We’d explored the far reaches of the continent and survived. We had 2,000 miles between us and school, but I was certain my pal Wildman would get us home. I prayed to God, even though mixing travel and religion was a questionable practice. I’d rejected certain Biblical teachings, such as the Old Testament story of Isaac and Abraham. Why would a caring God demand that a father sacrifice his son as proof that he loved Him? Most fathers would refuse. I rarely found fault with Jesus, although him conjuring up hundreds of baskets of loaves and fish seemed exaggerated. I also had problem with Lazarus. I mean, dead Lazarus had probably become a mummy. Would resurrection mean restoring his body too, or did he jerk around Bethany like the living dead?
George Holiday and I checked out of the Holiday Inn and hit the road. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper, with campers and trucks clogging the lanes. George cussed when a trucker tried cutting him off. He cranked the volume for “Purple Haze.” George lit a Kool and stopped talking. It felt as though he was driving to his execution. I figured he was contemplating life and the direction he’d taken. Unlike me, he’d already dropped out of CU. His new drug of choice was nicotine. He smoked like a chimney through towns, cities, and wild stretches of land. Wildman rolled down his window and flicked out ashes from his cigarette. Some blew into the backseat, landing on the emergency gas can. Smoke got trapped in his glasses, so he tilted his lenses to clear it. George farted. The noise sounded like a duck quacking. Cigarettes and the radio kept him focused. Whenever the Rolling Stones played, he drummed the steering wheel with his palms. I wasn’t sure why he liked them so much. To me, Mick Jagger was a wimp faking rebellion. George usually sang along, especially to “Paint It Black” and “Sympathy for the Devil.” If the topic of Baker Hall came up, his tone turned dark. He hated the basement dwellers, the RA, and the dorm counsellors. I sensed something disintegrating inside him, turning him against the world.
We’d pull into one of the myriad of Stuckey’s for meals, snacks, and gas. George had Stuckey’s radar and knew where and when to stop. He’d walk the aisles fingering pecan snacks and knickknacks, perhaps restoring his memories of Sam. When I’d suggest stopping at a rival roadside store, such as Buc-ees or Love’s, he’d snarl, “Shut the fuck up.” In Ocala, I bought two nuns seated at the lunch counter a round of milk. Their habits made them look as though they had alien heads. I watched them sprout milk moustaches while I perused nut rolls, mini-pies, and rubber alligators. The help and the Stuckey’s customers were half the fun. The Micanopy waitress served us a two-for-one special on “big ‘o hunksa pecan pie.” I flirted with teenage girls, asking a cute redhead to marry me. She shook her head, saying she had pressing obligations boxing chicken eggs back at the farm.
Stopping at a Stuckey’s seemed to recharge my buddy. He was infatuated with a woman he’d never see again, but I didn’t want to challenge his foolish obsession. He would often ask, “What’s Sam’s doing right now?” I believe rolling with a pal’s odd behavior is best, if only to stabilize his or her sanity.
“I’m beat,” George admitted. “Can you get us out of Florida?”
“Easy peasy,” I replied.
He pulled over outside Gainesville and I took over. I found Highway 27 at Alachua, one that cut across central Florida. There was less traffic. The highway zipped through acres of moss-draped cypresses and blossoming magnolias. Boats cruised the sapphire water of a small lake. George stared at the scenery with mild amusement before closing his eyes.
It was nearly dusk when I stopped at Love’s in Buckville. We used the restroom and ordered roast beef hoagies and coffee. I parked on the far side of the lot. We decided to rest in the car. We devoured the sandwiches and washed them down with coffee. I sprawled on the bench seat in back, using my bunched shirt as a cushion for my head on the gas can. George lit a Kool. He stared at a half-moon floating over the city.
“I’m that moon,” he told me.
“How so?”
“Cut in half. No matter how hard I try reflecting light, the darkness always seems to creep in.”
“Tomorrow’s a new day,” I said.
He tossed out his cigarette and spread out on the bench seat up front. He snored. A night owl hooted from an evergreen behind Love’s.
We left Buckville at dawn. The land was flat and swampy. The aromas were citrus and a hardwood with the sharp spike of mesquite. I spotted an orange grove off the freeway, took the exit, and parked beside a row of trees glistening with fruit. I nudged George awake.
He rubbed his eyes. “What the fuck?”
“Harvest time,” I replied.
“You wanna pick oranges now?”
“They smell ripe.”
“All right,” George agreed. “I’ll pop the hood. Cops’ll think we’ve got engine trouble.” He raised the hood high enough to lock it in place. It did look like we were having mechanical problems. We tore off into the grove. I yanked off my shirt, spread it over the ground, and filled it with fruit. George did the same. We returned to the Catalina with a bushel-sized harvest.
“I’ll bring some to my mother,” George said.
“The guys at Baker Hall will love these,” I added.
George winced. “Could care less about those punks.”
I sped west. We peeled oranges and gorged ourselves approaching Tallahassee. The oranges gave me a burst of energy. I picked up the pace to 85 mph as we passed the city. We entered a nomad’s land of everglades and strange birds dropping beaks in the water.
“What do those birds eat?” I asked George.
“Alligators,” he answered.
I found the 10 West after scooting through Tallahassee’s suburbs. The sprawl reminded me of LA. George fidgeted in the passenger seat. We reached Milton. I drove past Stuckey’s after spotting a motorcycle in the lot. George cracked an eye. He grabbed the rearview mirror, adjusted it, and gazed back. Maybe he was hoping to catch a final glimpse of Sam. The lines in his forehead deepened.
I reached Alabama. Florida had been a grueling drive. It was 3 p.m. No sign of fog. George lit a Kool. The smoke stung my eyes. I powered through the outskirts of Mobile and crossed a series of bridges. A seagull hovered over the car. I made Mississippi. The states were falling away, and it made me think America wasn’t so big after all. I fantasized about marrying a Southern belle and having kids who munched crawdads, grits, and collard greens. My imaginary wife was a former beauty queen who modeled in towns along the Gulf.
I wanted to cheer George up but wasn’t sure what to do. How do you hook a friend falling into darkness and pull him back into the light? I wondered if he’d resigned himself to being alone forever. Carlos Santana played “Soul Sacrifice” over the radio. I’d never thought Sam was right for him, but I had little experience in affairs of the heart. If only she’d answered the phone and kept her Disney World promise, things might have been different. George flicked his butt out the window and slumped down in the seat. He reminded me of a boxer ready to throw in the towel.
I decided to take on Texas. There was plenty of roadkill. I didn’t hold this death against Texas. Accidents happen. But I wondered if locals aimed at roadside critters and got kicks out of running them over. We passed dead skunks, dead possums, dead birds, dead snakes, dead tortoises, and dead coyotes. The coyotes bothered me most because they looked like dogs with tongues hanging out and bodies smashed. I wished I had a shovel to bury all the dead while praying for their souls. I’d heard religious types say animals didn’t have spirits at all. I’m certain they were wrong. There was something called the Great Chain of Being that ranked living things, with humans a link below angels. The animals and creatures of the sea, like crabs and fish, were between humans and lowly plants. Anything below humans didn’t have souls, which I didn’t believe.
We split El Paso and followed the 25 into New Mexico. Once we made it through the width of Texas, everything seemed downhill. There was less roadkill. The odd thing about retracing your steps is getting haunted by déjà vu, to the point you recognize everything and nothing at the same time. This reverse glance deflated my lust for adventure. I had a renewed appreciation for the stability of school and the chance to reunite with Theresa Leedles.
George reclaimed the wheel in Santa Fe. A roadrunner darted in front of us. George veered. The roadrunner made it safely to the other side. George lit a cigarette. He sang off-key to “White Rabbit.” We were going backwards, retracing steps back to Colorado. The excitement had waned. When things are fresh, the world seems young and new. Knowing what’s approaching can make life stale. Returning on the opposite sides of freeways, highways, and thin roads didn’t restore that joy of that first time moving through new territory. The familiar kills the joie de vivre of discovery.
The drive home had been tedious and predictable. I was relieved when we broke the state line into Colorado. But something inside of me changed when a light snow began falling. The heater blew hot air, melting the flakes as they hit the windshield. The plains were dusted white, and green splashes of scrub bloomed. Colorado looked clean and pure. I was hit by a tinge of regret for leaving, but I knew the trip had pushed me from boy to man. We reached the Boulder city limits with the gas gauge pinned to empty. We had no money left to refuel.
“Running on fumes,” George warned. The car sputtered. We’d have to stop and funnel in gas from the red can. He coasted down hills. He avoided passing and accelerating. We merged onto Highway 36. He drove like a grandpa to our exit on Colorado Avenue, before hooking a left onto Regent Drive. He coasted into a patch of snow outside Baker Hall.
“Thank God we made it,” I said.
“Thank God is right,” George replied, “and thank God for the Catalina.”
Baker Hall, an all-male dorm, was in the middle of campus. It was a favorite of parents not wanting sons distracted by coeds giggling down the hall. Its macho-centric aura inspired every floor to form a ragtag football team to compete with rival floors on Saturdays. Tackle games were played without pads or helmets. I didn’t mind not having a helmet. Helmets made me claustrophobic. It wasn’t unusual for ballers to end up in the infirmary with busted arms and legs. A few received concussions. We competed against former prep stars who’d been cut from the university team. The CU Buffaloes had never won a national championship, but I got the feeling that day might come. I received accolades from fellow basement dwellers for my defensive prowess, which included multiple sacks of enemy quarterbacks, interceptions, and adding to the swagger of our team. I didn’t set out to intentionally hurt rival players, but sometimes my passion to destroy a runner or a passer led to crashes like vehicular head-ons and sideswipes. The university police put an end to our games when the bodies began piling up in the infirmary. I built a reputation that earned me my Killer nickname. Because of this rep, I was welcomed home to Baker Hall as both rebel and conquering hero. The basement dwellers wanted to know everything that happened. I spilled the beans, including my House of Blue Lights experience. A few guys fell in lust with Linda. Denver Doug vowed to visit her during Spring Break. The guys enjoyed the oranges. Fat Dave was allergic to citrus but not the others. Like me, most thought they were the sweetest they’d ever tried. I tucked a bunch into a King Soopers bag and slid it under my bed.
The basement dwellers were overjoyed when George turned in his key. He’d threatened many with his streetfighter bravado, lingo that put them on the defensive for fear Wildman would lambaste them for minor infractions. George didn’t play in our kill-kill-kill games, and this prevented him from building the comraderie I knew. That’s when I realized building up a bank of allies was a valuable thing in a man’s world. My pal’s bank was bankrupt because he kept most guys at arm’s length.
Floyd Bellows, my new roommate, was flabbergasted I kept Spido, my black widow spider, in a Colt 45 bottle on my desk. Spido had survived my two-week absence thanks to a giant horsefly I’d coaxed into the bottle before recapping it. I’d punched a hole in the cap so my spider could get air. Spido’s abdomen was swollen to the point I swore she was pregnant. Bellows threatened to report me for “harboring a poisonous pet.” I threatened to uncap the bottle and spill Spido on his face while he slept. The threat war ended when he apologized for being incompatible. Bellows moved out. I’d inherited the largest room in the basement and had it all to myself. I celebrated by throwing a party on Friday night. It was poorly attended. Basement dwellers had caught wind that George was making a guest appearance. My travel buddy showed up with Crazy Mike Harris and Karen Snow. She’d dropped a few pounds and looked foxy in skinny jeans and signature white rabbit coat. We shared a strange intimacy, both of us knowing Crazy Mike had ordered her to seduce me at a previous party. Seeing her now made me wish I’d followed her into that back room. Karen flashed me a half-smile when we made eye contact. Crazy Mike was laying out lines of coke on my desk beside Spido’s bottle. George vacuumed them up through a rolled-up dollar bill.
Karen moseyed over to me, brushing a hand over her thigh. She wore red heels. “Kirby,” she began, “I’m so sorry about what happened at our last party.”
“You understand why I couldn’t?” I asked.
“You want love first.”
I nodded.
“When you get older,” she said, “it’s not so important.”
“Gotcha,” I replied. I hadn’t been in love with Linda but still had fun. Was love invented to stabilize the masses? I didn’t know. But I did realize I needed a spiritual connection to love a woman.
The party ended with half-a-keg to go. George and Crazy Mike had done their best to polish it off in-between snorts. They split with red party cups spilling beer and Karen between them. My room remained empty until a few basement dwellers drifted in. Fat Dave congratulated me for making it home safely. Tim Dusto suggested I write the trip down. I wasn’t sure I wanted to document my escapades. However, I thought the trip was fertile material to satisfy long overdue story assignments in Creative Writing.
George’s pad was in a downtown neighborhood off Pearl Street. He didn’t pay rent. Crazy Mike Harris had given him a free month until he landed a job. He drove me over in the Catalina. It misfired from a bum sparkplug. We arrived at a lemon-yellow one-bedroom with chipped paint and window frames rife with termite galleys. A green Weber kettle sat under a garage overhang that slanted down precariously. Untamed trees in the backyard spilled bushy new growth over a mossy roof. George called it a bungalow. I called it a dump. There was little set back from a busy road and the grass strip from curb to porch was dead. A chair made of coyote fence posts was perched on a cracked cement landing fronting the door. The door wasn’t locked. I followed George in. The shag carpet was root-beer colored and stunk of dog.
I jumped up and down on the shag. “Is this where you party?” I asked my pal.
He smirked. “Very funny.”
“Where’s Crazy Mike Harris?”
“Fucking Karen Snow.”
“In the bedroom?”
“No, dummy. At her spread on the Hill.”
“He should move in with her.”
“Crazy Mike needs his independence.”
I followed George into a dinky kitchen. The fridge groaned. A picture of a black pit bull was wedged under a magnet on the fridge’s face. The white oven top was lacquered in grease. I negotiated a mosaic of cracked floor tiles. Fallout from the popcorn ceiling gathered in the cracks. The brown linoleum leading to the back door was worn down to the floorboards. George moped around a cramped living room with a tattered couch and a suede lounger with claw marks. He darted for the bathroom. A lawnmower next door cranked up. I began thinking Baker Hall wasn’t such a bad place to live, at least for the spring semester.
George returned. He clinked bottles digging through the fridge. I was chicken to use the bathroom after I heard the toilet running. It all felt like a movie with a tragic ending, the kind where you root for the loser with noble dreams, but he’s relegated to a life of poverty and regret. I wanted to avoid that ending for myself, no matter what.
I returned to my room in the basement. I was lucky that spring break had arrived, and I had a free week to work on my tardy assignments. Professor Quinlan tracked me down in Baker Hall and knocked on my door. He warned that he’d flunk me if I didn’t turn in three papers the day class resumed.
“I’ll do it,” I promised.
“Time will tell,” he replied. He took off, climbing the stairway to the ground floor.
I kept the door open and studied the mirror on the wall above my bed. I seemed older somehow, as if the road had aged me. My cheeks looked sunken. I spotted a wrinkle on my forehead and forced a smile. My teeth were white—I was still that young.
Kirby Michael Wright was born and raised in Hawaii. His family land on Moloka’i served as the breadbasket for Kamehameha’s warriors while training for their assault on Oahu.