“You ever think of getting married?”
“Once. Almost got engaged ten years ago. She wanted commitment, but I came to my senses. Anyway, why are you so interested? Why did you ask for me to drive you here?”
“I didn’t ask for you.”
“That’s what dispatch told me.”
Gearhart looks me straight in the eye. “Maybe they didn’t have anyone else. I’ve booked dinner around the corner at a place called Locals. Do join us.”
Us?
Truth be known, I’m short on cash, hungry, and wherever I go with Gearhart, he pays, as he should, since I’m here sort of against my will, and he gets that.
“Unless, of course, you have other plans,” he says patronizingly.
“I could probably swing it,” I say.
Gearhart glances at his vintage wristwatch. “I have just enough time to pick up a cigar.” He swigs the last drop of his drink. “Locals is next door to the famous Cowboy Bar, around the corner from here. Enjoy the rest of your drink and I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
9.
When I arrive, Gearhart—cagey bastard—is sitting with an attractive young woman who I guess is in her early thirties. She has long reddish-brown hair, a fair complexion, a smattering of freckles, and full lips, the natural kind, not the sort you find at bars in Montecito, between Summerland and Santa Barbara. Such natural poise and sophistication—the thought pops in my mind that Gearhart must have hired her from a local escort agency. After all, he could have rented a car and driven himself to Wyoming, so I’m guessing he’s lonely, needs company.
They are side by side, backs to the wall, a table for four, with a bottle of red wine and three glasses.
Gearhart rises and beckons me to sit across from the babe.
“This is Katharine,” he says.
A waiter is quickly upon me.
“What’s indigenous?” I ask, looking between him and Gearhart.
“Everyone loves our Buffalo Tartare,” says the waiter.
“See what I mean?” Katharine says to Gearhart.
“Let’s share a portion,” Gearhart instructs the waiter, “see what it’s like.” Then he turns to me. “Katharine is an artist. She was just telling me that though things have gotten better economically since the financial crash of 2008, most people who come here tend to buy things that have a buffalo on it, like whiskey glasses, instead of fine art.”
“So why don’t you paint buffalo?” I say to her.
“My specialty is nocturnes,” she says. “I like the color of the night, its mood and mysteries.”
“Easy,” I reply. “Paint buffalos at night.”
Gearhart chuckles.
“Maybe I’ll try that,” she says.
“Right on. Are you from around here?”
“Not originally, but I’ve been here a while.”
“Where from?”
“I was born in Paris, and I grew up in Washington, DC. I came out here to paint one summer and never left.”
“Nice. Can you make a living as an artist?” Part of my problem is I have zero understanding of boundaries.
Katharine chuckles. “Probably not. That’s why I run an art gallery here in town, the Gearhart Gallery.”
I look at Gearhart, then at Katharine, then back at Gearhart. “Are you two related?”
“Katharine is my daughter.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” asks Gearhart.
“I’m not a wine person, maybe I’ll have a beer.” Truth be known, the only wine I’ve ever drunk is Gallo by the jug, which I once got sick on, or Sutter Home miniatures, which split my skull the next morning.
“Maybe you haven’t had fine wine? This is pinot noir from the Willamette Valley in Oregon.” He pours a little into the third glass. “Try a little.”
I sip and swallow. “I like green eggs and ham, Sam-I-Am!”
When the Buffalo Tartare arrives it takes all my strength not to wage war over it with Gearhart and daughter.
“So you’re his daughter,” I say, pointing my finger back and forth between them. “Is there a wife-slash-mother somewhere?”
Gearhart looks down, forks a bite of tartare.
“My mother passed a few years ago,” Katharine says quietly, studying me, a gaze I turn away from.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …”
“No,” she says, “it’s okay. She went into the hospital for some minor surgery and ended up catching a blood infection, MRSA. It happened just like that, very unexpected.”
“Any sisters or brothers?”
Katharine shakes her head. “My father tells me you’re his driver for a few days.”
I nod. “That’s what I do. The Drive Cycle. When I’m not surfing.”
Our server looms. “How is the tartare?”
Its total absence speaks for itself.
Gearhart orders sautéed Idaho trout all round, and it is not only indigenous, but the finest fish I’ve eaten in my whole life—though their Chef Burger on the next table never stops speaking to me.
After I devour mine, which doesn’t take long, Gearhart says, “I’m glad you could join us, Luke, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish up with my daughter. A little private time.”
“Of course.” I practically jump up, and out, cross North Cache Street, and wander into Jackson’s town square with its elk-antler arches at each corner, stopping at a bench to take off my new loafers, rub my aching feet. How could anybody wear such things?
I’m still sitting there, enjoying the night, when they come out of Locals.
Katharine hugs Gearhart, real close, real long. Looks like she doesn’t want to let go. Makes me wish, for a few seconds anyway, I had someone to hug like that.
Gearhart stands there in front of the restaurant, watches her turn a corner. Then he walks to the corner himself, crosses over to the square, nails a bench, and lights a cigar.
I wait a few minutes before getting up to approach him. “Sorry, taking a walk, saw you here.”
“That’s fine, sit down,” says Gearhart. “Try a Macanudo.”
“Sure.”
I put it in my mouth, light ’er up, inhale, and cough it out …
“You don’t inhale a cigar.”
“Habit.”
“Let the smoke roll around your mouth, blow it out.”
“Your daughter is nice.”
“Yes, she is. Thank you.”
“Is it okay if I ask for her number?”
Gearhart chuckles. “Sure.”
“Really?”
“I said yes.”
I take another drag and try to stop myself inhaling. “Do you have any idea where we’re driving tomorrow?”
“Montana.”
“Where in Montana?”
“We’ll see when we get there.”
“You knew you were coming here, though, to see your daughter, right?”
“I certainly had it in my mind.”
“Why didn’t you say so, instead of Vegas?”
“I didn’t have a plan. Vegas sounded good. But I didn’t like the look of it. I just wanted a road trip.” He pauses. “You know, Luke, I’m happy for you to keep driving me. But if you have pressing business back home, or you just don’t feel like driving any farther, I’ll release you and rent a car.”
“Really? Can I think about it?”
“Sure. Decide in the morning.”
“If I decide to keep going, can I drive tomorrow?”
“Of course.” He pauses, winks. “Once we’re out of Wyoming. Remember, a deal’s a deal. And another thing: once the cigar burns down to the size of your thumb, stub it out.”
10.
As much as I like my Wort room, and how comfortable the bed is, I toss and turn all night, dreaming wildly, nothing I can remember except the last dream before I wake up, where I’m a little kid and I’m sitting at my own birthday party, nobody but me, with a small party hat on my he
ad and a cake with blue icing and candles, and that Eric Carmen song “All by Myself” playing in the background.
It gets me up early in a cold sweat, and across the road to Jackson Hole Coffee Roasters.
I’d decided to cut out, get back to the waves, the beach bunnies, my stash, my life …
I’m thinking maybe I’ll just leave, write good-bye to Gearhart in a note I’d leave at reception.
Then my mother calls as I’m finishing the last of my coffee. I tell her I’m heading back. She asks the situation, and I explain it to her.
And she says, “I saw something yesterday on Facebook that may apply …”
Old hippies don’t fade away, I feel like saying, they get hooked on Facebook and all the slogans people post.
“A Mark Twain quote,” she continues: “Explore. Dream. Discover.”
“All the way to Montana?”
“If you’re in Jackson, you’re only a few hours from Montana.”
“Oh.”
I’m still minded to split.
But Charles Gearhart surfaces before I get it together to write a letter and, seeing him, I impulsively decide to continue the journey for another day, I rationalize, after which I’ll reassess.
“Sleep well?” Gearhart asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t know.”
Now he’s chirpy and I’m aloof.
Gearhart opts for Route 22, which quickly puts us into Idaho. True to word, he pulls over in a town called Driggs—a life-size buffalo on the roof of a building—and lets me back behind the wheel.
“Your daughter’s right,” I say. “Up here, it’s all about buffalo.”
“It’s hard to go wrong in Jackson,” he says, clipping his seatbelt up front next to me. “Tourism means revenue. If you’re not going to live in a big city to make a living, live and work where the big cities come to you. They go where the relics are.”
“Relics?”
“Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, tourism was based around relics. A town needed something that would draw pilgrims seeking relief from health issues or as a way of expressing their faith. Relics were the bones of saints or martyrs or famed holy people. It was thought their bones had special powers—to cure disease or restore faith. This led to skullduggery. Holy robbers from one town would steal relics from another, bring them back, claim ownership, and put them on display to draw pilgrims, and more importantly their money.
“It takes other forms today. Lenin’s Mausoleum in Moscow. And in Italy, hundreds of thousands of people visit San Giovanni Rotondo to see the preserved body of St. Pio. It’s about the revenue.”
“That’s cynical,” I say.
“I once knew a reporter in Paris, dead now, but he was an American jazz critic for the Trib. His finest writing, however, was for an English-language magazine that didn’t last long. He had a great pseudonym: Johnny Staccato. And a great column called ‘Reality is Money.’” Gearhart pauses. “What books are you reading?”
“Right now, nothing.”
“What was the last book you read?”
I suppose I could have made something up, but why bother? “I don’t remember.” Almost in defense of myself, I add, “Who reads books anymore?”
“Smart people.”
“So you’re saying I’m not smart?”
“Maybe you are. But you’re not smart as you could be if you’re not reading books. Just because you think no one reads anymore doesn’t mean you can’t. And if what you’re saying is true, and you read books, you’ll be one of the smartest people around.”
I consider this argument. “But it’s not cool to be smart anymore.”
“Not cool?”
“No. Haven’t you gone to the movies, or watched TV? Dumb is cool, dumber is cooler.”
Gearhart shakes his head in dismay, but brightens when he looks up to see a giant rotating mug of root beer that greets us at a key intersection in Ashton.
“You don’t see much Americana like this anymore,” says Gearhart.
“Let’s stop and grab a bite to eat.”
Gearhart scowls at me. “I meant it was interesting to look at, not to eat in.”
When the light turns green I zip straight into Frostop’s parking zone and kill the ignition. “I’m going in whether you’re coming or not.”
I get out, leave Gearhart in the car, take a stool at the old-fashioned lunch counter, and consult a menu. Free-radical heaven—my kind of grub.
A minute later, I feel a presence at my side. It’s him, gingerly handling a menu.
“What do you recommend?” he asks.
“I’m having a grilled cheese and ham sandwich, tater tots, and a root beer.”
A server overhears, takes it down.
“I guess I’ll have the same,” he says reluctantly.
And damn if he doesn’t scarf down every last morsel, including all the greasy tater tots.
“I’m not going to say it was as good as what we ate last night,” I say, after a final gulp of root beer. “But you have to admit, this was pretty damn tasty.”
“Not bad,” he sniffs. “Maybe we should share a piece of pie?”
Either a sugar high or the root beer—which he says he hasn’t drunk in half a century—makes Gearhart giddy with happiness.
Buttered and battered, we rejoin Abe.
“How old are you?” I ask, climbing behind the wheel.
“Sixty-three.”
A few moments later, just past the Ashton Visitors Center on the outskirts of town, we see up ahead a lone male by the road, his thumb pointing in our direction.
“Let’s pick him up,” says Gearhart.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m serious. Let’s give him a ride, learn something new.”
“Like what?”
“We’ll see,” says Gearhart. “Everyone knows something we don’t.”
“I bet we don’t learn a damn thing, other than he smells bad.”
“If that’s what it takes, I’ll give you two-to-one odds. My ten bucks to your five.”
I swerve over, fifty yards ahead of the hitchhiker.
“I could get in a lot of trouble for this,” I say. “Company policy strictly prohibits picking up hitchhikers.”
“I’m not telling.”
I see him trudging toward us in my rearview mirror. Slim, about five foot eight, long brown and sun-bleached unkempt hair way beyond his shoulders, long V-shaped beard, checkered short sleeve green shirt buttoned to the top, tails hanging over blue jeans rolled up his calves, and thongs on his feet, carrying a green duffel, probably army surplus.
He opens the back door, slides in. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m tired.”
I can smell him already as I turn and study his face: hollow cheeks, intense green eyes.
“Where you going?” I ask.
“Canada.”
“We can get you to Montana. Why are you going to Canada?”
“I don’t like this country anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Too bossy. To the world. But especially to Americans.”
“What’s your name?” says Gearhart.
“Bart.”
“So, Bart.” Gearhart seems to be enjoying himself. “You must be the opposite of a Mexican.”
“I think this country was at its best when it welcomed the sick and the poor and the oppressed from everywhere else. All this immigration nonsense is just a sideshow, like most party politics, to distract from the real issues. That’s what they do whenever people unite to ask some serious questions. They turn it into a race or gender issue and divide everyone until they get bored and go back to sports and movies.”
“They?”
“The folks who are really in charge. They privatize the gain, socialize the loss, and steal everyone’s money. There’s a machine in motion, like a huge locomotive, it goes 150 miles an hour and can’t be stopped. No point telling anyone, no one will believe you anyway, and
if they do, and you gain any following, they’ll call you a crank and get the mainstream media to ridicule you, or create far-fetched theories of their own to distract and muddy the water. Man, I don’t want to talk about what’s really going on, you’ll probably throw me out of your car and I just want to get to Canada.”
“You think it’s different up there?” asks Gearhart.
Bart ponders this. “I don’t rightly know. But I know this country isn’t as free as they pretend it is. I’m guessing the fewer the people around, the more freedom.” He leans forward. “Your engine light is on.”
“Yeah, it happens on and off,” I say. “Usually a computer glitch, but the manual says nothing serious, it can wait.”
“I don’t know, man,” says Bart. “I wouldn’t trust it.”
“Honest Abe?”
“There’s a gas station coming up in Island Park. I’d pull in if I was you.”
Now I’m really sorry I picked up this troublemaking know-it-all. But it’s rural out here, and Abe is down to a quarter-tank, so why not fill ’er up.
“There it is.” Bart points to Elk Creek Station on the right.
I pull aside a gas pump, climb out, feed Abe.
Before I know it, Bart’s got the hood open and he’s wiping the oil gauge, dipping it back in. He rubs his beard and goes for a second dip, looking at me, an astonished expression. “You’re out of oil.”
“What?”
“When was the last time you checked it?”
I shrug. Who checks oil? That’s what the service department is for.
He goes into the shop, returns with two quarts.
Gearhart is observing everything through his open window.
Bart pours a whole quart, stands by about ninety seconds and then re-dips the stick. “What the … ?”
He bends down, looks under the car. “That’s not good.” He looks up at me. “Man, you got a major leak. The oil’s pouring out of there!”
“Where?” I follow his finger and see black liquid pooling on the ground, as if poor Abe is bleeding.
“O-M-G! Should I drive it over to the mechanic’s garage?”
Motional Blur Page 4