The Leisure Seeker (19 page)

We are both quiet for a while after the call. I try very hard to think about something else. “John, there’s a place in Seligman that’s supposed to have good chicken. How does that sound to you?”

“Nah.”

I sigh. “They’ve got hamburgers, too.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Good Lord. I don’t know why I even bother. I’ve had so many hamburgers this trip, I’m about to start mooing.

When we reach Seligman, it looks to be yet another depressed little burg, then we get to Delgadillo’s Snow Cap Drive-In. I read that it was supposed to be different, but I’m not quite prepared for how different it is.

“What the hell kind of crazy place is this?” says John.

“It’s supposed to be fun,” I say, but he’s right, it looks crazy. Painted red and orange and blue and yellow, the place is cluttered with mismatched furniture, old gas pumps, banners, even an outhouse. An ancient flivver is parked next to the door, decorated with claxon horns, flags, plastic flowers, and twinkle lights. There are signs all over the place.

DEAD CHICKEN

CHEESEBURGERS WITH CHEESE

EAT HERE AND GET GAS

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

SORRY WE’RE OPEN

I consider forgetting the whole thing, but there’s a tour bus parked in front of the place, so how bad can it be? Besides, we need a break. Maybe it’ll be fun.

Inside, it isn’t any less crazy. After getting laughed at by all the tour bus people on the patio for trying to get in through a door with a fake doorknob (John was not pleased), I wheel us into a room where the walls and ceiling are covered with calling cards, notes, postcards, and foreign money. It didn’t look as clean as I would like, but maybe it was just all the stuff hanging there.

Behind the counter is a tanned man in his fifties, all eyebrows and teeth and brilliantined hair, smiling like he can’t wait to talk to us. “LOOK!” he yells, then throws a candy bar on the counter.

John and I both look. LOOK is the name of the candy bar. I summon a polite smile. I hear laughing from the people in line behind us.

“What the
hell
is this place?” says John, in a tone that is not courteous.

It doesn’t faze the counterman, whose laugh is somewhere between a yelp and a bark. “Our special today is chicken!” he says, swinging a big rubber hen.

“Don’t wave that goddamn thing at me,” says John.

I see the uneasiness in the face of the man behind the counter.

“John,” I say, trying to smooth things out. “He’s only joking. I think they do that here.”

“This isn’t McDonald’s,” hisses John. I watch the redness
spread across his forehead, down his cheeks. His upper lip twitches.

“Calm down, John.” I avoid the stares of the folks behind us, a family with a little girl.

But he’s riled up. “What the fuck kind of place did you take me to?” he roars, slamming his hand on the counter, palm down. The candy bar trembles.

The counterman is not smiling anymore. He looks shocked and scared. “Sir, you’re going to have to leave.”

“You shove it up your ass!” bellows John.

I grab John’s arm and pull him toward the door. “I’m sorry,” I say to the counterman. “He’s not well.” But there’s no sympathy in the man’s face, only hurt and anger. It looks like he could cry. We’re making everyone cry today. John and Ella just out there spreading joy, that’s us.

John just stares at him, then steers his death ray at me. Fast as I can roll, I push past the little girl, who is about seven, with short sandy hair, big ash-colored eyes, and a barrette with a cartoon cat head on it. Biting her lip, she looks at me pleadingly, not sure what’s just happened.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, honey,” I say, trying to smile at her. She runs forward and pulls open the door for us. I touch her tender arm for a moment and keep moving. Out on the patio, the tour bus people are laughing, oblivious to the scandal that just occurred inside. I whisper to John, “We’ll go somewhere else for lunch.”

“Goddamn right we will,” he snarls.

In the van, John is still muttering. I don’t say anything.
I’m scared of him right now. I bury my head in one of my guidebooks. I read about the stretch of 66 ahead, from McConnico to Topock, leading to California. By all accounts, it’s the most authentic part of old 66 left—long stretches of isolated desert, ghost towns, roaming packs of hungry wild burros, loose gravel on the shoulders, and winding switchback canyon roads.

I direct us onto the interstate.

We have arrived at our final state. After many hushed, tense miles, the sight of the Colorado River and
WELCOME TO CALIFORNIA
sign make me feel better, despite the fact that I am hellishly tired. We both are, I think. The time changes and crazy hours have caught up to us. The blazing heat doesn’t help, not to mention the fact that the AC doesn’t work at all anymore. And of course, we still have to travel with the windows partially open at all times because of the exhaust. Still, I haven’t suffered all that much discomfort. My trusty little blue pills have seen to that. Ella the crazed dope addict strikes again.

“We’re going to stay in a hotel tonight,” I tell John, trying to sound assertive, though I’m still afraid of him after the episode at the Snow Cap.

“Sure. Good idea,” he says, nice as you please.

We roll into the dreary outskirts of Needles. I will try not to be fussy about a motel, but I know I’ll be miserable if we end up in a fleabag.

“John, there’s a place over there. It says ‘Vacancy.’ Pull in.”

Without a word, John pulls in. I open the door of the van and a big blast of hot desert air hits me and almost knocks me on my fanny, I swear.

John gets my You-Go and wheels it around. I plop my purse in the basket and we head on up to the lobby. As soon as I walk in, I smell something I don’t like. I don’t know if it’s food or body odor or what, but I don’t like it.

“Can I help you?” says the young woman at the desk.

“No, thank you,” I say, turning around. John opens the door for me.

We go into three other hotels like this. I figure if a hotel can’t even keep its lobby clean, how are the rooms going to be? It’s almost 7:00
P.M
. by the time we settle on the Best Western and I’m about ready to keel over. There is no one to help us with our bags, so I have to put mine on the You-Go, which makes it harder to push. Luckily, there’s a handicap space right in front of the hotel by the lobby.

When I get into the room, there’s a delivery menu from a restaurant down the street. I order us roast beef sandwiches and milk shakes, then take my meds and a little blue pill and flop into bed. By the time the food arrives, I feel much better. John turns on the TV while we eat. It isn’t long before I fall asleep.

I dream of our old bungalow in Detroit. It’s nice being there again. Everything is the same. I recognize our old Danish Modern dining room set from Hudson’s, our old couch, I recognize the daisy pattern wallpaper that John hung in the kitchen. I can see the basement that John paneled and that I furnished with early American furniture from Arlens. I don’t even remember looking at these things in the dream, but I know they are there.

In the dream, I’m sitting in Cindy’s old room after she moved out to get married. We never really did anything with the room, but there was enough space for a television and a couple of old chairs. It’s late at night and John is asleep upstairs. I’m with Kevin, who’s about thirteen, and we’re watching Johnny Carson. We were both night owls and we watched
The Tonight Show
every night. I missed having Cindy around the house so it was nice spending time with my son, even though he probably shouldn’t have been staying up so late. But we both loved the comedians—Buddy Hackett, Bob Newhart, Shecky Greene, Alan King, Charlie Callas.

In the dream, we are watching Johnny do his Carnac the Magnificent routine where he dresses like a swami and holds an envelope to his forehead and divines the answers to the questions inside the envelope. Kevin and I are laughing at something Johnny says to Ed about a diseased yak in his sleeping bag.

It’s a wonderful quiet little dream. Me just watching TV with my son in a room filled with old furniture. We’re eating cheese crackers and laughing. The only odd part is the answer to one of Carnac’s questions.

“Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and the Ayatollah Khomeini,” Johnny says, holding the envelope to his turban.

Ed looks at Johnny and repeats,
“Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and the Ayatollah Khomeini.”

Carnac stares daggers at Ed, then he rips open the envelope and reads, “Who you’ll meet at the Disneyland in hell.”

I have no idea what time it is when the phone rings. I’m not even sure where it is that I’m sleeping. I try to look at the clock, but I don’t have my glasses on. The phone rings and rings, just like at home because the kids know it takes us a long time to get to it. Finally, I manage to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Robina? This is Eric, the night clerk at the front desk. Um, your husband is down here and he, uh, seems a little confused.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. It’s just that he’s upset. First he went outside and stood by your van for a little while, came in, went back out there, then he came in asking me where his keys were. That’s when I looked up what room he was in.”

I take a breath, rub the sand from my left eye. At least he’s okay.

“Now he keeps asking me where the coffee is. I told him that we don’t have coffee until 6:30
A.M
., but he insists we have it somewhere. He’s getting perturbed.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “I’ll be down there as soon as I can.”

Thank God I remembered to take the keys away from him last night.

“Where were you?” says John, in the elevator back to our room.

I’m weaving over my You-Go, still woozy from being awakened so abruptly. “I was upstairs sleeping, John.”

“I want to get going.”

I lead us off the elevator to our room. “It’s too early. Let’s try to get a little more sleep, all right?”

“Let’s get going.”

“John, it’s 4:30 in the morning. It’s too early. We’re going to get all screwed up.”

I get John settled in with the TV and a little bag of potato chips from the snack basket. There’s an old episode of
Cheers
on, which keeps him happy. I lie with him on the bed with my head propped up on the big mound of pillows we have constructed from every pillow in the joint. Needless to say, I can’t sleep anymore. It’s too soon for another pill. I consider a drink, but it’s too close to morning.

The
Cheers
music comes on with the credits. John wipes his greasy fingers on his shirt. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s hit the road.”

“John, it’s too early. It’s five in the morning.”

“Aren’t we getting an early start?”

“No, we’re going to get some sleep. We paid a lot for this hotel room and I’d like to get some use out of it.”

Two minutes later from John: “Okay, let’s get going.”

“Oh, the hell with it,” I say. “Fine, let’s get going.”

Before we leave, I take a sponge bath in the bathroom, using all the towels and washcloths, cleaning everywhere I’ve been meaning to clean for the past week. God knows, I hope I haven’t been one of those old ladies that goes around with her old lady smell. My aunt Cora was like that. People’s eyes were watering after she left a room. I told myself I’d never be that way.

By the time we leave, the hotel room is an absolute shambles. I’ve never left a room like that in my life. I’ve always practically made the bed before I left, but not this time. For one thing, I’m not strong enough this morning. Besides, for what we paid for this room, they can jolly well clean up after us.

After we gas up the Leisure Seeker, we do indeed hit the road. The early start turns out to be a good idea since we’re heading west out of Needles right through the Mojave on the original alignment of 66. Early is the best time to head through the desert.

We are the only people on the road when the sun begins to
rise. I sit in my captain’s chair in the Leisure Seeker, a Styrofoam cup of tepid gas station coffee in my hand as I watch the colors lift the night sky—violet evaporating to cherry pink, charcoal vanishing to chalky blue. The stars fade as outlines of spiky aloe and twined brush and jutting silver Sacramento Mountains emerge upon the horizon as if an Ansel Adams photograph were being developed before my eyes.

Maybe it’s because we’re close to the end of our trip that I’m getting sentimental, but I feel as though I was supposed to see this today. And John, in his madness, allowed it to happen.

I reach over and touch his arm. “Thank you.”

John looks at me, worried.

It isn’t long before the Mojave wears out its welcome. Once the sun starts its brutal ascent, the landscape changes. Desolation enters through the eyes and soon invades the vitals. I stare out at naked mountains and empty dun-colored landscape. There is brush everywhere, leached of color, large lifeless clouds of it pluming the stamped-down earth. We keep passing a certain type of cactus with long spiny branches that twist up from the ground like arthritic fingers trying to hold on to something. I remember from
The Grapes of Wrath
when Tom Joad called this desert the bones of the country. I agree, but those bones feel more like mine today, brittle and unforgiving.

Around Chambless, I fumble two discomfort pills into my mouth, wash them down with cold bitter coffee. I find a half of another in my pocket and I take that, too. I just want to get
us to Santa Monica, the end of the road. We’ve got less than two hundred and fifty miles now and hopefully John will be all right for five more hours.

After a while, the scenery starts to float. The sky has brush growing from it, but it doesn’t obscure the sun any, which is high and hard now, blistering no mercy. I close my eyes, trying to shake off the dizziness. When I look into the sky again, this time I see an image of a glowing woman. I don’t recognize her at first, but then it occurs to me that it’s Our Lady of Guadalupe. Except that it doesn’t exactly look like her. She’s got a golden glow encircling her, like Our Lady, and a bright green shawl emblazoned with stars, but underneath it she’s wearing a beige pantsuit, one that looks kind of familiar. She’s also put on quite a bit of weight. In fact, Our Lady looks a lot like me, but younger. She smiles serenely at me, waves, then holds a finger over her mouth as if she has a secret to keep.

Still dizzy, I gulp the rest of the coffee that I’ve been holding in my hand for the past hour, hoping the caffeine will help keep me conscious. My hand smells acrid and smoky. I look at the cup and see grooves in the Styrofoam from my fingernails from where I’ve been clutching it. I look back up into the sky, but there’s nothing but glare. I drop the cup on the floor of the van.

By the time we get to Ludlow, I feel better. I decide that it would just be best to forget what happened back there. I feel sleepy, so I crank down the window all the way. The wind noise increases and billows of warm air rush into the car,
soothing at first, but seconds later it feels like I’m tumbling around in a clothes dryer, my head full of lint and bits of old laundered Kleenex. I roll the window back up leaving a crack of an inch and a half.

“What’s wrong with the road?” John asks me. The heat rising from the pavement keeps tricking him into tapping on the brakes.

“John, it’s nothing,” I say, scared by the cars veering around us, the occupants yelling silently behind sealed windows.

Two minutes later, he asks me the same thing. Then again and again.

At Barstow, we stop for gas and at a McDonald’s so John can eat. I suck on a small Coke to quell my nausea and clear my head. John finishes his two hamburgers, burps, and starts the van again as if he’s been programmed to do so. We head back onto 66, but not really. The old road is buried beneath us, paved over by I-15. It’s sad to think that they couldn’t have just left it alone, but progress, that obstinate SOB, is adamant about such things.

The trees are different now. They are gnarled and knobby, corkscrewed into the earth, dark spines growing at the ends of hairy, welted branches that prick the air like giant bottlebrushes. They remind me of pictures of mutated cells that I’ve seen on TV. My book says they are Joshua trees, and since I’ve traveled this way before, you’d think I’d recognize them, but I don’t.

Soon 66 rises to the surface again, but I decide that it’s time for a shortcut. We stay on I-15, which takes us through the Cajon Pass, while bypassing San Bernardino, which I’ve heard is no great shakes.

Unfortunately, the drive downhill through the pass is very steep and wide and crowded. Six lanes of traffic, all going downhill too fast. Maybe San Berdoo wouldn’t have been so bad after all. It’s not long before gravity takes over and the Leisure Seeker starts going faster and faster down the precipitous incline.

“John,” I say, watching the speedometer climb to 70 mph. “We’re going kind of fast.”

John ignores me.

Soon, we’re doing seventy-five, then eighty. We haven’t gone eighty at any point during this entire trip. The Leisure Seeker starts to vibrate.

“John,”
I say. “Please, John.
Slow down
.”

What does John do? He gets in the left lane. We start flashing past cars on my side, each one whipping by like a gasp of unfinished breath. The vibration makes my head wobble. I clench my teeth, for fear of chipping my dentures. I’m getting really scared now. I see a sign up ahead:

RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMP

“John! Goddamn it!”

John says nothing. Eighty-five. Then something happens.
I stop being afraid. A calmness settles over me. I take a breath. My stomach feels better. The knot in my neck loosens and the discomfort eases. The draft at the window rises to a scream. Ninety mph. The undercarriage chatters like a tommy gun.

I close my eyes.

Then I hear a loud
thunk
. I feel the van slow down about 10 mph. I open my eyes and see John’s hand on the transmission lever, as he slides it into L 2. Another, even louder
thunk
and a jolt as the van slows down even more. The vibration eases up as the engine of the Leisure Seeker howls, a spirit longing to be set free. I hear objects shift in the back as the speedometer slips down to sixty. John stares at the road straight ahead, grunts. He puts on his turn signal, moves over into the right lane. Someone honks at us.

I turn my head and look at the trees.