Island Line. The fabled Route 66 led away from her hometown of Chicago and paved its way westward to exist as a ghost of former glory. Unlike Route 66, her past life hung and atrophied in a tenement bedroom, a skeleton of fading agony. She could get used to this type of travel. Miles and miles of toxic memories falling further and further behind her, always moving, going forward.
There were moments of wanting to cry or laugh and not explain to anyone or to any reason. Perish the definitions of freedom or elation or sorrow or whatever ideal this or any other morality could insist upon the world. She was right now in the world, of the world, in this universe at this very second in time, having as much cranky effect on the movements of the stars as the stars were crankily conspiring to have upon her. Life may be a travesty but here she felt at peace with the prospect of utter failure and of having nothing to lose by it.
At her insistence, the caravan stopped when a Muffler Man revealed himself on the side of the highway. She had always wanted to see one up close and Bryan obliged by snapping a photo of her and Dedra embracing beneath his big-jawed, fiberglass grin. Farther down the road a different automotive vision seared itself into everyone's brains. In the late afternoon light, on a generous tract of sloping prairie land, there sat two big old trucks. Prez said they were Chevys. Side by side, their rusted bodywork made them appear as faces descended from a Diego Rivera dream, casually contemplating a ballgame or an election.
After Twin Falls was Las Vegas, NV. Both bands decided to leave immediately following the show since the route was mainly off the interstate. Despite having a night off, there was no telling how this would impact their travel time since Dedra, Prez and the CrabAbble guys wanted to have a little fun and maybe hit a casino or two. June had been a Sin City tourist before and was not enthused. Bryan grumpily didn't care. Gus had gotten them all set up at a friend's house on the outskirts of town, so whoever wanted to relax could do just that.
Prez had a great night at the blackjack table that more than made up for any of Dedra's bad luck at the roulette wheel. June and Bryan learned their host's wife was a costumer for big casino shows. The past week she took delivery on wardrobe and material for a send up of The Mikado and easily talked June into being a living dress form for a maiko kimono she was finishing from scratch. Bryan tried on a manly version of the garment. Tying his hair back and brandishing a faux katana, he became a convincing samurai. The costumer, also adept at makeup, decided they should all perform in character the next night; there were enough getups to go around. She'd even introduce them. Dedra and Prez, home from their debauchery, wholeheartedly agreed to the hoot. Seconds before going onstage, fully wigged and outfitted, the big Irish geisha told her Mexican minstrel, "I think this is the whitest I've ever been."
It was a lively, funny show with a decent crowd, lots of beer and a jolly promoter who made sure both bands earned a full tank of gasoline and a round of cheap meals. There was no time for a visit to the Grand Canyon. Sightseeing had to take a back seat to the tour schedule.
Beyond Vegas, there were three shows in Arizona on consecutive nights-a club in Flagstaff, a house party in Winslow, then a big bash at a warehouse in Tucson. June was haunted by the vision of those two old trucks. Their resemblance to faces was eerie and by this point the highway had taken on a life of its own. Even the restaurants and truck stops seemed different in a way she couldn't figure out. There was coffee, food, servers, cooks, customers, bussers, the usual; an alien environment into which she may or may not fit. The answer to this didn't materialize until farther down the road, the same place where most questions are asked.
Gazing out the window at a succession of big 18-wheelers, June looked across the menstrual landscape of an America that ran on a salty fuel of cut potatoes. She saw waitresses serving blue plates garnished with blood. Shaken from stout, clear bottles, it oozed down mountains, filled in the lake basins of diesel expectations. Then it hit her. Those two old trucks had appeared to be smiling but they were not, they were grimacing. In the truck stops the waitresses barely smiled at all, and there were still smoking sections.
She wondered if Joan of Arc smiled when the match was lit, and she wondered whether J of A smiled at all. It could be that once you're a fixture of history, frozen into books and painted on museum walls, it doesn't matter whether anyone thinks about smiling. Witnessing full plates and cups indifferently emptied and washed clean, maybe Joan of Arc had it easy-given the ultimate gratuity, scraped into the menu of civilization's cuisine, leaving waitresses to clean deep fryers and do unnoticed sidework. In the big cities you could no longer smoke in most restaurants. Another travesty. How else to contemplate one's well-thought-out plans and perspectives? You could argue that seats in restrooms served that purpose just as well (and left no trace of charred ashes). Tampons could not be flushed unless you were a terrorist. In a vegetarian, smokeless, polit-corrective world, steaks and books would no longer be burned, and menu items and manuscripts would merely be deleted.
Flagstaff was a landmark. That night, halfway into their third song-"Alabama Moon"-a goosebumpy pulse kicked in that lasted most of the set and made the four of them believe Faux Toppa was at last a real band. It was Dedra's moment. Something, deep and heartfelt, welled up inside her and slapped the whole joyride into a higher gear; Prez slammed the pedal to the kick drum, simultaneously channeling Elvin Jones and John Bonham in an indelible pocket; June's thumb tracked his groove with a giddy vengeance. In the thick of things, though she didn't mention it til he did himself, she noticed Bryan getting a genuine boner when things gelled. Wow! Trash Rock City! The raw energy sagged in the last two songs; Dedra tired herself and her voice out and, as soon as she got offstage, disappeared into the van alone. She barely uttered a word to anyone until the next day.
On the short ride to Winslow, Dedra confided that she had discovered Wanda Jackson, whose style got under her skin and pushed her into a different frame of mind. During the show something took hold of her, wouldn't let go and as she sang, there was her mother igniting a massive stack of internal fireworks that were inescapable.
The party was another good show, relaxed and fun. The next day was quiet and intense. Dedra fell in love with Arizona's expansive desolation, its resistance to the pixelation of natural images. Analog colors and cactus plants so subtle they could never be depicted on the particle-accelerated 24-bit monitors of her trade. It was here she would make her stand. Like Geronimo, a defiant blonde refusing to fix the earth's hues in Photoshop because this was where technology would fail. Spirits would sneak through digital cracks of PMS. Lizards and snakes under cover of exquisite dust would crawl past highways of generational X's and incidental CMYKs.
At Meteor Crater she stood in the breeze that raked the observation deck and looked in.
Analog.
Her small frame stiffened a
nd poised against the railing, buffeted, like a dancer ready to fall upward, a figurehead holding under an incredible mast; confederate eyes glistened and exploded with the vision that this hole in the ground was bigger than her whole life could ever be.
June pushed through the March wind and joined her at the brink. The big lass had twice seen the crater from the air and was not prepared for the swoon that rushed into her. She had bought a few crystals and a NASA patch in the gift shop, gotten aroused by the Apollo capsule on display, but the first peek into the mile-wide voluptuousness was truly something. Size is nothing compared to scope. At the essence of such a vulnerable world-the rim sweeping above and around them, circling away and across from them, massive rocks thrust up in salute to a perfect violence-she could sense Dedra praying, could almost hear the girl's optical nerves clanging away like industrial beams swinging with loud jewelry and indestructible glass.
Tucson was the blowout. A grand mal, all night long, rock & roll, damn the torpedoes extravaganza with too much beer, booze and booty-tational behavior. Six bands, a huge turnout of locals hell-bent on beating their backwoods boredom, and a slew of kids who traveled down from Phoenix. The promoters did a bang-up job of putting the word out, mostly thanks to a kid everyone called Hinkle. He was a total, annoying pain in the ass with an amazing knack for promotion. A local kingpin. It was difficult for anyone to complain about him since everyone made money. One of the local bands stashed a couple of kegs at their house for the party afterwards. Dedra and Prez made sure there would be whiskey as well. June diplomatically thwarted Hinkle's attempts to bed her down, if that's what his motivations were. Prez got drunk enough to ignore him rather than kill him. It would be a while til the sun came up and the weather guaranteed that no one who passed out in the yard would freeze.
Only one window got broken that night and none of the neighbors called in a noise complaint. A young, nerdy kid with a skateboard attached himself to June in puppy-dog fashion. They paired off in a corner to talk; he was smitten, stars in his eyes. The beer and whiskey getting the best of her, she gave him a friendly kiss and succumbed to sleep. Alone. The stereo still churning away, the last thing she remembered was Peggy Lee crooning "Is That All There Is?" If beer is proof that god loves us, whiskey must prove that god is a pure psychopath: the quintessential mean drunk.
XVII
"I'm not crazy about reality,
but it's still the only place to get a decent meal."
-Groucho Marx
"I don't think this is the right top to this bagel."
No one said a word. The table was heaped with a fine stew of last night's fettlement. So thick you could stir it with a ladle.
"Maybe it's the bottom that's wrong but I don't think so."
So thick you could smother on the fumes. Potatoes floated to the top and began opening their eyes. Carrots bobbed in subgreenial backstrokes amid kissings of crapulent onions-a date with garlic and barlic destiny.
"Just eat it, June."
"I don't know how I feel about this one. Did anyone else order a bagel? Maybe I've got someone else's top or you've got my bottom?"
"For chrissakes, June. If it isn't one thing it's another."
It had been a long night. So long you could cut it with non-dairy creamer and not leave a scar. Three tables of bandmembers and post-revellers suppressed evidence of regrets and self-accusals. Denny's was the perfect court for such coffee justice. Judges dished out reputable sentences, prosecution set the tables and kept the cups full, defense rolled silverware like ammunition and shot hot streams of arguments at dirty dishes. Juries would amble in to sit behind menus, make substitutions and pass back out into a world of decisive indecisions, leaving verdicts and water untouched. Dedra sipped blankly through the collective haze.
"You just don't get it, Bryan," said June.
"No, I guess I just don't."
The fine stew simmered like cat paws on cork panels. So thick you could hear the hangovers from last night's party. So American you could feel the distorted thoughts of adventure and denial soaking their way into Formica and pressed-wood veneers. On this meals were picked at, fates considered, headaches nursed, and Junes continued trying to arrange bagels so that both parts matched.
"They probably dropped my real top in the kitchen."
Bryan scowled and clenched his lips. She said, "That must be what happened."
A spray of coffee shuddered across the table. It struck June, her light blue T-shirt and the bagel. Dedra instantly recalled sneezing a mouthful of grits and waffles at her parents one morning. The Fatiuchkan Law of Food Physics: For every allergic reaction, there is an equal and projective action. The two-year-old's education commenced at that moment, blissfully unaware of future pop quizzes. The entire six-top held back, afraid to comment, while the restaurant hummed away. June contemplated the bagel, a few drops of coffee joined down her cheek to cascade from her chin, dumbfounded fingernails clicked against the edge of the plate. Through java-splattered lenses, she said, "Dedra, I was going to eat that." The blonde clattered her cup onto the saucer and slapped both hands over her mouth, too late to keep the train from leaving the station, trying desperately to stifle big-eyed splutterings. "Hmmphkk. Ohmmkkphgodd, I'm so sorry!" Her head fell to the table. "I'm sahrreee?!"
Bryan mocked a "Bada-Bing!" rimshot. Everyone joined in the mirth except June who wiped a poker-face with the back of her hand. Brown spots spreading on the cotton garment, she stood up and walked away, saying, "I gotta go to the bathroom."
"Uh oh, now we've done it." Bryan leaned back in a perfect, desert deadpan. "Dedra, you know any good bass players?"
Dedra rubbed her bloodshot orbs. "No," she said, giggling uncontrollably.
Five minutes later June returned. She had liberally dabbed the target areas of soiled cloth with water. When she sat down it was apparent she had applied a coat of color to her lips.
"Our waiter's pretty cute. I bet he's gay," she said, motioning across the room for a warm-up. He had given them decent if contemptuous service. As he poured into her cup she sat erect, allowing her breasts to emphasize the clingy wetness of the shirt, all while acting uninterested in him. Dedra held back from laughing.
The waiter warmed other cups and asked the table, "Can I get anything else for anybody?" He weighed the question toward June, who continued avoiding his glower. Everyone gestured a collaborative no and, passing a sidewise glance to June, he fumbled for the check, dropped it in front of her, chanted, "Have a nice day," and walked away.
Still posturing, June took a dramatic sip from her cup and said, "He's gay."
Dedra laughed. "No, he's just married."
June relaxed. "So where was his ring?"
"That doesn't matter, dodo. Lotsa married guys don't wear 'em."
"Hmmm."
"Something to do with not wanting girls to talk to 'em. They're taken, y'know. This guy I can tell. He wants you baaadd. I mean, y'know, he's nervous and he's trying to make eye contact with you. Just waiting for a sign-"
June started cracking up.
"-and you playing tit games at 'im. Oh, the humanity."
"No, you're both wrong," Bryan declared. "The poor guy just isn't used to serving spotted owls."
"Hey!" June lowered her eyeglasses.
"C'mon, Bryan, leave her alone," said Dedra. "He's back in the kitchen jerking off into a frying pan right now and just wait'll he gets home to his wifey. Besides, you didn't do so bad last night yourself."
"Oh god. Don't remind me." He put a hand to his forehead and hid. "I won't talk about your night if you don't talk about mine."
"Oh, gee whiz, Bryan." They faced off in a gridiron of guilt. "Gee fuckin whiz?whaddatha hell came over us last night?"
"And a huge time was had by all?" sang June.
"Yeah, a huge time. Got any painkillers? No, how 'bout some memory killers?" He held his head in both hands. "That girl was kinda?uh?well, she?never mind." After a mentally smarting mo
ment he gave June a square once-over. "So what happened to you?"
"Nothing."
"Yeah, June, what the hell happened? That little emo skater boy was sooo hot for you," said Dedra, prodding her friend in the arm.
"Nothing, I said."
"Damn. You blew it."
"No I didn't."
"You blew something."
"All right! we were just talking and?I just didn't want to. And quit poking me!"
"Y'know something, Dedra," said Bryan, "I think we could learn something from spotted owls. Fuck the whales; save the owls."
June chugged a swig of coffee and bolted up. "OK, you guys. That's enough. I'll see you at the van and I'm the only one who's got it together enough to drive." She snatched her flannel overshirt from the seat back and left.
Bryan glanced around the table, then around the restaurant, then around the table again. He looked at Dedra. "Is she mad?"
"Don't worry about it, Bryan." Rising from her seat and digging into a pocket, she tossed down a few twenties. "Just pay the bill. Don't forget to get a receipt."