There were six of us. We were headed to Minneapolis from Boulder in a banged-up old F-150. We were somewhere about 120 miles west of Lincoln when the sun fell below the horizon in the rearview mirror. There was no point in arriving in Lincoln in two hours. It was mid-fall and getting chilly in the evenings. We had a few bucks between us, but we were planning on breaking up into two-person squads in Lincoln and flying signs for gas money, smokes and booze. Standing around with a cardboard sign declaring my desperation for gas money in the dark and exhaling deeply and sharply every couple minutes to see whether I can see my breath isn't all that pleasant. We decided to find somewhere to roll out our sleeping bags and drink a few beers and call it a day. Lincoln would still be there in the morning.
We were riding in Julie's truck. It was a rusted-out, dark red, '77 Ford with a fiberglass camper shell on the back that had, over the years, been slathered in bondo and decorated intermittently with crosses made of duct tape. This was before everybody and his damn brother had gotten a dog, so we weren't travelling as heavy as we would wind up traveling in the year ahead. We did have one dog in the gang. Dave's dog. Jake. I'm a dog-lover, and Jake was my kinda dog. He was a mutt but he looked like a mix of Chocolate Lab and a German Shepard. Both of those breeds are almost always aces as long as their person can communicate with dogs. Jake probably weighed 75 pounds, solid and stocky, had floppy ears and a deep brown coat with the tan eyebrows and chest that shepards often have. He was a hansome dog, friendly but not afraid to scrap if he had to. He wasn't mine but me and Jake were bros.
I didn't mind riding in the back. I preferred it, if you wanna know the truth. The only time that riding in the cab of a truck with two other people doesn't suck is if you're driving. I guess it's also cool if you're squished against somebody that it's nice to be squished against. But I wasn't driving and there weren't any people in the crew that I had any interest in cuddling with. So I was sprawled out over a bunch of backpacks with Shelly and Jeff and the dog. Those folks were okay but they were way too in love with each other. I mean, I guess it was cute and I was happy for them and all that, but gimme a fuckin break. Then again, the only person who was expressing any interest in making out with me was my buddy's dog. That's nice and all, but it really just isn't the same. So my opinion might have been a little skewed. Anyway, those schmucks were playing snugglebunnies or grabass or whatever the hell it was they were doing and I was admiring where we had just been, absentmindedly scruffing up Jake's ears while he lay in seeming bliss with his eyes closed and his head in my lap.
The window opened from the cab of the truck. We were all cheerfully startled from our trances, abruptly retreating from the hypnosis of the sun setting over an ocean of cornfields. ¨Postmortem¨ by Slayer was audible enough to inspire jealousy. Damn. I wished we had some Slayer in the back of the truck. At least I wasn't jammed up there with those fuckers, though. Just kidding. But not really. I dunno. People freak me out a little. They're okay sometimes, but I don't like them touching me. There are certainly exceptions to that rule of thumb, and I'm not phobic. I'd just prefer to have my own goddam space. There's a specific name for the fear and hatred of being crowded with other people. It's called ochlophobia. I'm not clausterphobic, but it you lock me in the bathroom with three other people I'll freak the fuck out. Maybe that's putting it strongly, but I'm borderline ochlophobic, in my own unprofessional opinion.
¨HEY!!! HOW ARE YALL DOIN BACK THERE?!!!¨, Dave shouted louder than was necessary, but he was trying to make himself heard over the volume of the music and the deep rumble of Grandpa. That was the truck's name. And it fit. To analogize, Grandpa used to be triathlete and a golden gloves boxer. He had risen to the rank of lieutenant in the marines when he had shown such valor and heroicism in the face of certain death at the hands of such vicious enemies as gravity and momentum. We all knew it and we all respected it. But times had changed. These days, Grandpa would shit his pants and forget what he was talking about and have zero idea where he was going. I mean he'd get you there eventually, but you had to give that poor old truck a break. 260,000 miles is a lot for some ancient, 3 on the tree battle-cruiser like ol Grandpa. He was still kicking, though.
The four of us jolted out of our semi-comas. ¨HUH?!!!¨, we stammered out in sloppy unison. Jake didn't say anything but he had scrambled into a lazy sitting position as he sneezed a couple of times. ¨We're good¨, somebody said.
¨THERE'S AN EXIT IN 4 MILES!!!¨, Dave bellowed, still oblivious to the reality that we could hear him just fine without all the extra volume. ¨WE'RE GONNA PULL OVER!!! FUCK IT, YA KNOW?!!!!¨
I didn't know, but I could guess. Daylight was rapidly fading. I had to take a leak and beer was starting to sound like a good idea. We all shouted unintelligible grunts of approval and stuck our thumbs up. Dave gave us the devil-horn sign, winked and shut the window, retreating into his little smelly world of Julie, Rich, Slayer and a pack of Bugler. Dave was my best friend back then. As the protagonist in ¨Sling Blade¨ said, I liked the way he talked and he liked the way I talked. A firm foundation for any meaningful relationship, if you ask me. We don't talk much anymore. I keep up with him on Facebook and stuff, but that's about it. Losing friends to time and to change is one of the saddest realities in life. But Dave and I didn't just quit talking one day, out of the blue. Dave doesn't talk to anybody anymore. In fact, I still feel like his best friend. His only friend.
Once we had all shaken off the dust of our highway hypnoses, Shelly crawled over the dog who had reverted to laying down in apprehension. He ducked as she scooted over him and then looked back up in order to sniff her crotch. ¨Knock it off, Jake¨, she scolded with a laugh as she gently slapped him upside the head. She pried the window open. By now, the opening riff of Raining Blood had just ended and the badass thrashy part was kicking in. I sat up a little in an effort to hear the tunes a little better and to hear the other end of Shelly's conversation. The verbal exchange totally wasn't worth listening to. She wondered what time it was. A few seconds later, Rich's burly voice boomed back that it was a little after 5. We were all still used to being on Mountain Time so it didn't seem that late. Hardly what I would label as jet lag, but disorenting nonetheless. ¨WHERE ARE WE GOING?!!!!¨, Shelly shrieked. Evidently, Dave's lack of decible judgement was contagious.
¨Jesus fuckin Christ….¨, I mutttered loudly, with the intention of being heard. ¨Quit fuckin screaming in my ear….¨ I rolled my eyes and scooted Jake a little closer to me, out of Shelly's return path. She threw me a quick glare that somehow conveyed all at once her seething contempt for me, for Jake (that chick used to hate dogs), and for everything that had ever led us to have wound up riding in Grandpa together. I glanced over at Jeff. He showed the palms of his hands, shook his head and chuckled inaudibly. I always got along with Jeff, but his girlfriend got on my goddam nerves. I know the feeling was mutual. We managed to get along and I think we inwardly respected one another, but to all outward appearances, our loathing of one another was thinly masked.
¨Whatever¨, she sighed snottily as she turned her head towards the window, expertly pissing me off by casually ignoring me. ¨You'll live, honey.¨
¨Yeah, well you won't if you step on me or Jake again¨, I piped in bored monotone without missing a beat. She flashed a hateful grin and gave me the finger. I stuck my tongue out at her. She shook her head as if she couldn't believe that I was such an immature prick. It was a good old fashioned stand-off, but I had managed to get the last word.
Mission accomplished.
I looked over at Jeff to see him giggling. I flipped him off as I rolled my eyes in mild embarrassment for having reverted to 7th grade lunchroom tactics just to be the guy that wins the senseless argument that wasn't even about anything, fighting a vague smirk that tugged at the corner of my mouth. I surrendered with a shrug and a timid smile as I nodded behind me towards Shelly. She was now ignoring me entirely, jabbering to the folks in the front seat about shit that could undoubtedly wait til we pulled into a gas station. It probably could've waited until humanity is nothing more than a blemish on Mother Earth's resume' and whatever she was talking about wouldn't have been worth paying attention to.
We slowed to about 60 mph. We were following a semi. Julie was a good driver. I mean, she wasn't Dale Earnhart Jr. but neither am I. No point in passing a semi just to slam on your brakes in a half a mile. Me and Jeff got to our knees to see where we were going. We already knew where we had been. Jake was bumping into us as he sniffed out the side windows. He whimpered nearly silently a few times. He wanted outta the goddam truck.
The semi in front of us grew smaller as it gained distance from us to the left, remaining on I-80 on its' destiny, to wherever semis go when they dissappear into the darkening eastern horizon. Julie began to let off the gas as we approached the over-sized stop sign that perhaps was as large as it was in order to flag down the local drunk drivers. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that that intersection was a competitor in the National Auto-Fatality Fair. It probably won the blue ribbon statewide three years straight! To the right was a Pilot truckstop that looked impersonal and which seemed as though it might house a writhing nest of state troopers. On the other side of the freeway overpass was a lonely little Citgo station. The only patron of the dingy little 40 year-old joint appeared to be whoever was driving beat-up tow truck. We waited for a semi to turn left off of the little highway and onto the interstate in front of us, whereupon Julie cranked Grandpa to the left and headed towards the mom and pop gas station.
We generally looked like a disaster when we'd pile out of Grandpa. When we spilled out of the truck in front of the Citgo on I-80, it was certainly no exception. Everybody had to piss, we were all disoriented (especially we who had been sitting in the back of the truck) and none of us had any idea where we were or where we were going. None of had changed our clothes since a few days before we had split from Boulder. Pit stops on a road trip can be extremely rejuvenating. This one was. We were in high spirits. Shelly and I exchanged glances, and though neither of us spoke a word, we traded apologies by rolling our eyes, grinning sheepishly and making little ¨get the fuck outta here¨ hand gestures. She slugged me playfully in the shoulder. I flinched as if it hurt.
¨Let's get some beer, ya fuckin jerk,¨ she she finally chided. I nodded and we walked inside, brothers and sisters in arms. She was okay once in a while even if she did drive me up the fuckin wall. Dave handed me the few bucks he had in the pocket of his hoodie and remained outside so he could go take a leak with his dog. I was vaguely trying to count the chaotic blob of dollars that Dave had handed me when I looked up and nodded cheerfully to the guy who was driving the tow-truck when he walked past me with Gatorade and beer in a plastic bag. He eyed me with suspicion but nodded back to me almost imperceptably. ¨Evenin¨, he mumbled.
After I took a squirt, I washed my hands and face. I didn't used to be all that hygenic. I didn't usually wash up unless I had some kind of mishap. But I felt like washing up that time, so I did. Rich walked past me and growled something under his breath about me being a pussy or something. A guy can't wash his fuckin face? I never wanted to tangle with that dude, though. He was around 6'3¨ and went about 230 lbs. A big boy. Not only was he big, he was a hot headed scrapper. A bad combo, if you ask me…. But yeah, you better know what you're doing if you're gonna bang heads with Rich. I'd seen good sides of him and he'd seen good sides of me, but we didn't like each other. We had mutual friends so we tolerated each other. I'd seen him put guys in the goddam hospital, dudes that hadn't done anything more than bump into him and make him spill his drink at the bar. And I could outsmart him any day of the week. I loved that he hated me for that. I was Bugs Bunny and Rich was Yosemite Sam. That made me a little nervous, especially if he was drunk and in a crappy mood. We weren't friends, but he was the kinda ogre who had my back just cos he loved Dave, and me and Dave were like Beavis and Butthead, Cheech and Chong, like Han and Chewie, like Butch Cassidy and the fuckin Sundance Kid. Dave would never forgive him if he hospitalized me. Rich was a good guy to have on your team. Whatever his faults may or may not have been, he was a loyal cat.
I squinted and shook my head incredulously at him through the mirror behind his back as the door closed behind him. Fuck that dude.
I walked back out into the flickering fleurescent lights of the all-but-abandoned country gas station feeling like a new man. ¨Man¨ might not be the correct noun. I was 23 or so. This all happened in the mid 90s. So I felt like a new young man, which sounds pretty redundant, now that I say it out loud. Whatever. The cashier was nice. That's somewhat unusual when you're a mess of dirty kids in the middle of nowhere. More often than not, you get the cold shoulder (if you're lucky) from some giant, mongloid, imbred lady who looks like she's trying to cultivate a Giraldo Rivera mustache. Hell, she might even call the cops. And when the cop shows up, there's a good chance that he's some mean-spirited troll who's married to his sister, the cashier. But nah, this lady was nicer than hell.
¨Where are yall from?¨, she asked with earnest sweetness, an honest and genuine smile upon her lips. She was in her mid-40s, her hair tied back in a short ponytail and noticably yet gracefully greying. She was a little plump, but in an appealing way. She wasn't getting any younger but she still had it. Her name tag read ¨Angela¨. I couldn't help but wonder how beautiful she must've been 15 or 20 years earlier. I wouldn't be surprised if I was blushing a bit. I was kind of a dipshit. Fortunately for me, there weren't any mirrors in the place except for the ones that were back in the bathroom for me to see my dumbass reflection in. So I was just a dopey kid and this lady knew it and I was a little embarrassed but she nodded at us all knowingly. She probably did bong hits and guzzled down 30-packs of Busch in Sturgis every year. Her husband whom she knew before he had a beer gut loves her and treats her like a queen. Her son was probably in prison. Her daughter probably took the fuck off to Omaha or maybe better as soon as she was old enough to leave this shithole. It wasn't a shithole really. But I'll bet it was if you were a teenager with a brain in your head. Somehow though, Angela probably only hears from her little girl on Thanksgiving and on Christmas. Maybe a Mother's Day card. Like I said. I was a dopey kid, not Sherlock Holmes. She just seemed like that kinda lady.
There was sadness and love and a fundamental understanding of the inner workings of the forces that control the Universe that I could read in Angela's eyes. She made no effort to hide it and I reckon she couldn't have if she would've tried.
¨Oh, we're from all over,¨ Julie answered and smiled with disarming warmth. That chick was charismatic. Not remarkably pretty, but smart and vivacious and as quick-witted as George Carlin or Bill Murray or whoever you think is the funniest motherfucker in history. She wasn't fake, but she was chameleonic. If we were talking to folks in a black ghetto in South Atlanta, she'd wind up talking like Eminem's little sister. Next thing you know we're getting hooked up with gin and weed and everybody's acting like we're superstars. We got pulled over in Maine, Julie was cracking jokes in a DownEast Maine accent to the cop. She was from outside of Cleveland. I was worried. I had warrants. She put on the magic and the cop wound up walking away and chuckling, telling us to drive safe and to stay outta trouble. Hell, he never even ran her name. The lady was a like a witch or something. The Good Witch of the North. I miss her. Me and Julie and Dave all had become close friends right around the same time when we were all new at living on the streets. She was Dave's girl, and I would never have done anything to interfere with that. But I loved her and she loved me and Dave knew it. And as much as I don't like to lose, my boy won out. She couldn't have wound up with a better guy. Everything else was left unspoken and closed for discussion.
Angela smiled and cocked her head. ¨Well, okay then. Where are yall goin?¨, she asked innocently, a hint of motherly concern in her voice.
¨Minnesota¨, I suddenly and inexplicably felt brave enough to blurt out. ¨We have jobs waiting for us there¨, I added with boyish confidence. I smiled like a moron and started looking at the Slim JIms and chips and crap.
¨That's a long way. Where are you going tonight? I hope you're not going far with all this beer¨, she scolded jokingly. The folks with the cash began to fumble through their wallets in search of their drivers' licenses. ¨Nah, I don't need your ID, hon. Yall are old enough.¨ Angela winked at us. I probably blushed again.
Me, Rich and Julie nodded gratefully and returned our IDs to our wallets.
¨Is there anywhere around here we can camp, Miss?¨, Julie asked. Hell, now she sounded like the lady's daughter who had gone to Omaha.
Angela thought for a minute. ¨Naw, there's no parks around…..¨ She glanced furtively to each side. ¨I'll tell you what, though…. There's the old Hillston ranch...¨, she said thoughtfully.
¨What's that?¨, Shelly asked in a whispered tone, also looking around as if we were being followed or spied upon by the Hillston Ranch cops. She was a sucker for mystery and adventure. We all are to some degree, but Shelly was 18 and excited about every situation that we ran across.
Angela glanced behind her as if the packs of cigarettes behind her might be trying to evesdrop. ¨It's about 6 miles north. You take a left out on this road out here and go til you see a big ol rock on your left that looks a little like President Clinton¨, she confided. ¨About a half mile past that, you're gonna wanna take a right. Go about two and a half miles and you'll see it. It's a big, grey house on the left. There's a burnt down grain silo in the yard. Ya can't miss it. The sherriffs got other shit to do than to come messin with yall. If yall have a fire though, do it in the back. I'm sure you're smart enough to figure that out, I just thought I'd say it, just in case.¨
Julie smiled her pretty smile and warmly thanked Angela while she shook her hand. I just about lost my mind with my profuse expressions of gratitude and ass-kissing smiles and all that. Rich, Jeff and Shelly smiled, waved and thanked the lady in jumbled unison, waving as we walked out.
Dave was standing next to the door looking pleasantly bored when we walked out into the chilly Nebraska evening, Jake was wagging his tail and whimpering a little, happy to welcome us back from the store, sincerely pleased that we had all had a safe trip and wondering if anybody might've picked up a hot dog or something. We briefed Dave on the new plan. I jumped in the front cos I'm a good navigator. Everybody's good for something, and I'm pretty good at figuring out where the fuck I'm at. We got to the Hillston house just as the sunlight had completely vanished from the October sky.
