Chapter 20. Passage

https://youtu.be/nnZVIluWuq4

We rolled down east through Angel Fire, south to Guadalupita, and on to Las Vegas. That is, Las Vegas New Mexico. From there we were on I-40. No one was talking much. Everyone was hung-over but Dennis and he was busy driving with Wanda asking why she couldn’t go to Jamaica with us. Dennis tried to explain that it wasn’t going to be easy and that she might end up stranded in Miami. I was concerned that Wanda might get belligerent when she started off with the business of racism.

Stan tried to cut her bitching off, “Hey, I had to leave Debby and Leah behind.”

Wanda was quiet for a few miles before she began putting down Debby and Leah, “What, Debby wasn’t your woman… neither was Leah. They were fucking everyone last night.”

Stan wasn’t going to let her get by with slurring Debby and Leah. “Look, what we did last night was a going away party. We’ll probably never see each other again. I think it’s damned cool they put out for everyone.”

“Yeh,” Dennis added, “Lighten up Wanda. We can’t take you with us and we really can’t all stay crammed in this car any further than Amarillo. You agreed a week ago that you wanted to go back there where you have family.”

That was how it went all the way to Amarillo. There would be silence for a while and then she’d start in again. I figured that Dennis could handle her but it seemed touch and go at times. I did manage to get some rest and, despite a raging hangover and her bitching, I slept most of the way to Amarillo.

Once we arrived in Amarillo, I gave her twenty bucks for bus fare or whatever and she had Dennis drop her off at a bar. That made a little more room in the car and a rotation system was developed. Jamie didn’t know how to drive a stick shift… or probably any car at all, so he was exempt from driving. I looked forward to getting behind the wheel just for the sake of stretching my legs a bit. Besides, I loved long distance driving. I hadn’t paid much attention to the landscape after passing Las Vegas, because I was sleeping or pretending to sleep most of the time. But, once I got behind the wheel, I loved seeing the rolling grasslands and semi-arid prairie along the way. I pictured herds of buffalo covering the landscape from horizon to horizon and horsemen, Comanche, Kiowa, and Sioux, following the herds for the hunt. It was a way of life that ended abruptly a mere century before. The majesty of the land dictated a humility, some shame and pride, in being a part of the drama on these wide-open spaces.

I drove on through the panhandle of Texas onto and through the prairies of Oklahoma. A sea of grass and winter-wheat as far as the eye could see stretched out, interrupted only by an occasional gully or wash. I envisioned the dust bowl era of Okies packing their belongings on their trucks and cars heading for greener pastures in California a mere generation before. The land had a sadness about its quiet dignity and the tragedies played out on these plains. Stan took the wheel before Oklahoma City. I moved back to the rear seat and slept some more sitting shoulder to shoulder with Jamie, Peter, and Steve. Dennis rode shotgun when he wasn’t driving… it was a tacit agreement as it was, after all, his car. Four of us were crammed shoulder to shoulder in the back seat made for three small people. We changed off positions whenever we stopped but only the driver could get some space.

I didn’t mind sleeping sitting up, drifting in and out of consciousness. Dust devils seemed to follow along side of the road as we made our way eastward on route I-40. Then, by a spontaneous and unanimous decision, we made a turn north at Checotah to Muskogee. After all, the song was an anthem enjoyed by both rednecks and hippies alike for completely opposite reasons.

Muskogee had the look of Everytown, USA. We could have been in Grand Island Nebraska, Topeka Kansas, or any other plains town. It too had a street called Broadway and a Main Street. It had hardware stores, drug stores, auto dealers and diagonal parking along the streets in front of the shops. We stopped at a greasy spoon to sit at a booth and order a cheeseburger and shake. No one gave us any trouble. In fact, I figured, it was a friendly place where people treated everyone civil until proven unworthy. The middle-aged waitress even called us Honey and Dear.

“Sure, Honey. Would you like French fries or country fries?”

I had no idea what a country fry was so I answered, “Oh yes, country fries.”

A couple of older men in coveralls in the next booth watched us order and one of them asked, “Where you boys from?”

Oh, oh, I thought, here goes… “We’re from New Mexico… we just had to see Muskogee. We’re on our way to Florida.”

“Was it because of Merle Haggard’s song?”

“Yeh, ya gotta love that song.” Dennis acknowledged.

“I’m Hank and this here is my brother Jimbo…”

They went around the table introducing themselves and feeling welcomed. It was no big deal. These people were authentically friendly. Here were the town folks of the most anti-hippy anthem of the era sitting next to us swapping friendly noises like old friends… Just goes to show ya how wrong popular images can be, I mused as I enjoyed the setting and the whole scene.

Muskogee sits in the middle of the country where three rivers; The Arkansas, the Grand and the Verdigris meander and converge. Something about all that water energized me. I’d missed the green of the Northwest where I’d grown up although I’d learned to love the high chaparral of New Mexico. I felt as though Muskogee wasn’t such a bad place to settle down. We fondly bid the old-timers in the café adieu as our motley little group piled into the Hillman and headed back down south to the I-40.

This ride was an endurance run and less a travelogue for me until we crossed the bridge into Memphis. The distances we traveled also made little sense as to direction. Dennis had peculiar ideas about driving through the Deep South. We had a disagreement over his idea at a gas station in Memphis.

I was tired of him calling all the shots so I started the debate as all six of us stood around the vending machine sipping on soft drinks. “Look at the map. I makes more sense to go south from here. We’ll be through the thick of the South faster.”

Dennis argued, “Max, you don’t know these crackers like I do. Hippies in a little Hillman are safer avoiding as much of the deep South as possible. Damned near everyone in Mississippi is fuckin’ KKK.”

Holding the map folded showing Mississippi and Louisiana to him, I countered, “Awe Dennis, look, I want to see New Orleans. We can go over on I-10 to Florida from there.”

Peter said, “Didn’t anyone see Easy Rider? I ain’t goin. That’s where Peter Fonda got blown away. I’m with Dennis on this.”

I hoped our friendly reception in Muskogee would dispel negative images of rednecks that loomed in everybody’s minds. Jamie and Steve said nothing so I suggested, “Let’s vote on it. That way everyone gets a say.”

Dennis was confident to jump on the idea, “Sure, I’m all for that. A show of hands? All in favor of getting our asses lynched, raise your hands.”

Stan raised his hand faster than I did. Jamie started to raise his but stopped short of it to see what Steve would do but Steve didn’t.

Dennis was ready to declare victory, “All in favor of living to see big breasted beautiful black women in Jamaica, raise your hand.

Dennis’ and Peter’s hands shot up but Jamie and Steve still didn’t budge.

“What do we do now?” Stan asked, “Come on you two. It’s up to you. Let’s try it again.”

This went on for two more tries before the tie was broken in favor of Dennis. So, we skirted most of the South by going all the way to Ashville, cutting back and across North and South Carolina, before entering Georgia. That’s the reason we took the long way on I-40 past Knoxville to turn south through North Carolina at Ashville and back through South Carolina back into Georgia.

The Hillman came to stop at a small lake for a stretch break. The place we parked was on a small point that had lots of brush and a tree with a rope to swing out over the water. I looked around and saw that we were across the pond from a grassy knoll where young Southern Belles in spring dresses and their Beaus lazed, or sat on blankets, with picnic baskets. No one swam in the pond. From across that bucolic scene where we had parked, we jumped out of the car and stripped down, swinging out on the rope and dropping into the water. We didn’t care if we were seen from the other side. It was only after splashing around a bit that I could see that everyone on the other side of the pond was craning their necks and glaring our way. Long-haired, naked hippies, a swimmin’ in their pond, wasn’t being taken kindly. Stan noticed several of the young studs making their way towards us from around the end of the pond and alerted us to the impending peril. Quickly, we all got dressed and sped off in the Hillman before any serious confrontation took place.

I was driving as we approached Atlanta. Debbie had given me a tab of acid as a going away present and I dropped it without telling the others. What was I thinking! I’d imagined Atlanta would be a quiet Southern city of the fifties to drive through. That Atlanta was gone with the wind. This Atlanta had tall modern glass and steel buildings and a beltway around it.

Once on the beltway I felt as though I had launched out on a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. I was a bit shaky because of the acid and I hadn’t driven a vehicle very much since I was in the Navy. Except for driving into Taos for supplies in the flatbed, I had been a pedestrian and unused to heavy traffic heavier than the one stop-light in Taos. I got so confused that I could barely make out what direction I was going. Choosing the right lane was crucial if I was to ever exit the beltway going the right direction. The route we had to hit would take us all the way to Miami and missing it would mean staying on the beltway all the way around the city back to our exit for fear of getting lost on city streets. I slipped into a time-space warp from the LSD which helped me manage to take the turn-off by crossing six lanes of heavy traffic cutting-off, and pissing-off, a dozen other drivers to get there. I thought it did anyway. The rest of the way was easier and I made it through the Peach State.

While unfolding the road map, I said, “Ah, Florida… it looks like a dangling penis dripping ooze with disease from Miami through the keys.” I said out loud.

“Wha…!” Stan said, awakening from a car nap. His head jerked up, “The clap?”

“Florida.”

“Why Florida?” Stan was glad I was awake. “Ain’t this the State with all the rich New York Jews?”

“I guess you’re right.” I wanted someone to distract me from the tedium of the road. “I just have a bad feeling about this State.”

“You ever been here?” Stan was waking up.

“Naw, I just have a feeling. I can tell already, it’s hot and humid and nothing but disease could thrive in this place.” I was feeling dragged down coming off the acid and the road trip was losing its attraction.

“So, we just go through it, eh?” Stan, always positive, answered, “We don’t gotta stay here. Say, I got some acid Leah gave me… enough for everyone, let’s drop.”

“Sure thing,” I said because I didn’t want to say no and let everyone know I’d dropped without telling them. And now that I wasn’t driving, I might enjoy it.

We drove on past Tampa… all of us tripping… crossing over at Fort Meyers and on south of Lake Okeechobee connecting to the route on the east side of the State. I thought it would be more like the bayous of movie-lore. I didn’t expect it to be flat grasslands stretching out into infinity when one could catch a glimpse of it. But mostly from the road I saw nothing… couldn’t see past the high grass and only an occasional glimpse of that great vast lake. That part of Florida would breed a different sort of people, like the Seminoles, that could live there.

We passed the lake. The sky darkened with clouds and the show was in the sky. Lightning flashed in a three-hundred-sixty-degree circle around us. It reminded me of the cannonades of lightning and thunder on the mesa. Some of the bolts darted across the sky while others struck ground very near our humble car, booming-out shockwaves rocking the car that I could feel as well as hear. It was ominous and I sensed it was a warning… I wasn’t sure what it was a warning of, but it was a sign of foreboding.