Chapter 1 - Jan

Please don't get me wrong, none of this has anything to do with the wedding, and besides, I really won't be gone for more than a few days. Statistically, people quit their jobs all the time, and anyway I was only a temp.

Maybe it was the earthquake up north that started it all, I don't know. I watched it on TV for two days, taping as much of it as I dared so the Boomer wouldn't have a fit about the half-inch consumption. And he's right, of course -- I'll never watch it. But I was glad to get the logo that Channel 7 used the second day after they got slick and organized. THE BIG QUAKE OF '89, it reads, on a sillouetted cliff that looks like it's protruding from the middle of the earth. Behind it is a needle tracing out its increasingly frenetic seismograph reading, the logo stopping just as the needle looks like it's going to swing off the TV screen.

When we were spending so much time at the hospital, one of the nurses showed me the segments of the human pulse on an EKG. My dad had an unusual arhythmia, so I learned to look out for these things. And when I saw that seismographic reading, I just couldn't believe it. The earth was having a fucking heart attack and here I was in L.A. worrying about some law firm's margin settings. I think that's what did it, I really do. The world was full of heaving, seismic activity, strange coincidences, cosmic mysteries, yet here I was spending ten hours a day tinkering with bits, bytes, rams, roms, micros, macros . . . . Everything I was dealing with was just getting so digital.

Now, I mentioned above that there was a wedding involved. This is true. And the wedding was mine (and about time I might add, according to some) and I had really no qualms about it whatsoever. No specific qualms. About the Boomer, that is -- I mean about Bob. Nothing specific about the wedding, which I had planned out to the last boutennier, and nothing specific about the -- Bob. Everything was fine on that front, so don't think for a second that my sudden, but temporary, departure from home has anything to do with the wedding. I have no fears of commitment. No specific fears.

Actually, it could've been the new car. I bought a new, metallic blue Subaru a couple months ago and never had a chance before this to really open her up. I keep telling the -- Bob that when we have kids I'm going to periodically snatch them out of their class at school and make them take road trips with me. There's a lot to be learned on the road and a lot of country to see. It's been a while since I took a quasi-obligatory trek up north (in which we see a multitude of old friends and spend every waking moment eating/drinking, recovering from eating/drinking, or making telephone calls to set up the next eating/drinking orgy) -- and years and years since I've taken a real one . . .

A real road trip -- that's always been a concept that was more fun in fantasy than reality. Real road trips usually involve sweat and sticky vinyl seats and an endless progression of Ladies' Room keys attached to huge implements designed to dissuade the weary traveller from pocketing them inadvertently. Fantasy road trips are something else all together -- and I can take them with no preparation whatsoever . . . on a hot summer's night I'll wake up and hear the hot wind of an air conditioner and am instantly in one of those Mojave desert motor courts with my mother and grandmother, midpoint to the Grand Canyon and other fantastical places, too excited to sleep and thinking only of the adventures ahead and the hot anvil of heat outside our aqua and orange motel room . . . or I'll be working at home on a quiet fall afteroon and hear the clattering rumble of a semi going over the pothole down the street -- suddenly I'm racing down a dark wide freeway, lit only by my headlights and the moon. A Peterbilt goes by, amber and red lights flashing as I let him pass, and I can feel the quiet loneliness in the cab, see the functional dashboard cup stained dark with miles of coffee, the CB mic hooked up by the visor. Country music, pedal steel guitars and nicotine stained gloves grasping the wheel. A destination to reach, memories to savor, quick snatches of humanity taken in truck stop diners, flashing roadside motel rooms, and then on, back into the world of the broken white line . . . Anything can set me off, an ignition, the throb of an idle, a certain smell of fresh air that comes from miles and miles away. Once I was typing file labels of cable television stations all over the country and the next morning found myself eating at a Winchell's on 101, my nose pointed north . . . and away.

So you see, it could've been anything that brought me to this Chevron station in Barstow tonight, anything at all. The particulars may be hazy, but I do know one thing -- it's only temporary. I'll be back in a couple days, that's one thing I am sure of.

Chapter 2 - Boomer

Jan's cool -- I mean, she's really cool. So when I came home the other night and saw her note, I figured she was just blowing out some carbon, purging out some corrupted files. . . optimizing herself. You have to understand this about me, I'm not the kind of guy who's going to get all twisted over an independent woman. Jan's got her life, and has lived it her way for a long time. I figured fine, if she wants to take a little road trip without me, why not? Far be it from me to have some kind of macho thing going on about it.

Besides, I was working a lot. If you really want to know the truth, I was just a little bit relieved she took off. The wedding was all set to go, thanks to her and this little spreadsheet I worked out, and all she was doing was her temp stuff and hanging around sort of looking, well, questioning, all the time. Maybe it was that earthquake, her Death Watch by the TV for three days, I don't know. It was getting on my nerves to tell you the truth. If she was worrying about marrying me, well, the time for that was past. Besides, she wasn't worrying about that. We're cool together, Jan and me. Trust me on this one.

But my hours have been getting pretty intense lately. I do a little of this and a little of that, sound work, mainly. That's where I got my name, the Boomer, not because of the baby boom. A purely functional nickname, nothing anthropological about it. And I have to tell you, I really hate it. I've been trying to get Jan to call me by my real name ever since we met, but these things stick. Just for the records, I am not a boom man any more. Haven't been for years.

Anyway, you know how things get when you're hustling for work, trying to get a good rep going. Things don't work out smoothly, guys aren't going to ask you nicely if it's convenient for you to work on their shoot. No way. If they want you they want you. And if it impinges on the cozies at home, well, that's too bad. I can't remember the last time I had dinner before Arsenio Hall.

I also dabble a little in computers. Jan would scream if she heard me say that word, "dabble." She claims I'm obsessed which is purely not the case. I have a little Atari Mega ST4 set up, all deductible because of the Midi interface, and have just a couple emulators on it to let me do some pretty neat graphics and shit. I just got some new hardware in the mail that lets me emulate a Mac, which I think is cool, but Jan just rolled her eyes the day I got it. "I spend all day listening to people gripe about their computers," she said. "I don't want to come home and listen to you about yours." And she's right. Women don't seem to have as much tolerance for this kind of stuff as men do, and they do sort of barrage her with shit at this law office she works at. Instead of bugging her about it, I just went downstairs and called my hacker friend Todd about the hardware (he had received his a couple days before, the bastard) and that was that. Out of my system and no electronic shit storms on the domestic front. You see, we've worked out a system of compromises over the last couple years of living together which enables us to maintain both our equilibrium and our individuality.

The night she left I came home as usual around 10 - 10:30. I noticed her new Subaru wasn't around, but shrugged that off. Either she was working late or out with one of her girlfriends. No problem. I went into the refrigerator and pulled out some pizza we had left over from the weekend. Anchovy, pesto, artichoke hearts, and mushrooms -- I'd been looking forward to it all day. As I nuked it, I listened to the messages. Nothing special, just more work which neither of us could handle.

Then I saw it. On our huge calendar (which Jan had marked "Battle Plan" in a black sharpie about six months ago) there was a note stuck on today's date. "Don't freak out," it said. "You'll -- I'll survive." With a couple of hasty "XX's" on the bottom. I stared at it a second, or maybe longer, until the chiming of the microwave pulled me out of it. Why the strike out? Did she actually think I wouldn't survive without her for a few hours? Was this a larger, more metaphysical communication? Were we talking Big Picture or just little picture here?

I grabbed an Anchor Steam to wash the pizza down with, wondering about what was going on. I pulled the cap off with the Coke bottle opener on the wall and went to throw it away. And then I saw the crumpled up piece of yellow legal paper, covered with Jan's writing, sitting on top of the trash.

Jan's really big on lists, so I really don't know why this one stuck out at me in particular. I think it was the last entry "QUIT WORK" that caught my eye. Quit work? Then I looked over the rest of it. "CANCEL CHIRO," "CANCEL DDS," "CALL M" (that was her mother, and not scratched out). What was she doing? Cancelling her life? I read it more carefully. No, "CANCEL BOOMER" was not a part of the list. That was O.K. At least we weren't going for global annihilation here.

I wandered into the bedroom to see if I could get any more clues. In the corner on the mannequin was her half-finished wedding dress. I'm not usually into those sorts of things, but I have to admit this one was really something. She designed it and made it herself and it looked, well, it looked great. Just when you think you've got someone pegged, something crops up and makes you realize you don't know thing one about them. I like that.

And then I saw it. Negative space. A place on her side of the bed that was extremely -- empty. Wherever she had gone, she had taken all of the books she was in the middle of reading. Not a good sign -- wherever she went she was planning on having some reading time. Lots of it. I racked my brain and tried to remember what she had been in the middle of. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was one of them . . . oh, yeah, and Blue Highways, this was getting worse . . . and then my heart sunk: On the Road. Jack Kerouac. How many marriages has that man destroyed? Usually, of course, it is the man who does the Big Escaperoo, but, hey, Jan and I are an equal opportunity cohabitation.

I went back to the fridge to get another beer. Jan couldn't leave me, not this way. Besides being completely out of character, it was downright unfair. If she wanted to split we'd have to have fireworks, big "C" Confrontations, Debates over Irreconcilable Issues. Not over something like the color of the toilet paper. Not over something like that.

The beer helped talk me out of my despair. I took the last one to bed with me, hoping it would keep me distracted enough so that I wouldn't notice the white shimmer of the half-finished wedding dress glowing in the moonlight.

Chapter 3 - Terry

 Looking back, I knew there had to be some kind of reason for how things worked out with the Pigpen. I mean, there's always coincidence to these things. Like when Susie used to get bladder infections, I'd tell her she was pissed off about something. And usually I was right. I had a teacher once who had hemmorhoids. I told him something was a pain in his ass. He looked at me kind of funny and didn't answer. But I knew I was right there, too.

I had just come from visiting Susie and Joshua (and Rob, of course) and was heading down to San Diego in the Pigpen for the next West Coast show. Joshua was four already, and while we would always have a connection, this time he seemed, well, he seemed more like Rob's son than mine. He had this certain way of holding his fork -- it was proper and everything, but too proper. I remembered him just using his hands and stuffing the spaghetti into his mouth. Natural. A pure child. And this time, well, he just seemed a bit more concerned with all the -- trappings, I guess. It kind of depressed me to see him getting like that.

But who was I to make value judgments? Here I was, driving out of Montana, watching my girl and my son and Rob waving at me in what was left of my rear view mirror and getting upset at how he was eating his dinner. Would he even have had a dinner if he was with me? Well, of course he would have. But was I some kind of model that Joshua should grow up to be like? Was I someone he should admire? I mean, in my opinion (which is often quite different than any one else's) I felt that on good days, actually, I was. But who would understand that? Who would even try anymore?

I meandered down through Utah, bucking rain storms and thunder storms all the way. The Pigpen made it just fine, we'd worked out all the kinks of bad weather a long time ago. But it was somewhere outside of Provo, I think, that something suddenly shifted. The tectonic plates of my soul did a strike-slip and suddenly things were just not the same any more.

I was laying on the futon in back, smoking a joint and listening to the '86 New Year's Oakland Colliseum show. Rain was beating down on the room like rhythm devils, and thunder was booming around the red rocks of the mesas around us. There was nothing wrong with the picture at all, you've got to understand that. The picture was perfect, actually -- that was the problem. The dope was fine, the tunes were primo, the van was sound -- and suddenly . . . I just became conscious. It was the weirdest thing. It was like I saw myself, this guy in his late twenties, stuck inside a VW van in the middle of a thunderstorm in Utah, reading his History of Mexico and -- what? Being totally happy? Thinking everything was just fine? Yes! And that -- that was the problem. I was thinking everything was just fine, when there were people in Charleston suffering from the hurricane, cars smashed on the Nimitz freeway in Oakland (my own San Francisco bay!), there were people crying out there in the moonlight, and all I could do with my life was read a book and smoke dope.

I took another hit. I was already a little freaked, but I figured it would pass. But then something else kicked in. I was full of such bullshit! What did I care, I mean really care, about the people in Charleston? I mean, really. You know what my true reaction was, honest to god? All I could think, deep down inside, was that I was glad I wasn't there. I was glad I didn't live a nine to five commuter life that put me under that bridge or into some city. That somehow, some way -- they had asked for it. By buying into the system. By just being there.

Wow. I couldn't handle it. Is this what I had become? Some callous indifferent asshole, passing judgment on humanity from the pathetic vantage point of a '66 van in the middle of the mountains? Did I really think that all those poor nine-to-five schmucks were suckers in the giant scheme of things -- and that I, and only I, had truly figured things out? Me? Terry? The guy who just waved good-bye to his soul-mate and his son and took off -- to what? Where the hell was I going? What was I doing on this planet? What was the point?

. . . Well, by morning the sun was out. I pulled myself out of my sleeping bag and grabbed some gorp to nibble on while the water heated on the camp stove. I opened the side door half-way (it doesn't go any further because of what I had to do to the wheel well) and peered out into the canyon. The rain had left everything fresh and steaming and the wet rocks were rich with saturated reds and oranges and vermillions. An eagle drifted lazily up by the top of the nearest mesa and every leaf, every stem, every wildflower stuck out with sharp relief. I held my breath, unconsciously afraid that any intrusion would shatter the world of perfection that lay before me.

When I'd made my coffee I took a mug and hiked up some boulders that were scattered alongside the base of the mesa. I perched myself on the top one, and looked around, the steam from the coffee snaking up under my nose and the heat of the mug warming my hands. Jesus Christ, it was beautiful. Just as soon as I'd thought it I tried to take it back. A morning like this makes even a trivial thought of appreciation seem so . . . so inept. Nowhere in my scope of visions, except for the highway and the Pigpen sitting below me in the turnout, could I see anything man had touched. And everywhere I looked was exact and pure. You figure it out -- humanity equals dirt and noise and confusion. Out here there was harmony and peace and silence.

The Pigpen. I had to make an exception for that van. Manmade or not, it was a great vehicle. The Zuni sun symbol on the front stared out at the world with a majestic fortitude. The paint was, well, pretty chipped and faded, but you could tell that the red used to be brilliant and bold. I'd have to touch up that red, really work on the Pigpen until I could restore it to its former glory. Named after the band's notorious dead drummer, I sometimes felt that his spirit had found this van. There were times on the road, listening to a tape, the tires humming with sympathetic vibrations, when I felt that I had found all I ever needed. This van, my music -- and mornings like this. Who could be stupid enough to ever ask for more?

Well -- call me a superficial jerk -- I was feeling a whole lot better. Looking back on the night before, I attributed the whole thing to an excess of weed and a depletion of sleep. I didn't have anything to worry about. I was a statistic that had slipped through the cracks, and nobody was going to care what I did with my life except me. For today, this was fine. This was just fine.

I got on the road, cranked up some tunes, and headed down towards Ogden. I knew some people there who'd give me a shower and put me up for a few days. Good people. Hadn't seen them since the Saturday show in Amherst last year.

Everything was swell out here in America and I was the king of the road . . . . I even hummed a few bars to prove it to myself.

Chapter 4 - Jan

Las Vegas . . . shit. Why did I come to this god-forsaken place anyway? Probably the lure of the desert, the challenge of the wide barren expanse. Certainly it wasn't to engage in the drunken, smokey elation of the gambler's high.

I was sitting on the magic-fingered bed of the local Motel 6. Yesterday, when I had checked in I found the -- simplicity -- of the motel rather, well, charming. The functionality of it all. The lack of frills. The little, no-nonsense touches -- like the bicycle lock looped around the TV and the bracket holding it to the wall. Just the essentials of what every traveller needs -- a bed, a sink, and a shower. You couldn't even hear the drip if you shut the door.

But by this morning I was fed up. Years of nicotine had been insufficiently obliterated by a heavy dose of Lysol in an attempt to call it a non-smoker's room, keep pace with the Big Guys across the street. I was alternately flicking channels on the TV with the remote (bolted onto a holder, stuck onto the nightstand) and trying to read the Thomas Wolfe I bought the night before at the local Crown Books. Everything was going on credit cards, since I hadn't had time to get cash. And all morning I kept trying to go out for one of those $2.69 buffet deals, but the thought of watery scrambled eggs and nitrate-filled sausages had kept me holed up until almost noon.

This was ridiculous. I should just turn the Subaru back home and call it quits. What was I doing out here? I've always hated Las Vegas.

I reached for my travel-worn Chevron Travel Club road atlas. There were markings all over the back cover from the cross-country trip the Boomer and I made a couple years ago. Hedley, Texas. Smithville, North Carolina. New Canaan. Espanola. Listings of mileages and gallons beside each town, stops made at three in the morning, memories of stark gas stations flanked by nothing whatsoever except a straight line of road. How many 1000-watt restrooms have I wandered into, blurry with the hum of the tires and the drone of the old tapes? How many times have I splashed cold water on my road-oily face only to find they have done away with paper towels in lieu of those air blowers? How many times have I headed back to the car with a Baby Ruth and damp patches on my denim skirt? And felt oh so much better than before.

The magic was setting in again. I opened the pages of the atlas, reverently turning past Alaska and Arkansas, flipping to Nevada. Too empty. Nothing of inspiration. What I needed was the 23rd Psalm in geographical form. I went back to the Big Picture, the United States, covered with a cross-cross of red and blue arteries, connecting me to everything I've ever known and everything I'll ever want to know. It's all right there -- a circulatory system of adventure and rejuvination. My eyes ate up the centerfold, taking it all in. I've done the south, I've done the east, but up in the northwest, an appalling abundance of uncharted territory. And then I spotted it: Billings, Montana.

Wasn't that where the guy and his son were heading on their motorcycles in Zen and the Art of Motorcyle Maintenance? I lunge for my book, rifling through it feverishly. Montana, Montana . . . Big Sky Country, untrammelled landscapes, clean air, room to breathe. What a great place to see! I sink back on the bed, holding the road atlas above me like the sky, seeing pictures in the clouds of pastel states. . .

Billings, Montana. What must life be like there? Snow and cold and a Dependence upon the Land . . . The Land . . . Something we people in L.A. know very little about, except the outrageous prices of the houses upon it. There must be cows up there. Sheep. Leather. The smell of wood fires on cold fall nights. Blizzards that keep children indoors from school for weeks. What must they do, the children, during those winters? Probably play with Mutant Ninja Turtles like everywhere else, I guess. But maybe they still color in coloring books and make things out of wood and help Mom bake pies and put up jars of fruit jelly. It's possible. And if there's a sense of non-digital reality left anywhere in the world, it would be in Billings, Montana.

O.K., so that's the plan. Head up to Billings. I leap up from the bed and start putting my stuff together. Men get bachelor parties, don't they? Well, this is mine. One last spleen-purging trip before -- it happened. Not that I have any problems with the idea of marriage. It's just that it's gotten so hard recently to break away. My responsibilities were behind me. This was my one last bash and I was going to do it up right.

And then I see it. Out of the corner of my eye. The telephone. Sitting squat and accusatory, bolted to the nightstand. I really should call the Boomer, I mean Bob. I really should. All my life I've prided myself on being responsible, and here I was leaving the love of my life uninformed, unattached and, well, maybe, worried. Naw. The Boomer's cool. He'll know I'm O.K. -- and besides, I can call him from just a little further on up the road. Just a little more than six hours away from home.

Chapter 5 - Terry

Why did I do it? I kept asking myself that but I could only come up with one answer: I needed the money. Pure and simple, high and low, up and down, down and out -- I needed the money.

But why did I need the money now? I've always needed money. What was so new about that? I couldn't figure it out, except that maybe the time had just come for me to do it. For whatever purpose, it was time to part our ways. Still -- it was like selling out a part of myself. Cutting my hair was easier than selling the van.

It had been kind of an off day as far as traveling went. The sky was blue but it was sort of a dull blue, for Utah at least. And the mountains were craggy and mysterious and everything, but, well, I just couldn't get into them the way I usually could. My mind wasn't being here now, if you know what I mean. It was being there then, and about all I really ended up thinking about all morning was whether my money would hold out and what I would do next for work. Bullshit like that.

My friends in Ogden had told me of a job opportunity with the band, which actually sounded pretty inviting. They needed a caterer to go with them on the spring tour, not too much experience needed. All you basically had to have was the right mind-set and be able to commit to six or nine months on the road. Well, of course it sounded great and they told me who to get in touch with in San Diego. But after a while it started getting me worried. A six month commitment! That was pretty heavy stuff. And a job! I'd probably have to file taxes and start worrying about deductions and white collar shit like that. Where would I park the Pigpen? What would I do afterwards? I've heard that once you get used to a steady income it's hard to go back. That's a big step to take, then. It needs some careful thought before just leaping into it like that.

On the other hand -- why the hell not? My god, it's a job with the band! Wasn't I nuts to even consider passing it up? And what was I going to do with my life anyway? Did I expect it to be more of the same -- forever? Wouldn't all this freedom eventually get -- I have to say it -- boring?

You see, my mind was emotional hash. Who could make a smart move with a frame of mind like that? I was outside Cedar City when I saw it: DOLLAR BILL'S HIGHEST PRICES FOR CLASSIC USED CARS! Before I knew it I was pulling in. . . .

Remember what I said about coincidence? Things having a meaning? Looking back I realized it had nothing to do with the weirdness of that night outside Provo, but more to do with the perfect morning that followed. The problem was this: I had violated my very first rule -- I was getting attached. Sure, it was only to a car, but I could feel the warning signs. It was time to move on, say good-bye and good luck, and follow another star. The Pigpen was part of another life, my life with Susie, a life that was over. It was a fine vehicle, but I was depending on it too much. I'd lost my hunger . . . and without hunger there wasn't any point any more.

With cash in my pocket, I set out to find my new destinies. I stuck out my thumb like in the old days and headed back up to Montana to say good-by one last time.

Chapter 6 - Jan

It wasn't the color of the toilet paper so much as the principle of the thing. Men don't have to worry about things like toilet paper as much as women, but a decent, responsible, caring guy should understand that a plain white is just, well, better for feminine hygiene than blue or floral or something. I mean, I don't want to get into the graphic details, but I also don't think it takes a genius to figure it out. Sure, Boomer thought that it would be more coordinated. And in the middle of the argument, after we had reached the point of no return, he said he'd looked for white for ten minutes but the only kind they had left was one-ply (unacceptable) or scented (also unacceptable). But of course at that point we were into it and it had become just a mere speck in the face of the Larger Issues that loomed. My point, for the records, was that I felt like I needed someone around who would be looking out after my needs. If I was still going to have to battle for every single thing that was for my better health or would make my life easier, then what was the point of getting married? A team should work together, not against itself. And if Bob was going to just go through the motions, who needed it? I could pick out my own goddamn toilet paper.

Anyway, that was what it escalated to, and I can't say I was particularly proud of my contribution to the whole thing. We have these stupid arguments, the Boom -- Bob and I. We both know they're stupid and we laugh about them afterwards. But sometimes we get to a place that feels, well, like bedrock. And I see things in him that I couldn't possibly live with for five more minutes, let alone the rest of my life. All I want to do is get O-U-T, the words scream themselves in my head -- GET OUT! GET OUT NOW! GET-THE-HELL-OUT-OF-HERE-BEFORE-IT'S-TOO-LATE! And frankly, it seems to me to be a great tribute to my perseverance that I never have left. Never have walked out during an argument. Despite the color of the toilet paper he buys, I actually do like the -- Bob very much. I've never wanted to burn the bridge -- well, not totally.

Outside of Vegas. The land is changing subtly, moving from the low flat grey desert to the reds of Utah. Zion National Park is coming up and I have just spent the last fifty miles contemplating whether or not to stop. I've heard it's beautiful, and have no idea when I'll ever be back to see it. But . . . there's this thing that happens to me. It's a time/space continuum sort of thing. Once I get going, I just can't stop. My life becomes a triangulation: distance over time divided by gas stations. The odometer versus the gas gauge, an eternal power struggle going on beneath my nose. My job is to outwit both, get as many miles as possible with as little gasoline. Every time a mileage sign comes up I calculate how much longer and how many miles it'll take me to get there. My division becomes complex, running into the decimal places -- I will make the next town! I will be 300 miles away by dinner! I can not stop! I CAN DO IT!

Cedar City was coming up and I was going to force myself to stop and sit down for lunch. I was getting into country where the diners are far more interesting than the fast food drive-throughs, and besides I had promised myself if I was going to mainline it all the way up to Billings, I'd have to live on something more than garbage. Money was no excuse -- I had the miracle of modern technology, an ATM card, and had no reason not to eat at least reasonably well --

And then I saw -- It. In a complete mental bypass my eyes perceived, my foot slammed on the brakes, and my hands spun the wheel off the road and down a gravel driveway, my poor blue doomed Subaru fishtailing down to a comfortable 35 mph. It was sitting there in the lot, a discard, a relic, an abandoned child orphaned by the modern age. Yes, you could say it was the single most ridiculous thing I'd ever done -- but I disagree. It was love at first sight. It was kismet. It was fate.

"Comes complete with camp stove and sterno. Got one of them chinese mattresses, too."

The paint was dingy and cracked, and dents were the exception rather than the rule. But the windows -- the windows had a soul! And on the front was this weird thing, like a sun with a face drawn out of lines in it.

"Yup. Best car on the lot this one. A real classic. See this here? A Zumi sun god. Painted on here by a real Zumi chieftain in an authentic indian ritual."

I circled it again. The tires were a little bald and a bunji cord held the back engine flap closed. There were some weird leather things hanging off the windshield wipers.

"What are these?" I asked.

"These straps?" The salesman adjusted his Foster Grants nervously. "They're what-do-you-call-em . . . mac-- macro --?"

"Macrame?"

"That's it! Macrame! Would you believe this van has only 35,000 miles on it? Yup, look right in here, come on."

I peered into the driver's window, but the salesman opened the door, all but pushing me inside.

That did it. The dashboard was simple, elegant, no nonsense. I sat on the indian blanket which covered the front seat and surveyed the world from inside the amazing vehicle. The places it must've been! The people it must've kept warm and dry! It was like a time machine waiting to transport a true believer back to simpler times.

"That your Subaru?"

I nodded, caught in the spell.

"Come on inside. We may be able to do you a trade. Make a deal."

I followed him inside, my eyes still taking it in. Sure, I knew it had 135,000 miles on it. And sure, I knew that I might have a few things to do on it, maintenance-wise. But -- god, it was great. I noticed the California license plate: "PIGPEN." Perfect. It was perfect.

I could take the money from the trade-in and use it for hotels and decent food. Hell, I could even stay in the van! I could shop at markets and make my own meals. The money I would save would pay for my trip. Maybe I'd even have enough left over to get a little apartment in Billings -- if I liked it up there, of course. I mean, if the right place showed up. On the other hand, with a van I wouldn't even need to live anywhere! If Billings was a flop, I could move on. It was like buying my first house -- a movable one.

It was definitely practical to buy the van. Very much a wise economic decision. I'd make it back in three or four weeks. And with the money I got back from the trade, I could live, well -- indefinitely.

I took my new keys and transferred my stuff to the van. Sure, it was hard to see the Subaru get backed up and pulled into a space by one of the guys on the lot. But there are lots of new cars in the world, you know? And you don't see one of these every day.

There was a driveway ahead of me and I eased it into first gear. The van shuddered to a lurching stall. I laughed and waved to the salesman, who was actually a very nice man after all, and then started it up again. This time I eased up ever so gently on the clutch, and the van slid gracefully out the lot. I went to open the front window but the handle fell off. Oh, well, I could fix that with just a little glue. I nosed up to the freeway and put it into second.

We were off.

Chapter 7 - Boomer

The thing I've always liked the most about Jan is that she's so sensible. That's why I wasn't worried about her after five days with no word. I mean, if there was some trouble, then there'd be word. But no news is good news, and a cliche is a cliche because it's true. Right?

So I worked a lot. During the day I mixed on this independent shoot and then came home and did a little desktop publishing job for a friend of mine who's a musician's manager. If you want to know the absolute truth, it was kind of nice to come home and stay up all night hacking away. I got my hard drive all partitioned correctly, for once, and caught up on my E-mail. I went out to dinner with some people I hadn't seen for awhile (and as dinner wore on, remembered why) and basically lived the carefree life of a bachelor. It wasn't lonely at all.

But five days . . . . I have to admit, the afternoon after she left I kind of was in a bookstore, and I bought a copy of On the Road. Just to see what the competition was like. Maybe I'm stupid but -- frankly? -- I just didn't get it. I mean, sure, I could see that in the '50's when everybody was into Leave It To Beaver and shit, stuff like this would've been real, what is it, iconoclastic and everything. But I'm not just some dumb techie, I've heard stories about this guy. You see, Kerouac -- he didn't want to be this big cult hero or anything. He didn't want some fucking generation named after him. He was just this traveling kind of guy who bought some butcher paper one day and plugged it into the old Smith Corona. Thought he'd rattle off a few stories. Well, that's great! That's terrific! More fucking power to him!

But then it all backfires. He becomes this -- superstar. Oh, yeah, everyone's got to do it all of a sudden. Now it's totally bitchin' to just leave everything behind and take to The Road. Don't get me wrong, I love road trips. Especially when I'm working. I used to work for this opera company and tour around with them setting shit up and taking shit down. It was cool. See the sights, well, at least lots of the insides of these old theatres, but it was O.K. Taste the local cuisine -- we became experts on the variations of Big Macs throughout the Northwest. And of course there was the glamour of working long hours on no sleep and seeing how long you could go without serious drugs. But we managed O.K. That's what I call traveling.

What Kerouac does, I don't know. Sounds like some pretty impulsive shit to me. Unplanned, amorphous movement for the sake of what? Movement? I don't know. Poor Jan. I know she likes to have everything under control . . . what was she doing out there all alone, without a plan?

I sort of skimmed the book, read just about the whole thing, actually, looking for a clue. But there were too many places, too much going on, and not enough feeling about any of it.

So I picked up Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Now, there's a book! All about logic and quality and fixing stuff. How things all work, or should work if you approach them correctly. Take me. I've never been afraid of anything technical, because I know that it was made by a man, like me, and broken by a man, like me, and can be fixed by a man, like me. Nothing magic about it. Nothing mystical. Just plain old common sense. A couple nights I stayed up until three or four, just reading. A really great book -- and the man in it had a kid whom he loved, and a wife whom he also loved. Now, to me? That's a hero. That's a superstar. None of this dump the spouse and take off into the unplanned unknown bullshit.

Well? So where was she? I know how her mind works. For a very organized lady, Jan can sometimes be very susceptible to subliminal promptings. The guy who wrote Zen and the Art, etc. really went into orbit in his descriptions of Montana. It sounded so neat. And Kerouac, well, he was just more into talking about his buddys and how they all had a good laugh about how much they abused the people they left behind. Not my style. Not, I hoped, Jan's style either.

So I got out my old atlas (she'd taken the good one, the one we used on that trip a couple years ago) and sort of checked out the roads. If she was heading towards Montana, she'd be in somewhere in Utah by now. She probably took 15 up past Las Vegas (haven't done any gambling myself in awhile), then headed straight up. Might have even stopped to check out Zion National Park. It's supposed to be a great place and it's right off the road. You know? I've always wanted to see that place myself. . .

Chapter 8 - Jan

"I'll have a BLT with a vanilla shake, please."

It was 3:15 at a place called Hugh's Cafe. I picked it because it happened to have a poster in the window announcing "The Mikado" put on by (of all people) the Boomer's old Gilbert & Sullivan company. I sat in one of the sky-blue vinyl booths and watched the waitress jot down my order. I had the non-smoking section to myself with a couple of truck drivers tugging on their Camels in the far corner. I smiled up at her. It's amazing how making a decision can change your life around.

What a great van. It sat there in the parking lot, presiding over the mediocrity with a kind of sage wisdom. Sure the front bumper was a two-by-six and the front right tire was going a little flat which made the whole thing kind of list to starboard, but still . . . there was a dignity to it which you couldn't deny.

I couldn't wait to get back out on the road. It had taken a little while to get adjusted. It was, well, it was slower than I was used to. Different gear ratios, I supposed. And it took the bumps in the road, well, a little harder. But what did I expect? A Citroen? And the structure of the van was different -- after all, I was driving a vehicle the shape of a sideways shoe box -- so of course it would respond to the gusts of road wind a little . . . differently. But it more than made up for these things. Sitting in the driver's seat I felt like the queen of the world. I surveyed my terrain with grace and leisure, no hood getting in my way, no complicated machinery. It was me and my van and the road and the world. For once I felt in control of my life.

The waitress set the shake down in front of me. She was wearing one of those white uniforms with a lace apron and a starchy white collar. A pin, over her pocket, said Irene. As she leaned over me to exchange the sugar, I could see a copious amount of cleavage through the open top two buttons. Cleavage -- no one I know has cleavage any more, or even thinks about it (as far as I am aware). But here, out in America, they're still proud to have it.

I pulled out my Tom Wolfe and opened to where I had it marked. This was really living. A bell rang as the front door to the coffee shop opened and a big man wearing a plaid shirt and an enormous belt buckle walked in. He had circles of sweat beneath his arms and his jeans were worn down slick in the back where his wallet strained against the wall of his pocket. He looked around and stopped at me, putting on this huge, good-ol'-boy grin and starting my way. I slouched and kept reading but saw my waitress fend him off towards the other side by the truckers, pointing to the non-smoking sign by my section of booths. Irene! My savior.

I gave her a very appreciative thank you as she plunked down the sandwich before me, and vowed to tip her 20%. That's one reason, I think, I get so reluctant to stop and eat when I'm travelling alone. It's open season out here, no matter how you dress or how crummy your hair looks. The normal rules of "dating" (which thankfully I've learned to forget since moving in with Bob) no longer apply. Especially outside of California. You're alone? You're female? Fair game. And if you don't want to play -- watch out. You're asking for it just by being alive.

The bell rang again but this time I didn't risk even minimal eye contact. I was getting the lay of the land here, and couldn't expect Irene to come to my rescue again. I heard footsteps come in, then head my way.

"Smoking section's over there, hon."

"That's cool. I don't smoke."

The voice was young, cheerful. The footsteps scuffled closer. Boots. The voice had been high over my head. A tall guy with boots. I turned the page of my book and took another bite of BLT.

"Hi."

I swallowed it whole. He was talking to me! That went way beyond the rules. Without eye contact, there can be no invitation deemed. Everyone knows that.

"Mind if I sit down?"

And then he sat down! I stared at him in disbelief and he grinned back. He had blue eyes and thick brown hair that looked like it was trying to be short but really wanted to be long. He looked like he was ready to laugh at some joke that only he was privy to.

"I don't think I know you," I finally got out. Trying for the cool, logical approach.

"You don't. That your van?"

Van . . . van. My van!

"What? Am I blocking you or something?"

"No. It's cool."

"Uh . . . " What was going on here? Was this guy from Mars?

"I just wanted to know if that was your van. That's all."

"Well, then, yes. That's my van."

I went back to eating, frowning with disbelief, trying to wield commanding body language that said GET OUT OF MY BOOTH!

"Coffee please."

Irene smiled at him, cheerfully filling up a coffee cup and setting it in front of him.

"Coffee for you?"

"No." You bitch.

He sat there watching me try to read, sipping his coffee like we were the king and queen of England sitting in fucking Buckingham Palace or something.

"You want money or something? Forget it, all right?"

"I don't want money. I just want to sit here."

"Oh."

"Does that bother you?"

What a stupid question! I looked up, about to really light into him . . . but he was looking at me in this way. His eyes were like laughing at me, but nicely, like the Boomer's used to when we first started going out and he really got a kick out of everything I said, even the stupid stuff. And the color, they were this intense, smokey blue, like the ocean at sunset or the sky just after a thunder storm. His hair, well, it was pretty neat hair, too. I felt myself getting just a little bit warm.

"Suit yourself."

He nodded like he was sure he'd get that answer and leaned back against the wall, his legs propped up on the booth, his feet sticking out into the aisle. Blue eyes or not, he knew he was cute. The warm feeling started to be replaced by renewed irritation.

"I get it. You want a ride, right? Forget it."

"Don't you trust me?"

He turned his smile up a couple kilowatts. I turned mine down a couple degrees Fahrenheit.

"Policy. Don't take it personally."

"O.K."

I slammed my book shut and finished off my shake with as noisy a siphon as I could muster. This -- intruder -- had to get the idea that he had disturbed, if not ruined, a perfectly nice solo meal. I waved to that traitor Irene and made a check motion with my hand.

"Is that together or separate?"

"Separate." He's not going to ruin my lunch and get me to pay for his lousy coffee, too. But he didn't seem to mind. Just sat there looking around, like he was, well, relaxed or something.

I stood up, looking at the check. I fished out some money and splashed some change on the table for a tip (15%, which she was lucky to get). Then I accidentally met his eye. I sighed and handed him a dollar bill.

"Here. Get a piece of pie or something. Maybe one of those truckers will help you out."

He just did another one of those almost-laughing smiles and nodded good-bye to me.

The walk to the register was endless. He was watching, the truckers were ogling me, mumbling something under their nicotine breaths, and I noticed, with horror, that the good-ol'-boy was just polishing off a piece of apple pie a la mode, staring my way, and licking his jowls with anticipation of more sweets to come. Even Irene, taking my money at the register, looked at me in a warm, knowing, woman-to-woman kind of way. I almost went back to take the tip back altogether but I knew I couldn't stand another minute on stage. I just stuffed the change into my pocket and got out of there as fast as I could.

Outside the air was warm, still, almost sultry, but it felt like a fresh sea breeze compared to the diner. I breathed in deeply and shook out my shoulders. That was life on the road, Jan old girl, new experiences and all that. You asked for it and boy oh boy, you're getting it.

PIGPEN was sitting in its space, my new ally in this foreign land. I couldn't wait to drive out of here, proud and serene in my self-contained little world. Let those men follow me with their eyes and make their stupid little comments. Let that guy impose himself on me at my table. I opened the door and climbed into my driver's seat to freedom. This was my van and my life. I didn't need anyone at all anymore.

I turned the key . . . and absolutely nothing happened.

Chapter 9 -Terry

I almost died when I saw the Pigpen sitting in front of Hugh's Cafe in Cedar City. Ever since I sold it I had been both bummed out and elated. Bummed out because, reality-wise, we were split up forever. But elated, well, elated because I knew that everything wasn't always that logical. Elated because I was riding a whole new wave, and I could end up anywhere. Besides, the Pigpen and me were meant to meet again. I could've told you that all along.

I know you're not supposed to kiss a car, and of course I didn't -- but seeing it sitting there made me want to give it a mental hug or something. I practically ran across the parking lot towards Hugh's. I couldn't wait to meet the guy that bought it and I even figured that there was a good chance I already knew him.

But inside there were only these two old truckers, who obviously belonged to the Mack and the Kenworth dieseling outside in the big turnaround. There was this fat-ass kind of honcho, but his had to be the caddy with the Texas plates. Then there was this -- girl. Sitting all alone in the non-smoking. She looked kind of uptight and her hair could've used a good brushing. I pegged her as coming from one of the big cities, New York probably. One of these monochromatic mousse types. It wouldn't be hers.

But then I saw what she was reading. You Can't Go Home Again. And next to her, as if she was really going to finish the Tom Wolfe, was a dogeared paperback of On the Road. This was the person who had bought the Pigpen? Some city girl with pretensions of being on the road? Give me a break.

But it was too good to pass up. I sort of walked up to her booth and casually sat down. She looked up at me like she was going to have a coronary seizure.

I asked her nicely if it was her van outside. I wanted her to relax a little bit, realize I was interested in her car, not like I was about to rape her or something. She said yeah it was her van and I just sort of sat back. Christ, she was nervous. She went back to reading that book, pretending I didn't exist. I studied her face and her hands. Not bad hands, for a city girl. Her nails were all bitten down but her hands were nice, like she actually used them for something besides adjusting her shoulder pads. Her face had a bit too much makeup for my taste, but her mouth was pretty nice, too. No matter what a girl does, she can't hide what her mouth says about her. And this girl, well, her mouth said something very different than what she was saying, if you know what I mean.

So far all I had done was just sit there and order a cup of coffee. But she was pretty twitchy about that, and finally she just got up to leave. City people have this whole thing about time. She was tooling around, playing at being Jack Kerouac or something, but she jumped out of the booth the second she finished her milk shake, like she had an appointment. For what? To go relax? Well, I guess she was a little nervous with me sitting there and everything, and I almost felt bad about putting her into an uncomfortable situation. Still, it was pretty funny watching her mind work around the whole thing.

Then she did this thing. She handed me a buck and told me to get some pie with it. Now, I hadn't asked for money, but there've been plenty of times when I would have. And obviously I had fucked up her whole day by sitting down in her booth with her. She was mad about that, I could see, but she couldn't just leave without making some kind of gesture. And while I don't like to be a charity case, an unsolicited donation to the cause is always welcome. It was kind of cool, when you think about how much she really must've been hating me.

I had meant all along to tell her about the battery . . . but on second thought I decided I should get to know her just a little bit better.

Chapter 10 - Jan

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing happening. I sat there, foolishly staring at the ignition switch, as though looking at it might somehow change the situation.

"Sounds like your battery's dead."

It was him. Grinning that same grin, blue eyes twinkling.

"I know what a dead battery sounds like." It sounded like this. Nothing.

I sat back, thinking and ignoring. I glanced around. I was about a hundred yards from the truck stop gas station and across the street was an auto parts store. No problem -- I'd just have someone come over and give me a jump start.

"Excuse me." I pushed open the door and Mr. Relaxation moved aside.

"You're not going to try to jump it are you?"

"Don't worry about it, O.K.?"

But then, as I walked past him, who should emerge in front of me, blocking out the afternoon sun with his girth, a stray spark glinting off the enormous belt buckle . . .

"Howdy, little lady. Need a hand?" The sweat was already beginning to build back up, darkening the plaid of his shirt.

"No, thanks."

"Battery go dead on you?"

"I'll just go to the truck stop. Thanks anyway."

He blocked me again. He was a hard man to skirt.

"Let me. I'd love to give you a jump." He chuckled at the perception of his own double-entendre.

The other guy, the booth-intruder, started edging toward us, a protest on his lips.

"Well, O.K. I'd appreciate it."

The big one led me to his Eldorado, a big lusty red one with Texas license plates and a pair of bull's horns on the front for a hood ornament. He opened up a trunk the size of a mini-mall and pulled out a tangle of jumper cables.

"Here we have us some jumper cables. Let me just pull my little Betsy around and we'll hook 'em up."

He jumped into the red beast and started it up with a growl. The car nearly leapt forward when he released the brake.

"Listen. I don't think this is such a good idea." The blue eyes were clouded with a look of concern.

"It's my van, O.K.? I can handle this."

I stepped around him and went to the rear of the van. I gingerly untangled the bunji cord, which had actually been quite ingeniously wrapped around the exhaust manifold clamp and the bracket to the engine flap, keeping both things as tight as possible against the chassis. I opened it up.

Inside was a mire of aluminum foil, spliced wires and duct tape. A pair of vice grips held the distributor cap on. I stared at it in disbelief, then felt the hot breath of the cadillac come up behind me with a roar. I stood up quickly, putting on an optimistic smile.

"Here she is."

Blue Eyes walked up to the Belt Buckle.

"Listen, sir, I don't think this van should take a jump from your car. I used to own one of these . . ."

The Texan looked at him like he was a small bug on a big windshield.

"Listen, son, why don't you let the little lady and I conduct our own business here?"

He brushed past him, dangling the black strands of the jumper cables sensuously in his beefy hands. Bending over with a small grunt, he examined the van's engine.

"Here. I'll do my end first." I grabbed a black and a red cable and moved assertively towards what I took to be the battery. After chipping off some of the corrosion, I managed to make out a dim plus sign. I clipped the red onto that terminal. "Red is positive."

"Listen, I'm not kidding -- this is a six-volt battery, see, and his is a twelve . . ." The happy grin was replaced by sincere worry. But I was already into this project pretty deep.

The Texan opened the hood of the Cadillac, exposing a small metropolis of an engine. It thundered with power, pulsating with repressed desires for speed and conquest. He clipped his leads to the battery, turning around to give me another lascivious grin.

"Alright, little lady, we're all set. Move aside, son." Hitching up his pants, the Texan moved to the drivers side. "Ever ridden in one of these? One of these can go the distance, know what I mean? You should take a ride with me sometime. See what power is all about."

I scrambled into the van. Blue Eyes was standing off to the side, watching the proceedings and shaking his head. The Texan was waving to me to turn it over. I took a deep breath . . . and turned the key.

Everything happened at once. The van lurched violently like it had been kicked by a horse, quaking and roiling with the influx of power. I ran around to the back just as the vice grips holding the distributor cap fell off and landed on the battery, arcing it with a sizzling burst of light. Blue Eyes jumped towards the jumper cables, kicking at them, but not before the the current shot out from the van, following the cables, and made its way to the Cadillac where it found its true mission in life and promptly fried the 12 volt, obliterating it in a searing, blinding flash of electrical explosion. The cables, burnt to a frazzle, finally disintegrated and fell to the ground, twitching with intermittent seizures of random current.

Six eyes stared down at the cables. Then the six eyes started the long journey up to the blackened, smoking mass that used to be the Eldorado's engine. Then two eyes (mine) met two eyes (his) and quickly looked away. Not fast enough.

"Why, you -- you WHORE! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY LITTLE BETSY? YOU CROSSED THOSE CABLES ON PURPOSE, DIDN'T YOU?"

"I did not!"

"I'M GOING TO SUE YOUR ASS, LITTLE LADY. I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR EVERYTHING YOU'VE GOT. YOU CAN'T FOOL ME WITH THIS HIPPIE VAN -- YOU'RE GOING TO PAY AND YOU'RE GOING TO PAY BIG!" He leaned over and kicked my van. KICKED MY VAN! And suddenly I was mad, seeing red mad. He came towards me and I went towards him. So what if he was three times my size. So what if his stupid battery got fried, my van was ruined, too. And nobody fucks with my van.

"HOW DO I KNOW YOU DIDN'T CROSS YOUR ENDS OF THE CABLES, HUH? HOW DO I KNOW THAT? I'VE GOT A LAWYER, TOO, PAL!"

Blue Eyes edged between us quickly, pulling on my arm.

"Come on. Let's get out of here."

I shook him off. "You stay out of this. COME ON! LET'S HAVE IT OUT HERE AND NOW, O.K.? YOU AND ME. OR WE'LL GO IN THERE AND CALL OUR LAWYERS RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I KNOW MY RIGHTS, BUDDY--"

But Blue Eyes kept pulling on me, dragging me into the van. I resisted him for all I was worth, but he could pull pretty strong. The Texan had stayed where he was, but he was screaming bloody murder, taking a few steps towards me and then stopping to look back at the black smoke still billowing out from his engine.

"Let's go." Blue Eyes opened the driver's door.

"The van's toast, remember?"

"Just get in." He tried to push me inside.

The Texan saw me getting into the van and started running towards us, yelling even louder. "WHERE YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING? YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE UNTIL I CALL MY LAWYER!" He wheeled around and ran back to his car. He pulled out a cellular phone and started dialing frantically, watching as I pulled the door closed behind me.

"Hold the clutch in and put her in second!" Blue Eyes got behind the van. "Steer toward the highway!" I steered as the van started moving forward.

"What are you doing? I said to stay here! HEY!!"

I craned my head around (the rear-view mirror was cracked and half broken) and saw the Texan waving at us with both hands. In one hand was the receiver to the cellular phone -- in his right hand . . .

"HEY! LOOK OUT!!!" The shot rang out. Blue Eyes never stopped pushing, but he did pick up the pace. Quite significantly. "GET OUT OF THE WAY! HE'S FIRING AT US!"

"WE'RE ALMOST UP TO SPEED -- YOU READY TO POP IT?"

"HURRY!"

Another shot rang out. I heard it kick up the gravel next to me.

"O.K.! DO IT!!!!"

I popped up the clutch and felt the van shudder to life. It started to stall, but I revved it for all it was worth. I was free! Blue Eyes was running behind me, grinning with victory . . . and behind him the Texan was approaching at a shambling run, alternately firing his pistol and trying to hold the cellular unit up to his ear. I revved the engine and put in the clutch, slowing down without losing the idle. I leaned out the window and yelled back.

"Come on! Hurry up!"

Blue Eyes came running just as the Texan leveled another shot at us. I swept my books and junk off the seat as he scrambled inside. Another shot -- a direct hit. The back window was instantly riddled with cracks.

"Step on it --"

"You got it!"

We peeled out of there, looking back through the shattered window, watching the Texan diminishing in the distance, still waving the phone at us. I looked at Blue Eyes and Blue Eyes grinned back. We started laughing as the van hit a pothole and the entire back window disintegrated.

Chapter 11 - Paula

You haven't met me yet. I was once a part of Bob's story, but that was a long while back. It makes me kind of sad, when I think about it, which isn't often, that my place in all of this was pretty much over three years ago. When I knew him, and I knew him well, I really thought my role would be a little larger.

But that's all over with. Now I've got Joey and he's fine. We're getting married in April and really I couldn't be happier about the whole thing. And I wouldn't even be thinking about Bob, except for this little problem that just came up.

My assistant quit on me two days ago and I'm racking my brain to find someone to go out on tour again. Four weeks -- who has four weeks anymore to spend with Gilbert & Sullivan? Sure, there's this one guy I know who would love to go -- but he's just a kid, really, and knows nothing about what he'd be getting into. And, yes, there's this cousin of Joey's -- he said he might be willing to go, if the price was right. But he's had no training and besides, I hate when he and Joey get together. They get so Italian together, even though their Italian blood has been diluted for about four generations. So he's out. Everyone else I know is too busy or potentially too busy to want to commit to that kind of time. Also, everyone I know has heard the stories of what it's like Out There, and no one is particularly eager to go through that special torture known as Touring with Paula. There's really only one choice left, and that's Bob. And I wouldn't want to do that to myself, just now when everything's coming together with Joey, except I don't really have a choice.

It took me two precious days to finally get the nerve to call him. Finally I told myself that this is ridiculous. This is about work, which we've both always understood, and he'll never be able to do it anyway. I'll call him up, see how things are -- professionally, of course -- and he'll tell me how busy he is and that will be that. If he asks me how I am I'll tell him how busy I've been and let it go at that. If, for some reason, he actually sounds interested in what the rest of my life is like, maybe I'll casually mention that I'm engaged and that will be that. Maybe he'll tell me what happened between him and that girl he was seeing (Jan was it?) and it'll be over in ten minutes and then I'll know, once and for all, that he can't go and that everything was over a long time ago. The tour will be as miserable as always and the new kid will bug me to death with his enthusiasm but at least I'll know that I had tried Bob. Actually, Bob will have let me down and then I'll remember why I'm marrying Joey.

All right, maybe it's a little sick to open myself up again to hearing his voice, but I really don't have a choice. I have to find some one to go on this tour with me, don't I? That's the bottom line. The rest only exists in my own head . . . so what do I have to lose?

Chapter 12 - Boomer

It had been one week when the phone rang. Now, the fact that I actually heard the phone ring may seem very banal to you, but to me it was something of a peak experience. You see, the phone doesn't just ring here at Chez Boom, it's more of a technology loop. First of all, I am rarely here when it rings (a tree in the forest falling sort of thing), so the machine picks up. My contact with the phone is usually limited to counting the lights flashing on the Phone-Mate or listening to the rings when I call in to retrieve the messages (four rings and no one had called, two and there're messages). In this way I always have time for mental preparation, gearing up so to speak, bracing myself for the onslaught of whining, bitching, cajoling inanity that usually signifies the end-point of all this technology. In other words, I live by the phone and I'll die by the phone, but I'll never love it. Despite what Jan says.

So, the phone rang. It was 8:00 at night, another anomaly. Wouldn't you know it -- the day after Jan took off the shoot I was working on folded when the lead man had a nervous breakdown and had to go off for barbituate therapy. And me with six weeks booked for it. So I spent the days snuffling around, trying to instigate some action, but the evening hours stretched on forever. I had no heart to go see a movie because I knew (1) if I saw a good one I'd wish Jan were around to enjoy it with me, (2) if I thought it was a good one and Jan hated it we could argue about it for a few hours and then make up, (3) if it was a stinker, Jan could trash it with me, or (4) see (2) above except the other way around. Lose/lose situations, all of them. I had no heart to go out to dinner because I hated sitting alone and having all the pity and/or adoration from the rest of the dining clientele. (Adoration, of course, being preferable but morally incorrect if acted upon.) So there I was, the last few nights of the first week, watching the six o'clock news and feeling pretty sorry for myself. Even my Atari seemed to be a little less user-friendly than was truly needed.

So, that's the set up. The phone rings. I'm feeling pretty devil-may-care, and actually pick it up. (Usually I wait until the machine does it, just in case it's someone in the whining or bitching category).

"Hello?"

"Bob!" Bob? Who calls me Bob? "This is Paula. Remember?"

Twenty-four foot Ryders. Trucker's hitches. Work gloves worn through. Smokey hotel lounges. Backstage pizza.

"Yeah, hey, Paula! Boy, do I remember.” Calling cues. Calling room service.

She laughs. "I was afraid of that. No way you could come with us for a four week tour, is there?"

"When? Now? You're crazy."

"I know that. Who else would be crazy enough to do this fucking job as long as I have?"

"I came close." Four tours. But the last one was right after I met Jan and became unavailable for road trip frivoloity.

"At least some of us have gone on to bigger and better things." Like what? I tried not to remember the gaping hole in my schedule the next few weeks. "I told Gustave you'd be busy, but he said to try anyway. I even got him to approve a raise -- but I knew it wouldn't do any good."

"The world of light opera has done without me for too long. I don't think it could stand my presence for another tour." Pinball for hundred dollar bills. Jumping over fences in blizzards to sit naked in hotel jacuzzis . . . tequila and Bud talls, the steam obliterating us from each other, our feet searching through the bubbles . . .

"O.K. It was worth a shot."

"You have my sympathy. When do you leave?"

"Tuesday. Can you believe it? My now-ex-assistant calls me this morning. He's got a deal writing a script or something for Disney. No can do, he says. It's source material, I tell him. He laughs and hangs up on me."

"Tuesday? Jesus Christ. You'll never find anybody." What am I going to be doing? Waiting for Jan to show up?

"Yeah. And we're going up through Las Vegas, Ogden, Utah, Idaho Falls, all the way to Billings out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere Montana . . . . " She'll walk in the door one of these days -- but what will we say to each other?

Hold it -- "Billings?"

"Yeah"

"Via Utah?"

"Yeah."

Oh, man. This was too weird. "You're really in a bind, huh?"

"Yeah, but I know you're busy and everything "

"Well, as a matter of fact . . . "

And that's how I came to be on the road, too. Exactly two months before Jan and I were supposed to be getting married.

Chapter 13 - Terry

"You're kidding! You saw them at Winterland?"

"Yeah. And it wasn't that long ago, either."

"Yeah, but Winterland. Man . . . "

"It wasn't that long ago. Trust me."

"Well, they last played there New Years ‘78. So it must've been before then."

"Yeah. Well the world did exist before the late 1970's you know."

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you're "

"Old?"

"I'm sorry. O.K.?"

God. I was dying to ask her how old she was. I mean, if she saw them at Winterland, she must've been in college or something. She was over thirty, that much was for sure.

Riding in the Pigpen -- it was frustrating, but kind of erotic too, in a weird way. I watched her shift and use the accelerator and, well, it was kind of like sharing a lover with someone. Seeing how another person does it. Needless to say, I still hadn't told her I had been the previous owner -- it was kind of perverse, but I was enjoying it. We had stopped and I taped some plastic over the back window while she kept the engine going. It cut down on the breeze a bit, but didn't do much for the visibility. Oh, well. What was there to see anyway? Our ambassador from Texas wouldn't be coming after us in a hurry.

"You ever look at their album covers? I mean really closely? Like Anthem of the Sun. You ever look at the heads? Or that back picture? Weir's reaching down and into the grave, maybe, like helping the viewer out to the other side of death or something. And Garcia's back a ways, in the light, like some kind of -- of benificent god, grinning at all the fuss."

"Look. You have to understand. All that is way, way, way back in my past. I'm not a, you know, Head."

"Oh, I get it. You're too cool, right?"

"I didn't say that."

"Too cool to get into the music. Too cool to get into the album covers. Yeah, I know that's what you want to think. But you don't fool me."

She looked at me, trying to figure out if I was mad or just pulling her leg a little. Tell you the truth, it was a little of both.

"I don't?"

"If you were really as totally cool as you think you are -- "

"What?"

"You wouldn't be driving this van."

She burst out laughing, the first real laugh I'd heard from her. Rub off the makeup, grow the hair out, put her in the sun . . . yeah . . . I could almost see her swaying to the music and smoking a joint. She'd be someone I'd look at, too . . . under those circumstances, of course.

"Touche. You've got me there. I just bought this van, actually. Today."

"You're kidding!" I was dying to know what she paid for it.

"Nope. Bargain, too. Only fifteen hundred dollars."

FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS!

"Fifteen hundred bucks?"

"Yeah. Well, it was a tradein, actually. I swapped him my new Subaru for it. Ended up with about a thousand in my pocket."

Oh, god. I felt like hanging my head out the window and throwing up. Fifteen hundred. The bastard had only given me four for it. Doing me a big fucking favor, too.

"It's a good van."

"I know." Smuggly. Proudly. Some bad karma was coming back to get me, I could feel it. Like leaving Susie and Joshua. On that order. "Hey, here we are at Beaver all ready. I'm going to stop and pick up a battery."

"A battery?"

"The old one's dead, remember. Why're you looking at me so funny? What's so weird about it?"

"It's not weird . . . I just think you'll have a hard time finding one."

"Look! Beaver All-Nite Trucker's Haven! They'll be sure to have one."

"I don't know . . . "

"You sure are a pessimist, you know? I bet that's why you haven't gotten any further in life than you have."

She gave me this cheerful, bouncy look as she shut off the ignition and hopped out of the van. I stared at her. Did I just hear right? Did she just turn off the ignition and call me stupid? At the same time?

"Look, it's been fun having you along. But I really don't need any more help, O.K.? Take care."

And off she flounced. Looking for a battery for a '66 VW van. . . . If I hadn't had such a wonderful moment to look forward to, I probably would have left her then and there.

Chapter 14 - Jan

As soon as I said that about not having gotten any further in life, I felt bad. Terry was a nice guy, as those kinds of people go, and he'd saved my ass back there with the Texan. I knew that. But policy is policy. I didn't need him around messing up my plan, and if I made him mad, well, I guess that was the way it would have to be. I'd pick up a battery and be on my way. He'd forget me as fast as I'd forget him.

The truck stop store was refrigerated and bright. I pushed past the glass counter full of Louis L'Amour audio cassettes (locked up tight) and through the aisles boasting T-Shirts, cab deodorizers and ladies' underwear, emblazoned with the words "Beaver All-Nite Trucker's Haven." The parts counter was in back.

I asked this blankeyed teenager for the battery and watched as he sauntered over towards a huge book on a stand, greasy from the multitude of pawing fingers it had been subjected to in its life time. He added his own and then came shuffling back.

"Llbeboutthrweeks."

"What?"

"Ill bebout thrweeks."

"Three weeks?"

"Uh huh."

"For a battery?"

"Six volt. Uh huh." He started scratching himself. Hiking up his greasy jeans.

"What kind of outfit is this, anyway?"

"Truck stop."

No feeling for sarcastic rhetoric at all. I spun around, hoping to convey the message that I was extremely put out with his salesmanship, and strode out of the store. As I passed the van, I noticed Terry sitting on the ground, leaning up against the wheel well, playing his harmonica. He started to smile but I walked on quickly. I had meant business, couldn't he see that? I was going to get a battery and carry on. Alone. Since Baker seemed only to exist because of the interstate, I was sure I'd find something else.

One Trac Auto, one Grand Auto Parts and a Manny, Moe and Jack later, I was reaching the end of my patience. I'd walked almost a mile up the lousy stretch of feeder road, and had gotten the same response. No six volts. Couldn't get one. Sorry, Charlie. Finally I'd weaseled out of one guy that there might be one at Elmer's Feed and Grain. Conveniently located . . . right across the street from the Beaver All-Nite Trucker's Haven. I trudged the long mile back towards the van, my feet sore and my neck and back covered with sweat.

I crossed to the other side and glanced over at the van as I went past. There he was, sitting crosslegged behind it, doing something to the engine. The nerve of this guy! If my feet hadn't been so sore, I would've marched right on over and given him my exact opinion of his continued meddling into my automotive affairs. But, as things were, I decided to keep on my quest and have done with it.

Elmer's Feed and Grain. I walked in and, despite my exhaustion, was suddenly glad for all the wrinkles of fate that had led me there. A classic place, burlap bags stacked high to the ceiling, hoes and shovels and other implements of agrarian torture hanging against the wall, and an overpowering odor of rich, warm, organic things. Fertilizer, mostly, but I didn't mind it at all. It was like walking into a Norman Rockwell painting. And Elmer himself finished the picture.

Tall, lanky and toothless, clad in perfectly faded overalls, Elmer greeted me from a rocking chair in his position of power behind the cash register. Well, it wasn't exactly a greeting. More like a flicker of acknowledgement. But compared to the receptions I'd been getting, it was almost a hug and a kiss.

"Hi. I'm looking for a six volt battery."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Guy up at Pep Boys said you might have one."

His eyes suddenly glittered and it almost looked like he might smile. But instead he rose up and jerked his head. I guessed I was to follow him.

"You have one?" I asked, incredulous, following him through a dingy back stockroom, jammed with more bags and tools and boxes than I could've imagined.

"Yup."

"In stock?" We came to the back door and he pushed it open against the prevailing weeds outside. I peered around him, wondering what was going on.

"There she is."

All I could see was a back lot full of dead grass and thistles, a mountain of oxidized bedsprings, and a pile of Hefty bags.

"Uh "

"Over there. In the corner."

I pushed past him to see. In the far corner beside a chainlink fence was a rusty, overgrown . . . thing. It had no doors, no windows, no paint, no wheels. The only thing that was still recognizable was an immense, rounded hood.

"That's a car."

" '46 Chrysler. Runs great."

"Uh . . . I'm not looking for a car. I'm looking for a battery."

"That's right. Battery's already installed. Good as new."

"You mean there's a six volt in that -- car?"

"Yup."

"Can't I maybe just buy the battery?"

"Can't sell the battery without the car. Be like selling the car without a battery."

"What?"

"You said you needed a battery."

"O.K., O.K. How much do you want for the heap?"

"Seven."

"Seven? Seven -- hundred?"

"That's right. It's a classic."

Norman Rockwell would've turned over in his grave. I ran out of there as fast as I could.

When I got back to the van, empty-handed of course, Terry was still sitting behind it, tinkering with the engine.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, there was some acid spilled over here so I cleaned that off. Then these wires were kind of fused together, so I took them apart and bound them with electrical tape."

"Hold it! This is my van."

"Good. Then you do it."

He stood up, looking at me with a grin . . . and something else. A little anger, and . . . it had to be confidence. A total certainty that he was right and I was about to eat crow. It was that extra look in his eye that made me suddenly feel very lost and alone. I didn't have that assurance out here in this world.

"I'm beginning to suspect Joseph Smith had some grudge against six volt batteries."

"I was afraid of that." Grinning. He knew I was trying to sidestep the crow-eating part.

"Oh, come on. You knew I'd never find one. And you were just waiting here so I'd come back and prove you were right. Right?"

"Well . . . " But by this time I was smiling, too.

"So what do you want from me?"

"Just a ride up the road. As far as you're going."

"A ride up the road? I could use a ride up the fucking road, too, you know!"

"Calm down. We'll take this."

"This? Do you want to push, or shall I?"

"We'll drive."

"Drive?"

He laughed and sunk back down onto the ground. He took the cables from the dead battery and connected one to a bolt on the side of the engine compartment. The other one he just taped over with gaffer's. The rest of the fried wiring he meticulously insulated and then arrange to stay away from the fly wheel and hot parts of the engine.

"Hey you're pretty good with that."

"I used to . . . have a van just like this. It gets in the blood."

"Hmm."

Standing up and brushing off his hands, he took the bunji cord and quickly retied it so that it again went around the exhaust manifold and over the latch. He glanced at me quickly, then kicked the dead battery away playfully.

"Let's go."

"But -- "

"Come on. Get in. We'll do it like before."

"But we don't have a battery!"

"We didn't before, either, remember?"

I stared at the molten piece of metal on the ground, then realized he was right. Of course. Just because it had been in the car didn't mean it was at all functional. And if it wasn't working then. . . well, why couldn't we leave it on the ground now? Still -- it felt a lot like going to church without underwear or something. Something just wasn't right.

I climbed in, pressed down on the clutch, and put it into second. He started pushing and when he yelled, I popped the clutch and sure enough, it sputtered to life. I revved it up, and then pulled around to pick him up.

"Good work, slick."

"I just hiked all over Baker, Utah and it could run all along."

"You'll get the hang of it."

He looked at me, rubbing his hands cheerfully with a red bandana. What a weird guy. Not an ounce of "I told you so" in him. Amazing. And those blue eyes . . .

"Look. I should tell you. I might turn around any moment. I don't know."

"Wherever."

He pulled out his harmonica and leaned back in the seat, blowing a soulful blues riff. I thought of the Boomer, I mean Bob, and felt a cold pit in my stomach. What was I doing out here anyway?

Chapter 15 - Boomer

What was Jan doing out there anyway? And where what she doing it? I was sitting with Paula and Joey, the other guy with us, in a wretched old Denny's in Blythe, when the pure futility of my quest washed over me. Here I was on the first leg of a four week tour, being paid half what I usually get mixing sound, heading off to multiple one night stands in towns I never heard of because of some notion I had that Jan was heading for Billings. It was insane! To top things off, Paula had neglected to mention that she was engaged, to this Joey guy of all people, and all I'd done on our off hours so far was sit around and watch them fight. The fact that she was engaged was starting to drive me crazy, I don't mind telling you. Not that I could have engaged in any auld lang syne or anything, but, well, old chemistries never die. They just change their colors a little bit.

What if Jan came back and found me gone? What if she were in trouble and I wasn't there to help her out? But all my worries grew silent in the face of the One True Fear: what if I was right? What if I ran into her out here in godforsakenville? What if she really had wanted to leave and I just looked like some lovehungry schmuck chasing her all over? How could I look her in the eye again if she knew that?

On the other hand, wasn't that just what I was doing? I would never have come on this gig if I hadn't really thought she had headed this way, too. Of course I was some lovehungry schmuck. But . . . what were the odds? Really. We'd never run into each other, and if we did, hey, I'm working. It's a job. You were gone, babe? Huh, never even noticed. Silly old me. Well, small fucking world . . .

And in the meantime Paula was reminding me of all the old road animal hungers I had tried to forget when I decided to stay in one town and settle down. Yes, sir. There is no headier perfume in the world than the one called "Do Not Touch."

Chapter 16 - Paula

If there's one thing I'm good at it's tying a trucker's hitch. And that's something that Joey simply will not get through his head. I know I'm a girl, and I know I use that excuse from time to time when I'd really prefer not to be hoisting road boxes six feet up. I know I practice a double standard and look out anybody who calls me on it. But, and I say this will all non-sexist modesty -- I can tie a mean knot. And, really, everyone should just let me do it. It's my gig, when you get right down to it. And I know what I'm doing.

I guess I have to be honest. I'm a bitch when I'm doing this kind of work. The pressure's on and I cave in. No more room for nicey-nice. No more room for civil behavior. It's work vs. time, and if the watch wins, we've had it. In the heat of battle, I just can't get sidetracked by romance, by a Relationship, by anything. There's work to be done. And maybe if I were a better person, or somehow could come up with a plan of action that would reverse the basic principles, well, maybe I could squeeze in a polite word here and there. Bob understands that, always has. But Joey, I don't know what he expected, but he's been acting, well, disillusioned. And I can't say I blame him at all.

Joey, he's sweet, and he tries to keep things neat. Lord knows I like that in a man, and it influenced me not a little when considering him as a potential mate. But he's taking his responsibilities a little to the extreme. He's the driver, Bob's the carpenter, I'm lighting. Fine. That's cool. But as the driver, what does he have to do? I would think that that would entail driving -- and helping with the loading. It's not a position of global importance. So why sweat it?

But we're a couple of days into the tour and already he's driving me crazy -- and it's not the kind of driving I would prefer. He is up at the crack of dawn, down in the cab of the truck, rearranging things. He's got a crate for food -- yucky leftovers still from our first meal in California -- a shoe box for cassettes, a paper bag for trash. And each of these components has to be in exactly the right place before he can do anything. He must make at least four thermos jars of coffee, lugs the coffee maker up and down to the hotel room every night, filling it up with coffee, and then is up first thing, turning it on. I mean, please. We're not in the middle of Siberia here. Hasn't he heard of 7-11?

All right. I'm venting. And many people would greatly appreciate the irony of me, Paula, the Control Freak, getting annoyed at excessive neatness. And I guess it serves me right. In a world of karmic balance, I'm getting my payback. Bigtime.

But here's the problem. Sometimes I'm right. Sometimes it's not worth it to lose an hour's sleep in order to save fifty cents. And sometimes it's better to let me tie the trucker's hitches.

It's 11:30 at night and we're loading out at UNLV. The crew is taking its own sweet time moving between the stage and the dock. I'm standing inside the truck, holding up the set for "Mikado" while we load "Pirates" back inside. I'm yelling to Bob for what should come in next. And Joey is helping load stuff in. Great. Teamwork. Everything is going smoothly.

Until these huge columns come in. We balance them off, one on top of each other, and I tell Joey to hold the other set while I tie it off. If they're not tied off right, they'll fall and perhaps break something. If they're secured correctly, everything's copacetic.

Joey gives me this look.

"I'll tie it off, honey. Just stand there."

Honey.

"You -- uh, know how to tie a trucker's hitch?"

"A what?"

"Trucker's -- never mind. I'll teach it to you."

"Hey. A knot's a knot. Just relax."

Bam. A dilemma. A knot is not just a knot. There's a way to tie something off that doesn't cinch off the rope. You want it to be tight, but not so tight that it's impossible to untie after it's worked around for awhile. After a couple of hundred road miles, a regular knot will bind itself -- sometimes so badly that you can't untie it without cutting the rope.

So what do I do? Do I protect his male ego, and our relationship, and let him do it his way? Do I risk losing part of our set or a rope? Am I being a control freak and over-estimating the importance of a dumb knot? Or, do I look at the big picture and realize that we'll have no time to fix a set or buy a rope in the days to come, that I should just take charge and do it my way, and let him deal with it as best he can?

I stand there, watching as he fashions an elaborate knot, feeling the dead weight of a major headache forming behind my eyes. God damn it. Why do I get myself in these situations? We're tired, it's late, we have two hundred miles to drive tonight. Why do I even know the difference between doing it right and doing it wrong?

And then Bob comes up, carrying a heavy platform in with a house guy. His face is ruddy with sweat and his arms ripple as he sets down the piece. He grins at me with a wink and glances around at Joey.

"Hey, man -- let me show you something -- walk this up to me, O.K.? --"

Bob and the house guy situate the new platform and then Bob turns to Joey, taking the gordian knot he's just concocted and ripping it apart.

"Thing about this kind of rope -- cinches like a mother fucker on you if you don't tie it right. Watch this. . . . You take one end and loop it around the ring in the wall . . . then you take the free end and throw it over, like a girl throws her leg over yours . . ."

Joey and he chuckle together and Bob pulls the hitch taut.

"See? Then you pull it tight like this -- and you're home free."

"Great. Thanks."

Bob slaps Joey on the shoulder and walks out, whistling some "Dire Straits." He does not look back at me.

I look at Joey, who's practicing a hitch on another rope. He fumbles, starts over. I hold up "Mikado" . . . and try to keep my mouth shut as I wait for Bob to come back with the last of the set.

Chapter 17 - Jan

The day after Bob proposed I went out and bought a Modern Bride, read it for about an hour, then went to bed with a migraine. I don't know if you've ever been through such an experience (judging from the population many people have at least been through part of it), but it seems incredible to me that anyone can honestly enter into a meaningful commitment with so much fuss attendant upon the occasion.

For example: the Gown. Before you can even begin looking, you have to decide whether the event will be in the daytime or evening (line of demarcation is six p.m.), formal or semi formal, large or intimate, indoor or outdoor. Then you decide sleeve length, train length, detachable or permanent, veil length (long for formal, elbow length for semi formal), veil type (cap, wreath or pillbox), and hair style (an appointment with your hair stylist is recommended two months before, as well as on the day of the Big Event). Now, don't misunderstand me. I think preparation for the Big Event is wonderful. And more power to all the women at Modern Bride and its readers. I just leafed through the pages and felt I had fallen into the twilight zone or something. It was a completely different world out there than I had imagined.

The sad and migraine-inducing thing of it was, was that I really wanted to be one of the women in the pictures. Look at their faces! They're all so . . . pure. They've never accused their Groom of being derelict in the area of feminine hygiene. They've never missed a patch of hair while shaving their legs. They've never cried, or cussed, or whined. They were Brides. Fresh and optimistic and perpetually in that magical state called Love. They had Grooms who enhanced their world with crisp tuxedos and champagne toasts, gracious ballroom dancing and perfect bouquets of white, opulent roses. I wanted to live in those rooms and dance on parquet floors with my train held perfectly in my left hand as He sweeps me around and around to a Strauss waltz. I wanted an unworried brow and perfectly shaped fingernails. I wanted what they had and that translated into money. I wanted to have that world and never worry about money again.

O.K., I know it was a disgusting capitalist ploy to manipulate me into wanting to buy everything in sight. I realize that. But I'm a sport. I can handle Fantasy vs. Reality as well as the next post-hippie, pre-yuppie early 30-year-old. No problem. Hence, the next Saturday, my girlfriend Sally and I traipsed down to a store in Orange County that was supposed to be the mecca for Bridal Gowns. All the prettiest dresses in the magazine were allegedly down there, just waiting to be draped sensuously over my head to transform me into (ta da) A Modern Bride.

You have to understand I really thought I was wearing an O.K. skirt and blouse. Nice -- and comfortable -- but presentable, or so I assumed before leaving the house. But I should've known. It happens every time I shop. As soon as I get near a clothing rack I feel shabby, unkempt, and desperately in need of a new outfit. They whisper to me insidiously: Jan you're looking frumpy, Jan isn't that a bit of mustard from last night's bratwurst, Jan I can't believe you're still wearing that hemline, Jan don't you want something new, something fresh, something clean, something else? It's another example of my willing victimization. I'm just a pushover for subliminal salesmanship.

So we walk in. It's a large store. Everyone you look are mothers, aunts, sisters, cousins, hovering around the (ta da) Bride. A sales representative stands in the circle, holding up Wedding Gowns sheathed in plastic bags. Points out different variations of themes which all include white shiny material, trimmings of sequins and/or pearls, lace and chiffon and embroidery and -- stuff. The Bride stands in the middle of it all, the regulation Solitaire sparkling with proud treason on her left hand, as if sending out signals to the world to come and rake her over some more pearl and sequin coals.

Sally and I wander through this white, fluffy Auschwitz, poking through the bagged-up Gowns hanging up on racks recessed in the walls. There are rooms and rooms of them, all of them looking very much alike but, as we can see from the price tags, obviously substantially different. We ask a question of a hurrying employee, three bags full of Gown draped heavily over one arm, and she waves us to an alcove.

"Long sleeves over a thousand are there. Under a thousand are there. But don't be discouraged. There are a couple nice ones under two."

We get the hang of what's going on. These women, these Brides and their mothers/aunts/sisters, have all made appointments months in advance. They chose their Gowns from the body bags on the walls, then the store makes them up in the right size. They return and enter what was, to us, the most horrific sight of all -- the Dressing Rooms. There was an aisle devoted to these rooms and once, and that was enough believe me, I saw what lay behind those forboding doors.

In the middle of the Dressing Room is a large, say nine feet in diameter, dais, a pedestal if you will, upon which the Bride stands. Surrounding this stage are chairs, upon which the mothers/sisters/aunts sit, watching. Evaluating. Judging. The woman -- who has said "I will" to a man, her friend and perhaps lover, and who is looking forward to a life of bearing children and doing dishes and keeping house and (you never know) keeping sane with a career or some intellectual activity -- is no longer a person. She had donned the Gown. She has Stepped up to the Pedestal. She is chaste, she is pure, she is encased in the pearls and sequins and lace of choice. She is a Modern Bride. And she is beautiful.

We saw one of them come out. She looked great, she really did. The women in the store, Sally and I included, stood back, truly entranced. The cut of the dress made her seem virginal and sexy and untainted and untouchable and, well, perfect. She practiced walking, another girl hovering behind her holding her train, flouncing her out so the dress hung perfectly . . . it was amazing. You could not picture her in jeans. You could not picture her writing a check. You could not picture her as anything -- except a perfect, prefabricated Bride.

I thought of that story, A Wrinkle in Time, that I read when I was a kid. The main character is trying to free her father who has been overpowered by this monstrous brain named It. It takes over your breathing, your heart rate, and eventually your brain. It controls your thoughts and actions and feelings. You were no longer yourself at all you were It . . . and the scary thing was, the horror of the whole situation --

"Can you pull over somewhere around here? I've got to take a leak."

"Huh? Oh sure."

"You've sure been spacing out."

"Yeah, no kidding. This O.K.?

"Perfecto."

He leaped out of the van and I studiously avoided checking out the scenery on the right side of the road. The rest was more than interesting enough. The sky was blue, a fact which still amazed me. We were on a long stretch of road before Salt Lake City and the mountains around the city loomed green in the distance. We were in a long sloping valley, billowing clouds bunching on the horizon to our left, mountains cresting on our right . . .

"Thanks. You want me to drive for awhile?"

"Well, this van's a little quirky; I think you'd need to get the hang of it first."

"That's cool." It looked like he was holding in a grin, but I shrugged it away. I was getting used to him seeing things funny that I didn't always quite get. I attributed it to an excess of marijuana.

I pulled back on the road, heading towards the big billowy clouds in the distance. "You ever read A Wrinkle in Time?"

"Long time ago."

"Remember It?"

"Yeah. Shit, yeah. That thing haunted me for years. Probably ruined my life."

"Was it my imagination, or were those people --"

"--Happier?"

"Yeah! That's what always got to me "

"They were automatons and they were happier! It was totally fucked."

"It got to me with how I dressed. Any time I'd see someone wearing something I thought I might wear, I vowed never to wear it again." The clouds rose above us, like giant silver cotton balls.

"For me it was school. First of all, I was sure there really was an It, and that It resided in the principal's office."

I started laughing. The thought had crossed my mind once or twice, too.

"So I'd always run real fast past the principal's office and every time I thought It was trying to get me, I'd block out everything. I guess that's why I dropped out of college."

"Where'd you go?"

"Swarthmore."

"Swarthmore! Wow, I'm -- "

"Surprised? Why, because it's private or because it's hard?"

"I don't know . . . what was your major?"

"English Lit. What was yours?"

I looked at him and then back to the road. "English Lit." We were almost under the clouds. They had an ominously dark underbelly. "You sure know a lot about cars for an English Lit major."

"You don't."

That got me. I started cracking up just as the clouds burst around us. Suddenly, torrents of rain were pelting through the windows, pulling down the plastic sheeting in back. I tried desperately to keep one eye on the road as I fumbled with the window, rolling it up with the broken handle, and scrambling madly for the windshield wipers. I finally found the button and pulled it. Nothing happened.

Terry was also scrambling. But he was opening his window, craning his head out.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

"QUICK! OPEN YOUR WINDOW!" He was leaning half way out, fumbling around the front of the van.

"OPEN IT? WHAT ARE YOU, CRAZY?"

"KEEP DRIVING, WE'RE VEERING OFF! OPEN THE FUCKING WINDOW AND GRAB IT!"

"WHAT'RE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"

He finally reentered the car, drenched, waving one of the weird leather thongs at me. "THIS! GRAB THIS ON YOUR SIDE!" I started trying to put the handle back on, but he leaned over me.

"WHAT'RE YOU DOING -- ?"

"SHUT UP AND WATCH THE ROAD!" The window finally open, he leaned over me, fumbling for the other leather thing while trying to keep a hold of his. What didn't get wet from the rain pouring in the open window, was soaked by his body struggling over me through the window.

"TERRY, GOD DAMN IT --"

"GOT IT!" He pulled himself back in and handed the thong to me.

"WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH IT? BRAID MY HAIR?"

"NO!" He pulled his end and the windshield wiper pulled up out from the bottom of the window and towards him. "NOW PULL!!"

I pulled. The windsheild wipers came towards me. For a split second, I could see!

"What the fuck . . . ?"

"Just keep pulling. Work with me."

He pulled his, then I pulled mine. It was harder than you'd think. But after a while we got the hang of it, got a rhythm going.

"Lesson Number One," he said, in his best Swarthmore accent. "You can start a car without a battery."

"Lesson Number Two -- but it still won't run the windshield wipers."

"And Lesson Number Three ?"

It dawned on me with shattering clarity. How could I be so stupid?

"This is your van . . . isn't it?"

"Was."

I looked at him, a new level of understanding making me rethink everything about him. His gaze back at me was unreadable -- was he sad he no longer owned it? Why did he sell it? What did he think of another person taking care of it, or not taking care of it?

"Small world." It was the only thing I could think of to say. I felt awful.

"Not very, once you get used to it." And he grins at me and keeps sawing away at his end of the leather strap. For the life of me I couldn't tell what he was thinking. And then I thought, maybe he isn't thinking anything at all. Maybe he's just being.

I grinned back, wondering about this guy with the blue eyes. We didn't talk much after that, but together we kept the rain away.

Chapter 18 - Boomer

"Warning on light cue 16."

Her voice buzzed through the head sets, calling the show to the operator in the booth above. I was stage left, leaning back on a stool against the concrete wall which was the inside of the proscenium. Joey was on the truck, straightening out the other set and fiddling with his knots. That guy was always fiddling with something.

On stage the company was singing a chorus of joy celebrating a marriage, about to be disturbed by the ominous entrance of Katisha, the Mikado's evil would-be daughter-in-law. What was being performed was in a completely different world. My reality was the hissing static of the headset, and the conversation I'd been carrying on with Paula over the last four nights, while Joey fussed with his stuff.

"Stand by, lights 16."

"Standing by."

May all good fortune, all good fortune prosper you,

May you have health, may you have health and riches, too . . .

It had been three years since I had toured with the company, and it had all come back to me by the end of the first show. The lunacy of working sixteen, eighteen hours a day, putting it up, doing the show, taking it down -- and the high of it all. There's a certain inestimable buzz connected with the kind of work involved in a tour, exhaustion most likely, but there's also the exhileration of the vernacular, the insiders' jokes, the sense of being all in the soup together. I've always kind of felt that it's like being in a war. The high of the combat zone must be pretty high indeed.

"And lights 16 . . . go."

Ye revels cease! Assist me, all of you!

"16 complete."

"O.K., that's over with. Where were we?"

"In the back seat of a 64 Chevy during your high school volleyball tournament."

"Right . . . "

You're back stage somewhere in a theatre in a town you've never heard of. You're in a dark corner with activity all around, but really nothing to do until the final curtain. Your shin still smarts from where you walked into the prop box in the dark. Your shoulders and biceps hurt, but feel good, flexed, like after a good workout. You can smell the mixture of sweat and stage dust on your fingers and the sum of all your hopes and desires -- given that sex is out of the question, not a trifling factor, believe me -- boil down to a beer after the show, an image you fixate on with elaborate, painstaking detail. And on your head are these headsets. Words, activities, communication -- all buzzing through your ears, rooting you to a very urgent, very necessary moment. The show goes on through these electronic muffs. Curtains rise and fall, the conductor is cued -- these are the hands of god, manipulating the actors' world so that they can lift the audience away from their lives for two hours, maybe three.

"It was great . . . your turn, Bob. What did you really do to make Jan leave?"

Why who is this whose evil eyes

Rain blight on our festivities?

"Come on, Paula. Don't start with this again."

"I know you know."

"I didn't do anything. And she didn't leave me."

"Your girlfriend split?" The sound man. Quote unquote.

"No!"

"What do you care? You're on the road." I could do better with half the equipment this place has.

"We're coming up on light cue 17 and follow spot 21."

"Thanks."

Listen to that. From bedroom intimacies to a cool cue 17. Over the last four nights we'd swapped secrets and caught up with old times. Now, when I looked at Joey, I wondered if he knew half the fantasies she entertained that I did. I also knew a thing or two about him. That helped keep my perspective -- especially when we said our good-byes in front of our respective hotel rooms.

"Stand by lights 17 and spot 21 -- on the mezzo."

"Standing by."

It's the not seeing that does it. The voice whispers in your ear, like the illicit phone calls you make when you're sixteen and you've finally gotten the courage up to call some girl and find out that she's been waiting for you to call since you were in sixth period together last year. Once the O.K. is given, it's an avalanche of telephonic hormones. All hours, all night. Just the soft sounds of breathing through the receiver and the incomparable knowledge that both of you are hanging on to every minute, treasuring it over and over in the dark. Hugging the phone to your bodies, alone, in the dark.

"17, go -- And 21 . . . go."

The next day you feel exhausted and elated and spent, in a way similar but different to the way you feel later, after sex. It's the promise that's so exciting. The pent up passions are translated into soundwaves, mundane bits of electrical current, but the passions are inflated beyond any potential gratification. In the dark, listening to that mysterious Other Person, the possibilities are limitless. You are linked and there is a world of sensuous darkness enfolding you . . . and you are safe from everything. Everything, of course, except the exquisite torture of your own imagination.

This was driving me crazy. I had to get Paula out of here, away from Joey. Just for a second. We were just friends, of course. Jan would understand.

"17 Complete."

If she's thy bride, restore her place,

"Hey -- Paula."

Oh fool, oh blind, oh rash, oh base!

"Hey, Bob." The way she says my name sends fingertips of feeling down my spine.

"Want to find a bar after? You haven't bought me a drink once yet this tour."

"Is Joey invited?"

"Joey? I was thinking he could maybe reload the truck or something. Work on tying those knots."

"Well --"

"They seem to be slipping recently, or is it my imagination?"

She laughs and I feel happy, triumphant.

"It does sound good . . . but I seem to remember you owe me."

If true her tale, thy knell is rung,

Pink cheek, bright eye, rose lip, smooth tongue!

"Well, we'll have to remedy that, won't we?"

"I think there're a lot of things we'll have to remedy."

Paula, Paula, Paula. In a world of broken lines, false scenery, bright lights and hotel rooms -- it's hard to remember which way is up anymore.

Chapter 19 - Paula

It seemed a good idea at the time, bringing Joey with me on the tour. We'd been going together for a couple months, casually talking marriage, and I figured he'd be nice to have around. Silly me.

Actually it was a series of dumb ideas. The first one was that Joey and I could have a Relationship and be on the road together. The second one was far, far worse. It was based on a fundamentally incorrect principle, that being that I was over Bob. Fundamentally incorrect? What a laugh. He was no more out of my system now than after the final load-out on our infamous tour three years ago. If anything it was worse. And it has nothing to do with any long term kind of thing. I don't know what it is. Sure I do. It's Stupid. Bob and Joey and Paula. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I knew I was in trouble the third night. We'd all gone out to dinner at the Black Angus downstairs from our hotel rooms in Ogden and everything was sort of O.K. Bob was telling us funny stories (at least I thought they were funny), and Joey was participating and seemed like he was holding up all right. We paid our bill and went upstairs, and then . . . I felt it. The awful pull, just like before. Saying good-bye at our hotel rooms. A moment's eye contact with Bob, his eyes laughing as he puts the key into his door. Wouldn't you rather come into 273, they say. What's in 271 that you couldn't get fifty times better in here, they say. I look away, tossing off something I hope desperately is funny and kind of sarcastic, and follow Joey into 271.

The door locks behind us with an ominous thud, and suddenly we're very, very quiet. I bustle around, putting out my jars of vitamins and my toothbrush and toothpaste. Joey plops on the bed and turns on the TV with the remote control, flipping the stations every five seconds until I think I'm going to lose my mind. But we're quiet. There's a fight brewing that's more than I fight, I think. It's so much more than a fight that I start hoping to God we'll never have it. It's a picture I see suddenly, of us just -- parting. Yesterday we had plans and hopes, a shared future. Tonight I see this vision of an entire life lived without Joey, and . . . it's not desolate or painful or awful. It's just quiet. Like this is.

"Hey." He speaks.

"What?"

"Come here."

"I thought you were watching TV."

"You were messing around with your stuff."

"Well, I was."

"Well, you're not any more are you?"

". . . No."

"Good. Come here."

I go over to him. He's smiling at me, in a warm, sincere, enveloping way. I sit on the edge of my bed. (My bed? The third night out and I'm already thinking in terms of my bed?)

"No, no, no. Come here."

I sit next to him. "Like this?"

"Yeah. Listen."

"I'm listening."

"I love you. You know that?" His eyes are brown and deep and hold no trace of a future alone.

"You . . . sure I do."

"I know you're under a lot of stress."

". . . yeah." He pushes a strand of hair back from my forehead, ever so gently.

"So . . . let me just make life a little less stressful for you."

"Oh?. . . "

And then he kisses me and yes, I remembered those kisses from days and weeks past when everything had been him, and then we get undressed and snuggle in beneath the floral hotel bedspread and under the thin hotel thermal blankets and he touches me and just as I'm remembering why I was so sure that he may, just may, after all be The One, we start going at it and absolute total fool that I am -- I start thinking about Bob on the other side of these flimsy hotel walls and before I know it I'm lost in other fantasies and Joey is here, alone. And, when I finally drift off to sleep, I am also alone.

Chapter 20 - Terry

When I had first spotted her in Hugh's Cafe reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance I had her all figured out. She was one of the people I like least in the world, despite the fact that I'm a pretty easy-going kind of guy. I pegged her as one of those city-mongers. Yuppie have-it-all want-it-alls. One of those girls that cares more about what's on their nails than what's on their minds.

And as we went through the whole battery routine, I kept that thought in the back of my mind. She had spunk and everything, but you could tell she was still going after the whole thing ass-backwards. She didn't have to be on the road, she really didn't even want to be on the road. She was doing it so she could tell the story afterwards, over cappuccino in some Starbucks somewhere. She could pull it out just as she was freshening up her lipstick, mentioning casually that she had gone on the road for a while, back in '89. Flaunt it like a silk scarf, waving it around so she'd have that extra tidbit of Life Experience that would put her in a class by herself. She would have Status. That's what was important.

And then came the storm. Of course she'd have to find out after all that the Pigpen had been mine. That was O.K. But what surprised me more than anything was how she looked during the whole thing. She was screaming and yelling and the water was pelting in and we were both soaked, but she kept the van on the road (not easy) and once she got the leather thong she kept her end up of the pulling (also not easy). And she was -- happy. Hair dripping, one hand on the wheel and the other pulling back and forth -- she started laughing in this way that made her absolutely, transcendentally beautiful. There's always a point, right before I fall in love, that someone looks like that to me. For Jan, I'll always remember that moment.

Of course, those moments are inevitably followed by panic. After I told her about the Pigpen, it took her awhile to get used to the idea. That was good because I needed the time to get used to the sudden onslaught of my new ideas. What was I doing? Three days ago, in a moment of decisive clarity, I had sold my van and vowed to visit Susie for the last time. I was done with Attachments, both personal and automotive. If I was opting for a life as a free spirit, so be it. No emotional encumbrances. Dump the baggage and get on with Life's Great Exploration. I had been in the process of freeing myself, when what happens? Suddenly here I am, back in the Pigpen, falling in love with a girl who probably doesn't even know how to make a campfire.

This life as a free spirit was getting more difficult every day. When I was in college, even the first few years after leaving, everything was great. My life's seasons were determined by the band's concert schedule and a variety of odd menial jobs that I picked up here and there. Susie was with me and we were a unit. If we liked a place, we stayed. Sometimes we worked together, sometimes we split up -- but whatever we were doing we knew two very important things. First, nothing was so important to us that we would ever have to quit doing what we were doing. And secondly, that we were always home, no matter where we were. We were neither running from nor running to. The moment anything got to be a drag we could move on without looking back.

But gradually things happened that started changing all that. Susie got pregnant with Joshua, and her priorities started changing on me. But that was O.K. Even after we split, I figured I could maintain just as well without her. And I did. I managed just fine. But . . . it was like that night I told you about, in Utah. I still think it was bad dope that started the whole process, but things like that were happening more often. I started to get outside of myself, from time to time, and see what I was doing. And my rules had started to change. Rule Number One became that that only thing important was doing what I was doing. And Rule Number Two, well, somewhere I had lost that sense of containment. Home was still inside, but it was afraid. It had locked doors and a big old electric fence around it. It was mine, but suddenly I found it requiring maintenance, upkeep. I started to guard it like it was the last place in the world for me, and no one was going to get inside and fuck it up.

Life's Great Exploration. It was a phrase that had rattled inside my brain for years. To me it had always been a geographic kind of notion. All the wonders of the universe are contained within a tiny mound of sand, available to anyone who has the patience and the openness to know it. What a miraculous place, then, the great plains of Kansas, the towering red mesas of Utah, the vastness of the Grand Canyon, the drama of Big Sur. It would take lifetimes to explore a minuscule fraction of it all, and I intended on doing as much as I could with my single allotment of time. It seemed a noble aspiration, worthy of John Muir and countless other brave explorers -- why not Terry Sullivan from Barnstable, Mass?

But . . . ?

But nothing. This is my calling, I've said it many times. Life's Great Exploration is a mastery of physical space. The interpersonal bullshit is just an insidious way that life sidetracks the unwary into losing sight of the greater vision. Susie was great, but she was a hindrance to the Greater Vision. Jan -- well, Jan's great, too.

I look over at her and she's driving in a peaceful alpha state. Her face is relaxed and her lips curve in a slight, contented smile. She glances at me and the smile deepens warmly, without the slightest bit of self-consciousness. Then she turns back to the road. She's finally gotten to a place I've known for a long time. Oneness with the road and the sky and the elements and the car. I've been there, too, but for some reason it makes me sad to see her enjoying it so thoroughly, like it's her first time making love and I'm some old codger unable to have that certain pleasure anymore.

It's getting dangerous again. Time to move on before my progress is again impaired. Life's Great Exploration . . . how come people always have to come around and fuck it up?

Chapter 21 - Jan

It all started with this look he gave me. At least I think he gave me this look. I certainly felt something, but I'm not really sure he meant it to be a look look, or just a casual kind of, you know, look. It was after we got the leather things worked out and were going back and forth wiping the window clear. I glanced over at him and suddenly -- ZIIIING! There was a connection. And I felt something I hadn't felt since high school. That kind of weird sideways lurch in the stomach that if it doesn't go away starts spreading upwards and downwards, until it's all around your stomach and thighs and, well, sometimes it gets almost crippling. When you've got it bad only a thought will start it up again. And it's such a weird, powerful, primal kind of feeling, it's like you want it to go away but the second it starts fading you start thinking certain thoughts so it'll come back again.

Well, this had been going on for about a hundred miles and I can tell you I was about ready to claw away what was left of the headliner of the van. He just sat there, sort of nodding his head to the beat of some inner music, making small talk every now and again. And I drove, trying to be nonchalant as hell, but inside forcing myself to maintain control. What was going on here? Was anything going on here? Part of me wanted this to be all one big hallucination stemming from the extraordinary events of the past few days -- I mean, after all, I was engaged to Bob and whether or not he was around to assert himself it was my job as a woman with integrity to keep myself in line here -- but an eensy-weensy part of me wanted, well, something to be going on. Wanted the messages I was now reading into every tiny gesture to add up to a brand new message, whose initials I could only hope guiltily were L.U.S.T.

Look at him over there. From the corner of my eye I can see the bend of his leg and the way the jeans sort of fold around his thigh. Perfectly faded, and not bought that way, either. You could tell he went in and bought straight 501's and through a long and unself-conscious process of wear and tear, they faded just perfectly. I bet they even have a little square shape faded out of the back rear pocket from where he keeps his wallet (if he even has one). And his shirt -- perfect white cotton. Sure, I could find cotton like that -- at Nordstrom's for about a hundred bucks. And after about three dry-cleanings it would be stiff and sort of rubbed out with those little cotton beads that form with that kind of pseudo-cotton. His was cotton -- thick, white, perfect -- and it hung about his shoulders and opened around his neck just enough to see this little tuft of black hair sticking out . . .

"Watch it there."

"Hey -- the guy swerved into my lane."

Oh, god, he knows. He knows I'm sitting here fantasizing my brains out. Just a little glance . . . no, it's cool. He's looking out the window, but he has this little smile. No, must be thinking about some other girl. Thinking about all the girls he's made love with in this very van.

"How'd you break this rear view mirror?"

"I think a friend broke it with a guitar case."

Right. As she was taking it in back with her to sing Joan Baez songs by apres-lovemaking candlelight. Shit. I haven't felt like this since . . . when did I feel like this last? Huh . . . it must've been while I was going out with Richard. There was this guy I was working with at the time who was blatantly coming on to me. It was out of the question, of course, but still -- he had gotten me sort of hot and bothered.

See, that's the problem with a "committed" relationship. The second someone says to you that it's Forever. That you will have security and friendship and someone to laugh with and sleep with and hug and see movies with for the rest of your life, and that's all really good. But there's only one little catch: you'll never, ever be able to sleep with anyone else. Well, I don't know about you, but that makes me just about crazy. I know girls are supposed to want monogamy and everything, and deep down inside I really do, at least for my partner. It's just the forever business. No one else? EVER AGAIN? It comes upon me like a madness -- and I'm sure what I'm feeling is just a shadow of what Bob feels. No matter what we do or say or become -- we'll never be anyone else to each other than who we are. We can never be the Other Person. And sometimes, dear riding partner of mine, the Other Person is pretty damn attractive indeed.

Well, look. I'm not doing anything, and there's nothing that says you can't think about other people. If Bob were doing the same thing, I'd understand, I really would.

"You want me to drive for awhile?"

Want you to drive? Baby, I want you to jump in this seat and take control. I want you to take those big brown hands and place them on the wheel and determine my destiny. I want you to open that white shirt and flex those brown muscles and drive and drive and drive, until the road splits open and the stars burst and the universe goes crazy with the frenzy of it all. I want you to maneuver your way into my life so perfectly that I'll never remember, never look back, never feel pain, never see the ring on my finger --

"No. I'm O.K."

But I smile a little anyway. There's still no harm in thinking.

Chapter 22 - Paula

Bob and Joey are out having drinks. I was not exactly invited. And, to tell you the truth, despite my wounded feelings, I'm basically very relieved. The tension between the three of us has been getting pretty palpable. Or at least I think it has. And that's what's driving me nuts. What if it's all in my head? What if fifteen hours of sleep over five days has pushed me over the edge and I have no sense of reality any more? I know touring makes me psychotic. I just hoped it wouldn't happen so soon.

I took a long shower and am sitting in bed in a clean T-shirt. My nerve endings are tingling from being so tired and wired at the same time. Today was a travel day and we're ahead of the company. We crossed six hundred miles of mesas and plateaus, the sun glinting off the bug specks on our windshield, the music distorted from the tinny Ryder speakers. It was a glorious day, the sun shining over the vast landscape, moving its course through the sky, oblivious to our petty travels.

I sat in the middle, between Joey and Bob. Not the most comfortable seat but de rigeur, as the "girlfriend" of the driver. A dubious honor. I would've far preferred the door where I could lean my head back without breaking my neck.

But we were all so weary the day went by peacefully. I slouched down, propping my knees on the dash, and indulged myself in a little physical contact with Bob. Nothing obtrusive, just let my hand brush against his thigh a little as I relaxed down into the seat. He did not edge away, and I perceived a little glint of amusement when he glanced down at me. Ah, road games. Innocent fun.

The conversation was light, and mostly we just listened to a blues tape that Bob had put together. Smokestack Lightning. Back Door Man. Train Kept A Rolling. Great stuff. But throughout the day the cumulative contact began to get wearing. I was warm and jittery, and my sense of humor was beginning to fade. So when they expressed a great interest in going to a local video parlor, I sent them on their way with only one warning that tomorrow was an early call.

And now I'm alone. Clean. Free of all responsibilities.

I flip the channels aimlessly, watching the local news and scanning through re-runs. I come to a documentary, about volcanos. The graphics showing the tectonic plates covering the globe, meshing with each other, colliding with each other, straining against each other. Then pictures of Herculaneum; the women and children huddling against each other in the arched grottoes by the sea, chased there by the wave of hot, burning, molten rock, crushing their seaside resort into antiquity. They run to the sea, hoping for what? A boat to rescue them? The ocean to buffer them from the burning lava? The protection of their elegant buildings, their peaceful aristocracy, their simple way of life?

Whatever it is they are hoping for, they do not get any reprieve. The firey river comes after them. Five minutes and the town is filled. And their skeletons lay there, cupping their jewels and their gold, clinging to their purses with their bone fingers, hugging each other while the lava fills their open mouths as they scream. . .

The skeletons talk to the anthropologist. The anthropologist holds each fragment of bone with such love, such care, such awareness. See this woman?, she says in Italian. This woman was 28 years old, had two, maybe three babies. And this other pair here? The baby held in the arms of a young woman? The baby is not her child, she's not old enough to bear children. Not even her little sister. No, look at these scars on her humorus -- she was forced to carry things far too heavy for her to bear. See her teeth? At the age these were growing she didn't get enough nutrition. But the baby she's holding is wearing gold bracelets, gold earings. The older girl is a slave, and the child she's protecting is a rich child . . .

I watch, fascinated. I turn off the light until there are just the shadows of the skeletons flickering across the cottage-cheese ceiling of this remote motel room in Craig, Colorado. What a way to go. Five minutes and it's over. Five minutes ...

I have this horrible habit. I have never told anyone about it. When someone notices, not too often as it's a quiet sort of habit, I lie and say I bumped my head. It happens when my scalp gets bad. I start to pick at it, and as I pick these little scabs start to form. Then I pick at the scabs and they start to bleed and every day I pick and every day they bleed . . . you get the point. It's rather disgusting and not something I'm proud of.

But as I was watching the anthropologist handling her ancient friends, something suddenly struck me. She was putting together the plates of a skull, discussing how difficult some skulls can be to put back together. Plates -- separated from one another by ragged cracks. Cracks meshing with each other, colliding with each other, straining against each other . . .

What are my little scabs but self-inflicted volcanic activity? Aren't they my way of peeling back the layers, struggling to get to the essence, the physical center of all that seethes and bubbles and burns within me? Cerebral tectonics, the way the skeletal plates strive for equilibrium, reason fighting with unreason; logic struggling against passion. If I only had a way to tap the inner vibrations, take the emotional core temperature -- maybe then I could second guess these hidden, unstoppable movements, and prevent the eruptions and disruptions that I fight against every moment I find myself alive and thinking beneath my fragile skull . . .

They're out there. The man I have and the man I want. Will they always be two different people? Bob and I have only known each other on the road -- is that why I remember him with such unmitigated lust? Being on the road is being constantly in a state of upheaval. Perhaps living on the edge of that seething river of fire is the only way to feel alive anymore. Everywhere else I seem to hedge my bets, playing it safe, waiting, waiting . . . . If I am found a thousand years from now, would my mouth be open wide with fear? Or would it be a certain ironic elation that, facing death, I have finally felt something fully and completely and not held back, waiting for something better to come along?

What will my skull tell you, anthropologist of the future? Will you find me shielding my master's child? Or clutching to myself a handful of shining objects? Will I be running or will I be in repose, calmly accepting the inevitable? Will I have found an Answer, or will I be picking at my head, picking away ever so gently, still seeking at that very last moment a way to find the essential molten truths running subcutaneously beneath my skull?

Chapter 23 - Jan

I have only one question to ask, and that's what the fuck is going on here? I mean, here I am engaged to be married, a legal secretary, for god's sake, and I'm driving on this highway in some car that should be in a museum next to -- this guy. This guy, this guy -- I've known him for all of ten hours, now, and suddenly that's all I can think about as we're driving. Him.

This is ridiculous. All of it. I'm a college graduate, I know when things are out of control. And this, definitely, is out of control. The money, for starters. Do you know how long it will take me to recover from this financially? Probably about six months. That's about how it goes with me -- one week of pleasure, six months of agony, paying off the bills. Boomer doesn't help, either. "You spent it, you pay for it," he says. As if I couldn't figure that out myself. No, there's no way I can weasel out of this gracefully, even to myself. This has been a catastrophe financially. A total catastrophe.

I've been driving for eight hours straight -- and to tell you the truth, I've thought more than once about my little blue Subaru with its lumbar support and other luxuries. Like a heater. Like windshield wipers. I haven't let Terry drive any part of it, and I can't really tell you why, except that my pride has gotten the better of me in that arena, too. I can't turn around and go home. I can't let Terry drive. I can't even think about calling the whole thing off. I'm a mess, really. I can't even decide what I want to do about dinner, and we haven't eaten since we finished the Chips Ahoy about three hours ago.

God damn, I hate this. I spend every waking hour being Responsible, at least so it seems to me. I take care of the people at work. I take care of our apartment. I take care of myself. This is the first truly irresponsible thing I've ever done, and it's a nightmare. I'm so twisted up about doing it that I can't even pull off the road. We're getting low on gas and I don't want to even deal with that. It's no longer a carefree road trip, it's a prison sentence. And I'm going to have to pay -- financially and emotionally -- for the rest of eternity in order to make up for it.

"You O.K.?"

"Yes."

I try to smile in a relaxed manner, keeping my eyes on the road. Who the hell is this guy? If it weren't for him and those blue eyes, I'd be back at home by now, probably. It's true. Really. If it wasn't for him, this van wouldn't even exist. I wouldn't have seen it. Wouldn't have sold my beautiful new car for it. If it wasn't for him, I'd be O.K.

Busted flat in Baton Rouge,

Waiting for a train . . .

Oh, great. He's pulled out his harmonica. This guy is such a -- a throwback, for god's sake. Hasn't he ever heard of synthesizers? I bet this guy wouldn't even know which side of the CD to play! Now it's "Me and Bobby McGee." Get real.

He stops.

"Jan?"

"Yeah?"

A long silence, punctuated only by the din of the balding tires running along the road.

I look over. The headlights of a passing truck highlight his face momentarily. Behind him stretches the vast blackness of the mesas of Eastern Utah. His hair is rumpled. His unshaven jaw is outlined by shadow. He looks concerned, thoughtful.

"What is it," I say.

"I -- nothing."

"What?" I have to smile a little. He's so damn cute.

"It's -- look, I know nothing about you. But it's going to be O.K. You know that?"

I feel like frowning, but my forehead relaxes and I smile a little more. I search my soul a little bit. Yeah, deep inside, I know he's right.

I nod and smile. "Yeah. I know."

"We're coming up to Santaquin. You want to stop up there?"

"That'd be good."

Chapter 24 - Terry

The poor girl. She was going through some major bad weather inside, and I couldn't do anything about it. Bringing it all on herself, too, which I knew all about, but had dealt with a long time ago.

It's not easy to be out on the road. It's not easy to live in the moment. I told you about that business up outside of Provo, close to where we are now, as a matter of fact. The goal of this life is to expand, become one with the universe, understand the Basic Truths. But the world keeps interfering with you. People. Events. You get involved -- which means distracted -- and lose sight of the immediate reality in front of you.

I have to admit, I've adapted better than most people. It's because I have a certain dedication to the ideals involved. And it's easier for me to focus -- probably because of all the weed I've smoked over the years. But she was having a tough time of it. And I felt for her.

She's done some pretty radical things in the last couple of days. I have to give her a big thumbs up for that. But every high carries with it its own hangover, as we all know. And judging by the way her brow was tightening up as we drove, I figured the first part of the big Crash was coming on strong.

The sun set about four hours ago -- a serene ball of fire, sinking lower and lower, casting the cliffs in a deep orange glow. The sky was a deep blue . . . cloudless . . . pure. I could see the it through one of the back windows of the Pigpen. The old patchwork curtains that Susie had made about three years ago need mending, but I could still feel the love and care that had gone into making them. And the sunset was beautiful. Jan was driving and suddenly I started getting infected with bad vibes myself. When would I ever see this happen through these windows again? This was not my van anymore. This was not my space.

Involvements. They're so hard to shake loose of. They muddy the waters of clear thinking. If it wasn't for Jan, maybe I'd be able to watch this sunset completely, being totally with it for the whole event. I wouldn't be worried about possessions -- or about her. I have to admit, with night coming on, the primal beast inside me was wondering exactly what was going to happen. I've slept inside the Pigpen almost every night since I graduated from college. It's my home. And I've never had a problem sharing my accommodations. But somehow, especially with that tight tense brow, and the way she has started biting her fingernails, I don't think that she'll relax totally into the idea at this point. Besides, that's the last kind of involvement I need right now anyway.

Why can't girls just do it? That's what I want to know. Why do they always want to mess things up -- exchanging telephone numbers, promises to call, all that junk. I'm sure she has a sexual side to her. Somewhere. Why couldn't we just make each other feel good for a little bit, and then say hasta whenever?

I'd better stop this line of thought. It's gotten me in trouble before, and I'm not going to let it happen to me again.

It's got to be this place. Every time I get close to it, some major heavy thinking comes up. I'll have to look up this area on a map, see if there are any bad karmic spots around Provo. The Mormons are a pretty strong bunch -- maybe they tweaked something a little when they came through here, threw a monkey wrench into one of the Indian spiritual points. Once we get out of this vector, I'm sure things will be back on track once again.

Chapter 25 - Jan

The TraveLodge at Santaquin looked pretty darn good, let me tell you. It was situated about a hundred yards away from the offramp to the freeway, and the main road through town led by its front door. The marquee promised low rates, and a Carl's Jr. -- glowing red and yellow across the street -- promised warm quick food. I parked the van (strategically pointed downhill), and shut off the motor gingerly.

"Well. We're here."

"We're somewhere."

I opened the door and slid off the Indian blanket, feeling like every molecule in my body had been rearranged. Painfully. My hair was dirty, my face was grimy with a day's worth of oil and sweat. I could've slept on the main counter of the Carl's Jr. -- so the thought of a bed and a working shower seemed pretty good indeed.

But there was this person with me. A person who came around the front of the van, carrying some two-by-four blocks which he shoved in front of each front wheel.

"Under the passenger's seat. Emergency brake doesn't always hold."

"I'll remember that." What was I going to do about him? If I was clean and rested, and not engaged, of course, I would certainly consider angling for some company tonight. But he was probably completely repulsed anyway. I looked at him and tried not to think about what he was thinking about looking at me. There were basically too many people in the picture. And I didn't quite know what to do about it.

I glanced over at the warm glow of the Motel office. The lights of the town stretched down the main drag for a few blocks. Beyond that was the blackness of the countryside. The sky was riddled with stars. There was a sharp, clean smell to the air that made me feel lightheaded and slightly giddy.

"So -- guess I'll be moving on." Terry was smiling.

"Uh . . . yeah. I guess you will. You have some place to go?"

"Sure."

"I -- you want to sleep in the van? You're more than welcome --"

He glanced back and frowned slightly, shaking his head. I felt a horrible wrenching in my stomach -- either hunger or an intense, sudden empathy. He loves this poor old thing.

"No," his face was clear and relaxed again. Either he was a master of deceit, or he truly was able to detach himself. From everything.

"Well, if you're sure. . . ."

"Yeah. It's cool."

He stuck out his hand with a slight bow. His eyes were amused. I took it and felt a jolt of electricity running up my palm and through my arm. I remembered the shuddering flashing sparks of the jumper cables as the Cadillac roared its megaton of life into the van. I practically pulled my hand away with surprise, but then, an instant later, I squeezed his back, relishing the warm glow that was replacing the sparks. Hey, there's no harm in a simple hand-shake, right?

"'Bye, Jan. Take good care of the Pigpen, all right?"

Oh my god, he was really leaving. I held his hand tightly, hoping I wasn't overdoing it, hoping it wasn't starting to sweat, not knowing what to do but suddenly, suddenly not wanting to be alone in this far off place with no one at all around for a million zillion miles. What was I going to do? What would my footsteps sound like as I walked to my empty room -- would they echo the notes of triumph or of loneliness? Were they the bold signature of an adventurer, or the heralds of a long cold night spent hanging on to the memories of the warmth of this hand, holding mine tightly, right now . . .

I took a big breath. Get a grip, Jan. You've got credit cards. There are telephones. You can go home tomorrow if you want to. You're just tired.

Relax. Detach. He can do it, so can you.

I tried to make my eyes look as comfortable and amused as his voice sounded to me. It was dark. The cars were blowing past us on the interstate above. I was miles from anywhere I'd ever been.

"I'll try."

I was tired and dirty and hungry. Soon I would be clean and fed and asleep. Very simple solutions to very simple problems. The other hungers I was feeling? Their solutions were not so easy. He had to be on his way, and I had to be on mine. I let go of his hand.

He picked up his pack and gave me one last smile as he turned back towards the on-ramp.

"By the way -- the Pigpen doesn't have a reverse."

"No reverse?"

"Thought you should know --"

"Thanks --"

I smiled and waved as he walked across the road and up to the intersection. A traffic light changed and his hair was momentarily caught in its yellow glow. He turned one more time and we both waved again.

I caught my breath, and shouldered my purse as I turned towards the TraveLodge office. He was gone. There was no turning back now.

Literally.