Tag Archives: American myth

Randy Ford Author- PIKES PEAK Revised

PIKES PEAK Revised

by Randy Ford

As for their old Studebaker, Jack would always miss it. When people talked about the Studebaker they talked about it’s sleek design and advanced technology. As a mechanic, Jack’s father knew cars. He knew which cars got the best gas mileage and which needed to be lubricated less often and chose a Studebaker for those reasons. The sound of its motor reassured him. He couldn’t see how it could be improved upon. In order words, he wouldn’t have to tinker with it much. He hated tinkering with his own cars. He disliked it, though his love of cars was incurable. So he bought a Champion Regal Deluxe, hoping he would never have to do anything to it.

When on one Sunday morning (the year was 1948) the urge to get behind the wheel got too strong for him and the rest of the family was in church, Jack stole his mother’s car keys and went for a spin. This for someone with sticky fingers wasn’t difficult. And his father had taught him to drive, and Jack considered himself an expert. Then too he thought he could get the car back to church before the service was over, and no one would ever know. And he knew a back road where he could see how fast she would go. Roll the window down, and turn the radio up full blast, and put his foot to the metal: this seemed simple enough. And as an exemplary son, he could get away with it because no one thought he was capable of it. .

He thought about racing down Main Street and out of town. But U.S. 40 was probably not the best choice. It had too many stoplights and was the main drag. But more than that, he didn’t want to get caught speeding, when he intended to speed. Otherwise he would’ve taken U.S. 40.

So not wanting to attract attention, he drove south through town. A Champion Regal Deluxe Studebaker was very hard to drive around without people noticing it. Knowing this Jack drove at a snail’s pace, but he couldn’t have thought that he’d get away with it. The little fart was taken to the woodshed for lesser crimes.

Careful, no speeding! A superior engine was his worse enemy. For luck he patted the dashboard. His parents never understood him, and with this in mind he could’ve kept going.

Once he got his hands on his mother’s keys, the rest was easy. Power, speed, a smooth ride was what a Studebaker was known for. The car had style, attitude, individuality, and uniqueness. It was the first one in town like it. His father had special ordered it. And he took a chance, forgot the time, and wrecked it. And all of his skill couldn’t keep him from losing control of the car and running it into a ditch and a barbwire fence. It hurt to think that he couldn’t control it. It didn’t make him feel any better to have to face his parents, having said this, there was very little damage to the Studebaker.

“Where’s Jack?” Their minister calmed his parent’s hysteria by asking the obvious. He knew at once who the culprit was. Jack e couldn’t get away with anything. It was impossible because father, who owned a gas station on the busiest intersection in town, was everyone’s friend. What was the worse thing that could happen? He could wreck his father’s pride and joy and, while he was getting too old to spank, spanking turned out to be unnecessary.

From the cradle, Jack had been taught right from wrong. He knew Christ. He confessed his sins, but that didn’t give him a pass at home.

When he was very young Jack already had an urge to get behind the wheel, and it didn’t help that his dad ate and slept cars. Then when he finally learned to drive, he didn’t get to drive as much as he liked. He assumed his father would give him a car, but it didn’t happen. His father thought he shouldn’t be handed a car but should have to buy one. It meant that he had to work. The idea of working wasn’t foreign to him since he grew up around a gas station, but the thought of getting stuck in one never sat well with him. In other words, he couldn’t wait. Besides, he knew it really would be a long time before he could buy a brand new Champion Regal Deluxe Studebaker.

Once he experienced the freedom he felt behind the wheel there was no stopping him. He found it impossible to stay in one place for very long. And he made no secret of it and ran away more than once. And while his parent fretted and worried, they soon learned that there was nothing they could do about it. He was truly a riddle. So what if he faced an uncertain future. What did it matter as long as he got to experience as much of the world as possible?

Sitting under an oak tree, Jack weighed his options. He knew what would happen to him if he went home and knew he’d be restricted. He anticipated it before he took the car. His parents were consistent, if not anything else. There was a particular look he knew, and when saw it he knew he’d get punished. He stood back and looked at the Studebaker and studied the scratches along its side. It was obvious that he was in trouble, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d have to face his parents. He supposed it could be worse. He knew very well that it could be worse. He could’ve totaled the car and gotten seriously hurt. Yes, it could’ve been worse. But he wasn’t about to stick around and find out. He judged now that he needed to hurry.

Now Jack could run, and people were used to watching him run. There had been times in his life when he out ran everyone in his class, and he was in pretty good shape. He also knew all the alleyways and shortcuts, and he could pace himself so that he could run all day. And for his age, he managed himself pretty well. But at this point, he wasn’t thinking ahead. He just wanted to get out of town as fast as he could. He’d worry about essential stuff later.

Graduation was fast approaching, and would Jack graduate? Graduation, the day of truth, and Jack was throwing it away. Yes, but he was prepared to make it up later. And at the same time other kids were getting ready for the life ahead of them. And he’d have to graduate to be highly respected. With graduation coming he’d soon be on his own anyway. He could work for his father and had in the past. With summer coming he was pretty much assured a full-time job, but he had never been sure what he wanted to do. He considered his options and thought about the prospect of working for his father, with the idea at some point of taking over the gas station, but it didn’t appeal to him. He saw what it did to his father.

Jack kept running. He had a few dollars in pocket, money he earned pumping gas. But he knew it wasn’t enough. Then why didn’t he turn around right then? And there were more reasons for turning around than simply not having enough money. There was the matter of a girlfriend and the plans they’d made, but that didn’t mean a whole lot to him. Keeping a girlfriend happy was an added worry that he already decided he didn’t need. Some of his buddies were getting hitched right after graduation. Good for them, but they could have it, as far as he was concerned. The idea of getting married, having children and living happily ever after didn’t quite sound right to him.

Jack was more independent than most, so he was used to going out on his own. And he thought that many of his classmates didn’t know what they were doing, so they were getting married and that seemed like the worst thing they could do. A light bulb went off in his brain, and Errol Flynn came to mind. He already idolized Errol Flynn.

Now Errol Flynn didn’t belong to a class of people that most of us would’ve wanted to emulate. Now the movie star became Jack’s hero the moment a Spanish teacher talked about meeting the actor once on a freighter bound for Marseilles. This stuck with Jack. Here was a citizen of the world, someone engaged in careless living, with an enormous drive for sex and money. It didn’t matter to Jack that he was a drunk and a bum. Flynn traveled the world, and it didn’t seem to matter to him whether was on top or not. Jack watched all of his movies at least twice. He marveled over how Flynn rebelled against God and country. Making movies was always a side venture for him. But what Jack didn’t know was Errol had some will-o-the- wisp desire to please his mother. He tried to placate her as much as he could, while they continued a lifelong feud. Stress the word feud. Whenever they were together, it was like a tiger and a lion in a cage. She tried to control him and treated him like dope. In this respect, even as a grown man, she treated him like a child. So ”cheers mamma and damn you too!”

Flynn who had by then entered Jack’s psyche served as a model for the young man, but the idea that they didn’t have a rudder was totally false. The two of them were simply a different breed. And Jack owed his mother more than he was willing to admit.
Both men felt impatient. They were always in motion. No shilly-shallying. Both of them believed that all they needed was a good head start.

Errol made bank, played with confidence, and his luck was better than most. How much better was it to win money than earn it? So, in Manila, he rigged cockfights. The bets were high; the stakes, higher. He was loaded with dough and could afford to lose. You could say he was lucky. Who wouldn’t mind winning that kind of dough? And both of them … Errol and Jack … knew that it didn’t do any good to fight a bad streak.

Jack stopped running and regretted that he hadn’t said goodbye. It wouldn’t have been a simple matter, and maybe they would’ve been able to talk him out of it. The questions would remain unanswered for a very long time.

The sun told him that it was around noon and that church was just getting out. He didn’t know how long it would take them to realize that he and the car were missing. Then the police would be called, but the police wouldn’t immediately do anything. But how long would it take for them to find the car and put together a plausible explanation for his disappearance. All of that bought him a little more time.

Jack had never been obedient, so they figured he’d come home by suppertime. They hung on, thinking he’d show up before dark. And the call to police didn’t amount to much until they found the car. Everybody supposed that Jack would eventually show up. Ordinarily they would’ve been right. But they didn’t know Jack very well. They knew that he was impulsive and ate and slept Errol Flynn movies, just as his father ate and slept cars, but they didn’t know how obsessed he’d become over the urge to be somewhere else. It was though he was released from prison. They never suspected he was running for his life, as he avoided the highways and roads like a fugitive … relied on his senses … avoided open fields and set a course through the woods. And when he heard a brook and said, “At least, I won’t die of thirst.” Well, there he was without food. It was then that he decided to condition himself by going without food for a week.

Some of his other ideas were more conventional. What else would you expect from someone determined to shake the dust off his feet? Shouldn’t he have followed the advice of his teachers, graduated and enjoyed commencement? If he wanted to impress someone, he would’ve gone a different direction. But there was no danger of him doing that. The last thing he’d do was try to impress someone. He had enough to worry about. If he stopped for moment to think, he would’ve been frightened, but he got pretty good at looking out for himself. And he wasn’t afraid to ask for help. Then if he knew he couldn’t do something, he simply wouldn’t try.

Two long days with nothing to eat, but wild berries … power of mind over body! But he couldn’t get his mind off food.

Since he hadn’t planned, he told himself that he didn’t believe in planning. He didn’t have a compass or a map, so he quickly gave up the idea of getting lost. And he never did, and never would. But something had to happen or else he would starve. He could get sick of course, but that was out of the question. He was never sick in his life, if you didn’t count the measles, the mumps, and the earaches he got as a young child, the normal things kids got before there were shots. So getting sick was one less thing he had to worry about.

So who doesn’t like fried chicken, smoked ham and potato salad like mamma makes? A spread that none of us ever forgot? Mamma’s chicken loaf … mash potatoes and white gravy and mamma’s chicken loaf. And the thought of never tasting mamma’s chicken loaf again made him want to run home. For he always loved his mother’s chicken loaf, ate and slept his mother’s chicken loaf, just as his father ate and slept cars. And at the same time he learned to sleep on the ground. He didn’t have a sleeping bag or any kind of patting and soon had chigger bites all over him. And there was but one person in the world who could fry chicken right and for whom chicken loaf was a specialty and that was his mother. But she didn’t raise a baby, and since she didn’t raise a baby he didn’t see any reason why he should turn back. But he already missed her, and missed his dad and sister too. This surprised him more than he ever imagined it would. For the first time he felt fortunate to have the mamma he had. Although it wasn’t enough to make him turn around, he craved her cooking.

All day long Jack marched along. He cautiously circled fields recently planted in corn, soybeans, wheat and hay, fields yielding a precarious living, and fields passed from generation to generation. Hay, cows, and horses, staying out of the fields, away from farmhouses, and as much as possible staying in the woods, Jack, never one to complain, thought about making a hog of himself. His stomach hurt, as he thought about making a hog himself, and took it for punishment. He deserved it, he told himself. It was harder than he ever imagined. He never experienced such desolation, and it was a lesson he never forgot.

From Richmond, an inner compass guided Jack to the Ohio River. Before he left them he was tired of the woods, though he appreciated the landscape. He took time to study everything, as if he were reluctant to let go and, without realizing it, was preparing to leave a landscape he loved … a landscape he knew all of his life. He noticed the little changes, the little things and the open expansions … the colors and smells, the color of clay, the sweetness of alfalfa, and the smell of silage. He would miss the fields of corn, soybeans, and wheat, the round hay bales, and most all the barns and silos. There was so much he would miss. Shooting the breeze with idlers at his daddy’s gas station and eating out at the Oasis Diner were still things that were sacred to him.

Only a week in the woods, but it seemed like a year. A farmer with a rifle and a fishing lantern surprised him as he was trying to sleep. Jack had to think fast. He didn’t want to get shot. “Damn!”

“What are doing out here? I could shoot you for trespassing?”

“I’m camping. I’m by myself.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without a tent? Without any gear?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a Eagle Scout.”

“And I’m Daniel Boone. Now son …”

“I’m not joshing you. I’m an Eagle …”

“Eagle Scout? And you’re truthful, loyal, helpful …”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“On a survival course. So do you mind?”

“You from around here?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think so, but …

And of course the farmer saw through Jack. Yes, and probably because Jack wasn’t the first … nor the last … boy he saw on the road. There was no telling, but there was a good chance that the farmer, had he wanted to, could’ve told a few stories of his own. And some of them true. Something they had in common. Memories that lasted a lifetime. Tales so harrowing that they would raise the hair on the back of your head. About the west, wild Indians and wild animals. Notions about cowboys, about drunk cowboys, about singing cowboys. Cowboys in general who shot up towns for the fun of it. About mad dogs, windmills, and weather vanes. About the difference between the truth and a lie and how to keep the two straight.

“So long,” the farmer said. “I hope you have a good trip.”

And that was when Jack knew that the farmer knew that he wasn’t an Eagle Scout, and not even close to being one. But it never occurred to him that the farmer could’ve given him a few tips. And suddenly he began to wonder how in the hell he got where he was and started feeling sorry for himself. It was like he hadn’t learned anything. Every night was that way. Was he stupid or what? He wasn’t sure. And it kept happening over and over. Then something would happen, like it did that night when the farmer instead of shooting him returned with a plate of warmed-over leftovers. So it happened almost every time he began feeling sorry for himself. And those leftovers tasted better than his mamma’s chicken loaf ever did. The farmer also suggested that “roughing” it in his barn was probably more comfortable than “roughing” it in the woods. “And just in case it gets too rough I’ll leave the screen door to my porch unlocked.”

The barn was built so that the prevailing wind blew across the threshing floor. Jack never took it into account, and the creaking and the flapping, and the worrying made for a restless night. And as the night progressed, Jack felt more and more uncomfortable. He imagined the farmer getting on the telephone. It would only take one phone call. He knew by then that they were looking for him, because his mother would be worried and his dad wouldn’t stop searching for him. A search then meant involving the State Police. So he didn’t wait for the sun to come up.

Jack refused to backtrack and along the way learned many things. He thought he would hitchhike and learned how to choose a ride by making mistakes. There were some rides that he wished he hadn’t taken and there were some rides that he wished he hadn’t refused. There were no rules, or if there were he hadn’t learned them yet. He never knew what he’d run into. It was always a risk, but he thought it was a manageable one.

They circled back and passed him twice. You never know. He suspected they were okay because they were girls. Girls! Oh, goodness me. And they were stopping for him. Jack was thankful. It had to be his lucky day.

They liked to party. And they pretended they had nothing to lose but their virginity, which came about easily enough. With nearly a full bottle of Schenley left, they sang, “As Sunny says, praises to the quality whiskey that wins your favor, try Schenley’s sunny morning flavor.” Needless to say, the kind of girls these girls were was obvious.

As they drove by him the first time in their new, blue Mercury convertible, Jack heard the girls over the motor sing, “Sun shining, surely one little drive in the country won’t do us in” and he smiled. They were in the mood for love! Now they shouldn’t have picked him up. They didn’t know him. In those days it wasn’t proper, but girls were all different, though in some ways they were all alike. Girls that age were boy crazy, and they probably figured that there was safety in numbers. With four of them, he had his hands full, but what did he care: they didn’t know him, and because of this it didn’t matter. Driving along he soon learned that they were hot. This was not something he complained about, but it turned out that they were more he could handle. Hellzapoppin’, they were already bombed and bored and aimed to skip school. He was keen at first, and they were peachy keen, and oh-so peachy keen, and took a sportsman’s aim at getting laid. There were no Paris pin-ups in Indiana, and very few in America, but flaming red hair drove the young man mad.

Jack saw his last apple and banana in Richmond. How many days had it been since he said goodbye to Richmond? He asked himself that, as he eyed the girls’ sack lunches. For a second or two, in the back seat between two babes, he tried to contain himself. Then as the speedster drove down the center of the highway, Jack tried not to look. He liked where he was but tried not to look. Then something occurred that he’d never forget.

He preferred not to talk about it. It can be imagined what affect it had on a young boy not out of high school when she placed her hand on the inside of his thigh and slowly inched it up. And he pretended he didn’t notice. Later it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But hellzapoppin’, it sure was then when his zipper felt like it was popping open.

Why wait for introductions? And in spite of him smelling and not having a shower since Richmond … and yes needing a shave … the girls wanted to kiss him. And French kiss him too. Now he wasn’t particularly a good kisser. He hadn’t had much practice and believed that everyone along way was a better kisser than he was. And those girls seemed experienced sure enough. He had not seen such a wild bunch. The driver was the prettiest, he guessed, in the whole world, he reckoned, and he didn’t know just how pretty she was until she exchanged places with one of the girls in the back. Until then he didn’t know.

They all took turns before he escaped. And it wasn’t only kissing but exploring, as though they’d never get an opportunity like this again. There was intensity in the clutching. He went further with them than he ever went before. Each offered him something different, and he put his hands in places he never dared before. And he hadn’t the opportunity to brush his teeth, and they didn’t seem to care. .

So much for principles. Such was temptation. One of them even had a class ring around her neck. It wasn’t only the girls but the sacks also grabbed his attention. There were apples and sandwiches in those lunches. He immediately eyed them. He would’ve done almost anything to get his hands on them, and they interested him almost as much as the girls.

They offered him a swig, and it didn’t make sense that they picked him up. They were absolutely crazy, or acted like they were, but his hunger was overpowering. Later he would ask for what he wanted but first he had to overcome his Hoosier pride. The best approached was a direct one, but he hadn’t learned it yet. He played along, and you can’t say he didn’t enjoy it, but he kept his eye on the sack lunches the whole time, which was hard considering what they were doing. The best approach seemed to be an indirect one; but it wouldn’t have been easy. Since they should’ve been in school and shouldn’t have had anything to do with him, they should’ve treated him like poison ivy. This experience was new for all them. Only they never let him know it. It didn’t matter to them because they knew they wouldn’t see him again.

There were so many ways that this could’ve gone. On his home tuff he would’ve known what to do. He would be in charge, instead of the other way around. You shave and comb your hair. You want to make a good impression. You would know that they had steady boyfriends. They were dressed for school, but if they were schoolgirls would they French kiss a dirty stranger? They were barely old enough to drive. If he thought about it, Jack wouldn’t have accepted the ride.

So Jack dove into map-less territory. Some ten minutes later and ten miles down the road, the girls exchanged places again. They took him for a ride, played stupid 1948 games, of flirt and tease. He didn’t care. He was in heaven. Between kisses, they joked and laughed and fooled around. He didn’t know that they weren’t bad kids. It was fine. It was nice, but he was too hungry to take full advantage of them.

Instead he helped himself to their sack lunches. And why shouldn’t he? No sense in feeling guilty. They used him, and he took their lunches. Turn about was fair play. They left him alone in the car when they went to the restroom. That was their mistake. Then when they returned and he wasn’t there and they never gave him a second thought.

And he soon found himself on the banks of the Ohio River. It was Sunday because as he approached a landing he heard a church choir singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” It instantly reminded him of home. “Umph!” He still didn’t feel drawn back there. Every town had at least one church, and he avoided them as best he could. Now he was confronted with a whole congregation. Some them were shouting rather than singing. Shouting Methodist!

He wasn’t opposed to the church. It just bored the hell out him. Now it seemed like everybody in town was down by the riverside, and they spotted him. Jack grew up going to church twice on Sunday and on Wednesday nights. And he went along because he didn’t have a choice. And since it wasn’t on the top of his list, he now didn’t care rather he got involved or not. He liked the music but didn’t care for the persuasion.

The converts stood in line waiting their turn in waist-deep water. They seemed to think that the best water for baptism flowed down the Ohio. It wasn’t as muddy as the Mississippi. The minister dunked one about every minute. In the course of a day it meant he baptized a great many people, but just how many of them knew the meaning of their baptism? The scene reminded him of his own salvation and his guaranteed ticket to heaven. He had a pass and was thankful. The good news was that he could sin and still go. Go to a camp meeting or a Revival, and see for yourself. It was a joyful drama.

Sure enough the best water for baptism flowed down the Ohio. There were many reasons for shouting, both in English and in tongues. It was irresistible. But Jack was a backslider, and maybe the trouble was, why he didn’t turn right when he should’ve turned left was that he was afraid of what he’d face.

The water beside the landing wasn’t very deep, and since Jack needed a bath he waded in and splashed about. The preacher was taken aback. He was a gigantic man in a black-and-white gown and shouldn’t have been bothered. Jack never thought ahead. He acted on impulse, and wasn’t out to steal the show but did on this occasion. And among the things he did was holler “see the Glory-gate unbarred!” He couldn’t remember when he had so much fun. Thus it was that on that Sunday morning that something strange and wonderful happened, and perhaps it was a first for all of them. All of them believed in miracles, and all of them believed in the power of baptism … though they may not have known the meaning of it, and here was Jack splashing about.

Their reactions ranged from horror to jubilance. Digesting it didn’t happen immediately. Yet each of them was transformed in some way, and that was a miracle. At the same time Jack regarded it all as nonsense until he ended the day at a potluck supper.

The next day Jack wanted to get an early start and put as many miles between him and home as possible. He aimed for New Orleans. After the experiences he had so far, he didn’t give a damn anymore. This attitude felt good. This kind of life agreed with him. He liked it. Beyond that he’d have to wait and see.

The towboat slowly pulled away. He’d have to decide, decide to jump or miss a chance. He was over-interested in the river and towboats, and had been for a long time. Now he had the opportunity of a lifetime and almost missed it. When he finally jumped, and for the second time in two days, he landed in the water. He hadn’t intended to land in the water, but now he found himself having to swim. So much for gracefulness, but he caught someone’s attention. And it was a good thing too.

It was strange how they took Jack in, how the lady threw him a rope and hadn’t let him drown. Then there was the captain, who gave him a job in exchange for meals and comfortable quarters. He exemplified Wesleyanism. Jack felt so blue and miserable when she pulled him out of the water, and they gave him dry clothes. That got to him.

Jack had no money but intended to hitch a ride on a towboat. At first he felt uneasy and suspicious, but he knew he committed himself. He accepted the captain’s terms, and the terms weren’t bad. But why? ”Because,” said the lady, “he’s like that.”

But what about the pretty young lady? He never expected to find anyone like her working on a towboat, doing a man’s job and doing it well. How could she stand the smell of bilge, tar, and fertilizer and work so hard? Jack couldn’t understand why she wasn’t married to the skipper. Married! ”Nonsense,” said Jack’s new friend. ”You don’t understand. Marriage can be murder and children the penalty. Now, let me introduce you to modern thinking.”

The skipper caught them together, and the lady immediately stopped talking. He was a gallant figure and old enough to be her father. What thoughtfulness! The opposite of what you would’ve thought, but it would’ve been a mistake to misinterpret his thoughtfulness. You knew that it didn’t pay to mess with him. And if Jack had he wouldn’t have succeeded. Indeed, Jack never met a nicer man. But because of him the Ohio lost some of its romance. Nonsense! Jack expected something else and felt disappointed. Still what a man the skipper was. Made of granite, while he subjugated himself to the great rivers, silently as they moved along.

It was not unlike the skipper that he hardly said a word at the supper table. Taciturn had always been his nature, but under the gentleness there had to be a hard drinking river rat.

Jack was totally fooled. He would remember a gigantic man, a man who seemed the opposite of the stereotype. A man who gave Jack a chance when he didn’t deserve one. A man who was the opposite of the two-fisted, red-blooded, rowdy person he should’ve been. And without being half horse, half alligator, someone who could out-run, out-dance, out-jump, out-dive, out-drink, out-holler, and out-lick anybody, who ran a tight ship. Instead he had to adjust. Channeling of the rivers and the modern, diesel engine changed everything. Gone were rough and tough pole men, who had to be tough to survive. First danger on the river produced courageous men. They were strong, and privation made them resourceful. Still Jack was lucky that those days were gone. Not that he would agree.

On the long journey down the Mississippi, he spent a great deal of time just watching. He spent a lot of time sitting on the bow. He didn’t give anyone any trouble. It was so easy to let the day go by without doing anything until it became monotonous. That got him motivated. Nobody was paying attention to him when he took an interest in what kept the towboat humming.

One doesn’t have to be sensitive to learn something about towing – just observant, that was all. And if Jack hadn’t wanted to learn it would’ve been acceptable, but he couldn’t stand being bored. And he wanted to earn his way, so he helped out where and when he could. The place to start was with the lady of the towboat. She stayed busy all the time. Jack helped her with her numerous tasks, and he jumped each time she said to.

The captain sang and smiled and never gave an order nor suggested that Jack do anything. Our boy liked to coil rope, and he coiled it until he could coil it without thinking. Liked to help the cook and take the pilot chicory. He tackled all kinds of things. And he did things without being told and did things before people thought he could do them, and did it while watching for the slightest frown from anyone. To put it plainly, he tried to become indispensable. And as he became more indispensable, his duties became more critical. There was nothing he wouldn’t try, which was why he was given more responsibility. There were important things such as poking a flashlight into a little hole so that the engineer could fix a deck valve. Or help deckhands re-lash the tow. One day they let him tie up so that some of the gang could go duck hunting. He learned how to handle rope fenders and mooring lines during storms. The skipper even let him pull the engine levers, causing the diesels to throb and the towboat go faster.

With or without an education, many young men would’ve been happy with $275 a month including room and board and would’ve happily spent their lives living a dream. But not Jack. He had other ideas, and, as we see, a determined constitution.

While tied to a mooring and waiting for a load, the barge lady thought that she needed a break and that they should go tom-catting in a nearby town. “Raise some hell. It’ll do us some good.” Time to buy a Stetson and a pair of box-toed shoes. Jack planned to dance and showoff in front of girls. To him life didn’t get any better.

The towboat lady wanted to show him a good time but felt that she needed to watch over him like a hawk. Happily, she demonstrated that she could do without sleep, and she checked out each bar and acted like she was looking for a fight. She fought and swore, and never fought to lose and always won. She was a big girl, only little girls came home in tears. It was one thing Jack remembered very clearly … the one thing that stood out. Other things he couldn’t figure out. He never met anyone like her. He knew that he couldn’t force her to do anything that she didn’t want to do. And in many ways they were equal, except she was fucking nuts.

The lady leaned on the bar and yelled, “Set me up with a black eye or another set of teeth, please!” Then she swung first.

“By golly, gracious me! The bitch landed a good one!”

And there was Jack, who after only the slightest hesitation and totally drunk, defending the lady. This was a colossal mistake.

“The idiot,” thought the lady with approval, even affection, as she watched Jack hurl himself in front of her. She then popped the guy before he could hit her. Already known as a troublemaker (a compliment) the lady faced the dilemma of worrying about someone else more than she worried about herself. She hated feeling motherly. Cursing, she threw her arms around Jack and carried him out into the street. Somehow some of the men thought it was funny but didn’t smile. Behind her, instead of snickers, she heard smashing glass.

Jack was humiliated and hurt all over. Upset, he cried because the towboat lady saw his downfall. What made it worse was that he no longer trusted his instincts. The towboat lady surprised him. How could she be a Christian? And she said she was a Methodist. It seemed like she gave him permission to have thoughts about her that were immoral.

They hurried to the towboat where everyone was asleep and where to follow her to her quarters was dangerous. Right in front of his eyes she changed. He never forgot how much she changed … how she loosened her hair and pulled him to her. He felt her breast heave, as she gave him a wet kiss. Forgetting the preliminaries, he heard himself say, “What the hell!” And naturally wondered what his old friends would think. He never met anyone like her and figured he never would again.

A real buck-a-roo! Here was Jack, a hell seeker, cavorting with a rough Christian siren. Jack had but one thing on his mind, and she didn’t object. But naturally he worried about how well he performed and whether he satisfied her. It was as if he had a stick shift and she, an automatic transmission, and it wasn’t long before he felt like an asshole. But hell he couldn’t help it that the lady fell for him. Not content with viewing himself as an asshole, he said, “We could get married.” When in doubt, you could always get married. And he grew up thinking that marriages were made to last, but she came from a different world and considered the tryst an interesting triumph. Bragging to the boys, she said, “He’s cute” and something about having to draw him a diagram. A spitfire, she was salty. In those days no one referred to her in terms of her pussy for she earned the respect of the boys by referring to their dicks.

The towboat now pushed additional barges of grain and gravel toward New Orleans. Getting there still required sweat and tears. Rather than fool themselves about taming the river, men were happy enough to go with the flow. Jack proved himself and made friends with the crew; so when they reached New Orleans some of them gave him their addresses, where they had wives, kids and yards. He knew little about them though.

Saying goodbye took him a while because for a while he lived a dream. Saying goodbye to the crew was like saying goodbye to a family, and saying good-bye to his family was something he failed to do. As an only son, he gained a second father and would’ve been satisfied running the river for the rest of his life. It’d been a dream since Jack first heard of the Mississippi. There were memories of the river that he never forgot. And Jack clung to these experiences, as if his life depended on it: to the heavy fog and swift water, the blinding rainstorms and lazy bends. He took with him more than he hoped for then, a reason in itself for living.

He especially remembered the towboat lady: “Fasten your seat belt, and get ready for the ride of your life.” Oh, yes, everybody knew it by then. Didn’t she remind him of Betty Davis? ”A good spanking was too frivolous.” Thinking of her made him crave for more, and Jack smiled every time he thought of her. With a voice pitched between a taunt and a whine and obtruding eyeballs, she was no counterfeit, and Jack was amazed that sex never softened her. In comparison he was a pussycat. As often as she wanted she had her way with him.

The few dollars Jack saved gave him a few days in New Orleans. He saw the sights, watched people, got drunk, and went through his money. He loved the city from Bourbon Street to Congo Square and did as he pleased. Seduced by the crowds, pulled off the streets by the jazz and peep shows, the honkytonks and beer joints, he set out to prove that he was a man and couldn’t escape that he was still a kid. There were the stripping blondes and gyrating brunettes named Cup Cake and Tinkerbell. Taking it all in, he rode up and down Canal Street, caught a street car named Cemeteries, got off, ate red beans and rice, added smoked sausage and all for a buck. He tried to talk to the bouncy lady at the counter. Never got beyond a smile and “hi darlin’.” Starving as much for conversation as for pork chops. Didn’t think he’d like collards. He learned to talk to strangers, people who told Jack about high stepping and strutting. Poor Jack, he kept thinking about Betty Davis. Found the place where the pirate Jean Lafayette plotted to rescue Napoleon from the Island of St. Helena. Learned to love and eat chilled, salty Louisiana oysters.

Sex pumped him up. Constant foraging which verged on theft, promiscuity and a taste for wicked women, these experiences were new and different. Letting impulse guide him, he achieved with strangers a degree intimacy that he never enjoyed before. But Jack saw the dangers of having too much freedom.

No, not all of us have strayed into a Y without knowing anyone there. You know the YMCA and the good times that can be had there. Jack stayed the maximum time; but he wouldn’t have stayed so long had he not picked up an old, worn, dog-eared copy of Wendell Willkie’s ONE WORLD. Willkie also came from Indiana. ONE WORLD, a dollar book, sold a million copies faster than any none-fiction work ever had. Willkie loved bantering and loved long bull sessions. He was a politically inexperienced lightweight who ran for president. Willkie took a trip around the world, disregarding protocol by cracking stale American jokes and slapping the Shah, the King of Kings, on the back. Everybody loved it. He flirted with Madame Chiang Kai-Shek who flirted back, and became cozy with her husband. As for Madame Chaing Kai-Shek, Willkie said it was the only time he was in love.

He misunderstood, or misrepresented in his book, the truth about the Generalissimo’s army and said Chiang was fighting “truly a people’s war.” Jack didn’t know that Willkie’s dream of a New World order had already been damaged by Mao Tse-tung.. And Burma was falling apart. The Communist plan, laid down in 1920, was to create Communist governments in all of the colonies of the world. And about then McArthur declared, “I will defend Korea as I would my own country, just as I would California.”
Do you think Jack knew about the evils of the great agrarian awakening? Or about an international proletarian conspiracy? Willkie’s vision was perhaps best depicted in World War II movies, where the Brooklyn Jew, the Indiana farm boy, the Italian from Chicago, and the Polish emigrant from San Francisco all pull together to defeat the Nazis. And who knew who lost China? Or who allowed Manchuria to be turned into a hell? “Give General Cheng a stout rope and he’ll hang himself.” His obituary should’ve read, “Trust us, arm us and we shall fight the Communist bandits.” Lying in a grubby room at the Y, not far from the French Quarter, how could Jack have felt the blows amid the shouts of “Get down!” “Get down!” and “Free speech!” “Free speech!” or understood the havoc those words caused in China? He couldn’t have heard wicked bandits sing their bitter songs.

“Some say we’re Communist raiders.”

“Old Chiang, old Chiang, we feel sorry for you.”

With the possibility of becoming a river pilot, and maybe a skipper, why would he want to move on? He had to consider every opportunity. Accordingly, a particular bend, where the Mississippi was so majestic, spoke to Jack in a way that he could never explain. So there he sat for hours, sad and adrift, trying to make up his mind. Hadn’t he already made it up? It took him several days to turn away from the river.

Which way to go from there? Without much drive, he turned to the west. It was the West that first lured him away from home (a more palatable idea than being driven away). It was the West that would, perhaps, cure his sadness. The West where his passions would find expression. It was the West that was big enough for him to lose himself.

From New Orleans, Jack hopped a freight train heading west. His face got very dirty and was covered by a partial beard. He grabbed boxcar doors or ladders and swung himself up. Often challenged by railroad dicks yelling, “Where you goin’ boy?” “To the dogs, you fool!” became a pat answer, and it seemed to be what they wanted to hear. Often he shared a car with a bunch of bums who never worried about having a frying pan or nothing. His plan led him through Texas.

He learned to worry about nothing, except sometimes shacking up with a goddamn woman without protection, which seemed a hell-of-a-lot better than with it. It sounded good, but there were customs and attitudes that he knew nothing about. While Jack wanted to know about everything, he soon learned that he could get into trouble because he didn’t know something. He couldn’t escape every time … everything. How about hominy and grits or getting arrested with a gun? How about those guys who wear tin stars and are known as bulls? Some were natural-born, and some were not. And after bouncing an inch or so off splintery floors for days at a time, he was less inclined to worry about shades of difference. He tended to think that it really didn’t matter about most things. For smoother rides, he looked for gondolas or flat cars and was glad it wasn’t winter.

Summer had truly come, and he couldn’t drink enough water and roasted. Drank from Clorax bottles and roasted. No substitute for water except for a fifty-cent-wine drunk with fucked-up tramps, and when the heat and the wine burned them from inside out. Shirts did no good. When he was hungry, Jack ate almost anything. But it wasn’t hunger that dogged him the most. His good looks helped with that. It was the high incidents of accidents that plagued him more. So Jack learned about hard knocks the hard way. He learned that tramping was no snap, but still riding the rails got into his blood. It got where he didn’t want to stop, where he had to keep going; and where he didn’t give a shit where he was going as long as he was going because the things he was running from totally disappeared from view.

Friends on the road ate out of cans and heated beans on coals until they bubbled. They carried everything with them, frying pans, oleo, and eggs, except food never kept. So there was little waste and little to wash up. The only problem was that it made them feel righteous about how little they had. Jack liked listening to them talk, talk mainly about themselves. A want-to-be, he assured them that he wasn’t Jesus Christ. This surprised them because he looked like a choirboy or a Bible thumper. For sure he wasn’t telling the goddamn truth about being an atheist. When he paid lip service to something, his listeners seemed sympathetic. All of them sat around shooting the shit and acknowledged each other with nods.

Painfully away from a daughter and grandchildren (too ashamed to look them up), Tex called boxcars home. He was crossing his native state, close to home. As a vagrant, he felt guilty as charged. This should’ve satisfied him greatly; and Jack saw that perhaps it did. But instead of boots, the old cowboy wore worn-out shoes. And he had nothing to prove that he once rode the rodeo circuit but healed breaks that still gave him fits when it turned wet and cold. More and more it hurt him.

Jack didn’t know then just how close to the end of the road Tex was. At one time he was a successful horse wrangler, a character familiar to those who go to the movies and recognized as the ranch foreman, a person admired for his independence and detachment. But Tex left the ranch behind after a bitter divorce. Sad and bitter, he never picked himself up again and expected to die a lonely death, lonely and meaningless. After he experienced a breakdown, drunken wanderings, drunken moments, drunken memories of drinking, drinking half-serious and half staged on wobbling legs, Tex often spilt his whiskey.

Imagine Tex fighting an Apache with a rifle aimed at him. And he dives for cover. Then at the same time the tall cowboy spirals into a personal hell and feels bankrupt. No one can save him. Here was Jack’s West, a parody of the Western, where one man withstands the compulsion to shoot himself or stands in the line of fire of an Apache. Perhaps Tex was still waiting for the cavalry: Jack never knew.

Here was one man’s struggle made worse by the life he lived. Tex was a bum and had been most of his life. Still he lived by a code that came out of the frontier, a code that demanded that he stand tall and not sink into self-pity. But he still felt in his bones the barren and savage terrain, and was preoccupied with a dream of someday being taken seriously.

Tex, the same as Jack, always looked for a chance to break free. It was not hard for him to see himself as a lone rider, astride his horse, followed by a pack-pony trotting to keep up. He lost his bearings more than once. With his help, Jack entered into a labyrinth of rocks and saw the Apache. He got off his horse. Naturally he had a gun in his hand and got off the first shot. But in reality Jack couldn’t or wouldn’t shoot an Indian; while he was so keenly absorbed in speculation over rather he would or not, he missed a section of the film that would’ve shaped his destiny.

Jack began to think for while t that he had no guts. This was bound to get him into trouble. It took guts to do most things, and it took more guts than most people had to ride the rails. Sitting close to Tex, sitting close enough to touch him, he asked, “Have you ever shot anyone?”

“No my friend, I only carry a pocketknife.”

A pocketknife, a handy tool. There were many more things you could do with a pocketknife than a gun. If you had to choose between a gun and pocketknife, Jack saw why Tex chose a knife. But the legacy of frontiersmen included packing a gun. There were times when Jack wished he had one.

The bond between the two grew stronger. They had plenty of time to get to know each other, but Jack wanted to see the countryside, and Tex had been across there many times. Their ways had cross. Now they were beginning to feel responsible for each other. Jack listened while the old man, with only a few words, made a frontal attack on society. He wasn’t trying to convince Jack, but he was convincing. As often as he could he tried to include theory and chivalry. He said, ”The highest good can be a source of evil, and too often the hero dies an irrational death.”

Gone were the easy answers. “Idealism suffers in the face of evil,” or “we’re all lost.” “Sheriffs have to carry long rifles.” “And heroes are roped and dragged through fire.” But what did any of it have to do with Jack? Yet he knew exactly what Tex was talking about. The heat, the oppressive heat. The loneliness, the frightening loneliness. There were times when he succumbed to heat and loneliness, and that was why he always talked to people he met.

Now Jack sat in the open door of a boxcar, with the familiar click-clack, as he soaked up Texas. Now that may be hard to do, but he gave it a try. Never before had he experienced such an open and rugged landscape. Where buffalo roamed, he saw himself becoming a cowpuncher. And then a prospector. A man can’t pull a donkey if a donkey don’t want to move. Man against beast and lost on the plains with only a pocketknife, but no that was wrong. He never felt lost. Perhaps you may be like Jack and been on a great adventure and had time to ponder the vicissitudes of your fate.

“I’m mind of when I wuz young an’ roamed whar mountains riz on high,

An’ grassy prairies spread fur-wide a-neath a clean sky….

I’d nary care, nor tho’ it o’ fear, when youth wuz in my eye….”

How Tex sung, and Jack saw mist in his eyes. Fancy a life of roamin’ whar mountains riz on high and dreams of grassy prairies spread fur-wide a-neath a clean sky. But how big a lie was I’d nary care? Nor tho’ it o’ fear? Was youth ever in his eye? So much for raising hell!

Tex caught rodeo fever, which carried off many a good cowhand. He never won more enough than what it cost him for entry fees, travel expenses, and grub, but he couldn’t stop. So consequently he lost his wife. Thought he’d never give up bulldogging. “Yep,” he said, “for ten years I lived my life with most of my bones cracked or broken. Naturally Maggie didn’t like it. Shouldn’t she have understood?” Here his voice trailed off. Why hadn’t the pain vanished? He missed his kid and missed seeing his grandchildren. His kid was no longer a kid; still he missed him. Once or twice he sneaked up to front of the old ranch house at night, as close as he dared git, hopin’ a horse’s whinny wouldn’t give him away. “From another time until it was too late,” he said.

During uncertain times, he relived his errors, but it didn’t mean that he vacillated at all. He paid a heavy price, but it no longer mattered. He shared the only picture he had of his wife and kid and remembered the day it was taken. A look at a three quarter moon through a cracked window, when it was impossible to make love: that craziness, still not deciphered, occurred at a ranch in south Texas, where civilization only existed at the end of a long ride. It had its roots in endless isolation. O, bitter was his sorrow. One discovers too late what is important. Not until a love has been crushed does it come home. Still he said he wouldn’t have done anything different.

On the rodeo circuit, Tex chased every skirt he could afford, but he left at home the woman he loved most. At the same time he said he left her to find happiness. Yet he was always happy to get home, and through big, salty tears, he always apologized. Then from those he wronged, he sought benefits.

“Y’u know,” he sung. “How it is. The sanctity of marriage, and how Maggie was … But ‘pears they helt a quarlin’ spree, which haulted their romance; and jealous Maggie figgered she’d humble Tex, first chance! He that followed every rodeo skirt that he could corral. He’d hug ‘em an’ kiss ‘em. Yep! They’d kiss him right back. So, wa-a-l, y’u know the rest.”

A jealous Maggie was what he often had to contend with. Now there were a few joyful moments still. And it didn’t mean it happened all of a sudden either. If he’d seen it coming he might’ve been able to do something about it. It? A cold chill that settled in the ranch house proper when he was gone. It never warmed up after that. Let’s say he chose something different, and it confused him. He diligently tried to find what he lost and never found it. And he never came up with a satisfactory explanation to why he didn’t.

That was the reason Tex gave for drinking so much Black Velvet. Divorce. Jack, just like Tex, betrayed people who loved him most. He, just like Tex, was bothered by it. But very soon, both of them got arrested and detained for something else. It seemed a great injustice and gave Jack an excuse to run some more. Now you might think that he didn’t need an excuse, but by then he was getting pretty tired of the road. In addition, he needed a reason, and until then he didn’t have one. Up until then he never considered himself a criminal or a vagrant. Yet he and Tex got themselves arrested. It was simpler afterwards because he then had a record. Having a record, it seemed, gave him an excuse. It even carried with it a little prestige in certain quarters but certainly wouldn’t have pleased his parents. And there was something else he needed to prove, and that something was that he was quite capable of taking care of himself, or if he got himself in trouble, he could get himself out of it.

They found no mercy in a tiny west Texas jail. Held for a night behind bars Jack felt rage and expressed his rage in a way that only made it worse for him. He tapped a reservoir of anger that built up rather quickly after watching the arresting bull beat the hell out of Tex. The son-of-a-bitch picked on a weak, shaky, old man, a fellow Texan whom Jack had grown to like. The bull got madder and meaner with each blow. The son-of-a-bitch tried to kill the old man, as the train pulled away, making it impossible for Jack to escape. As the bull’s face turned red, Tex grew pale. While Jack stood nearby and did nothing, fury kindled laughter. The bull said he wouldn’t take “no shit from a goddamn bum!” Some people go crazy with a bat in their hands. The bull hit Tex with a bat over and over again. Fuck it! That’s how you get killed and earn the town’s hospitality. The bull threw them both into the back of his car when Tex instead needed an ambulance.

And yet Tex looked like he would survive. And he said he’d been through this before. And there was no reason not to believe him. Even though his head bled, the old man sat up, and as Jack tried to stop the bleeding with the old man’s shirt he saw swelling that spread to the left eye.

Silent they were to begin with because friends were often silent when strangers have to talk. An awakening was what it cost Jack. It was the nearest thing to Nazism that he saw. This was something that they didn’t want to relive.

Fucked up so much with so much to think about and even before Jack knew Tex wouldn’t make it. There are brave people who don’t make a fuss about anything, and cowards who let everyone know how tough they are. Jack could see that Tex was in bad shape when he spat up blood. Jack was no doctor but he could see that his friend was hurt really bad, and he was just as hurt when early the next morning they were shoved back onto a train. Only the day before Jack had been in his prime, while by the next morning he’d aged a hundred years. He wondered what they did to justify what was done to them when nothing justified it.

In pain Tex found dying a challenge and a friend in Jack. And this made him feel better. It was the first time Jack watched someone die. It scared him. Made him tremble. Where the Texan was going, he knew he’d follow. He could report this honestly and prayed, prayed his first honest prayer. He prayed and prayed and felt as if no one else gave a damn.

Then Jack made Tex mad when he said, “You can keep your fucking Texas!” Jack said “You can keep your fucking Texas” with all of the emotion he could muster. And Tex got real mad and tried to defend Texas. That was the worse part for Jack. He saw that he hurt Tex., when it was certain that he wasn’t talking about Tex’s Texas, or even the worst part of Texas. He was just talking about some people in Texas. And Jack had to admit that you could find bad asses anywhere.

“You bum, don’t die!” How could wanting to live be held against Tex? You couldn’t quarrel with his wantin’ booze to ease the pain. And as much as he loved his booze it was probably rotgut that killed him as much as anything. His injuries didn’t seem life threatening, yet he was dying. And what could Jack say about him that was nice? Was he a bun? No, he didn’t fall in that category. Of course, he drank, but he wasn’t a drunk with an unhinged brain or wild habits. It went deeper than that.

A monster lived while a gentle soul died. Nobody knew where he wuz. Nobody knew who he wuz with. Nobody, nobody ‘cept Jack. A monster out lived him in west Texas. No doubt he died of old age. There was no justice. He played cop, ruled the world, and made up laws as he went along. Mere necessity obliged men and women to follow them. All Tex ever carried with him was his social security card. His character was set before he knew it. And the way he lived was his business; and that was how he was, from one end of the country to the other. In the short time Jack knew him Tex revealed as much about himself as he ever revealed to anyone, and that wasn’t much.

A beating he didn’t deserve, jail time instead of medical treatment, and to lose his life because of it. It wasn’t right. Hell, no! He didn’t deserve it. No answer to why it happened. Jack never got one. It took tough men, hard working and hard drinking men in coveralls to run the trains; and contrary to what you might think there was little sympathy for bums. There was no changing it. They had no sympathy for men who repeatedly got their ass kicked, or needed to dry out. And they didn’t see that Jack didn’t belong there.

Jack asked himself what he could’ve done and if he should’ve stayed with Tex’s body. He didn’t have choice or did he? It wasn’t right. He couldn’t do it. And hadn’t Tex himself urged him to jump off the train before it reached a town or else face too many questions. He planned to stay on the train until it reached California, but he was too afraid by the time they crossed the Rio Grande. He listened for the return of the bulls for as long as he could stand it. It just wasn’t right to leave Tex’s body, but screw ethics. The thought of jail got in Jack’s way. .

Tex’s worst errors never amounted to much. He never committed a serious crime. He was generous to a fault and bore little malice. There came a time when he was too old to do hard work, and like most Texans were, he was full of bullshit. God loved him. His kid loved him. He surely did. Jack wished that they could remain friends forever. And learned from him about eating rabbit and rattlesnake. Which tasted better, rabbit or rattlesnake? Jack never knew if Tex knew his stuff when it came to horses and women. Could he have taught Jack how to tie a diamond hitch? How to rope a cow or how to aim straight? Or hunt mountain lion? He didn’t know that the scarred riding saddle that Tex once used now gathered dust. Tex often yearned for his old spread, which was sold after the divorce. Remembering the corrals, the house, and the barn were among his favorite memories.

Before doubting Tex … before kicking dirt on his ashes, and picking up cans he left behind, as Jack thought about jumping off the train, consider the direction the young man could’ve gone. He could’ve ridden the rails for the rest of his life. But forever was a long time and forget the idea that there were constants. Jack might say he was going to do something one day and do the opposite the next. The only thing certain about him was his inconsistency. It was likely that he would change and the terran he was going through wouldn’t appeal to him for very long. Distorted landscape. Nothing on the horizon. No way to judge distance. Nothing. Only sand and more sand. No shade. No trees. Only creosote and cactus. Not a cloud in the sky. And to think that some people thought it looked beautiful

And the last place he went through wouldn’t be the same place if he went back there. There was so much to see so why would he backtrack? And he would soon grow tired of the long, cold nights and surviving by canning … scavenging aluminum, copper, and brass … and instead of in a house some times sleeping in a cardboard box.

Tex learned the lessons of the rope and how to avoid a burn. Loosening his saddle girth gave him a chance to take one last breath. All of his life he enjoyed roping, because it felt good and because he was a good roper. Not into praying, Tex chose cursing instead. He took what life gave him. He wasn’t good enough to make the Hall of Fame, and instead of fame and money, he ended up anonymous and broke. This hour was his last, and he didn’t have much left but memories.

Give a steer the lead, lasso it with a rope; reach down and grab the steer’s horns and slide off the horse and plant your feet into the ground. It was magical. Give an old hand a rope and let him do his thing until his body no longer worked: that was what he deserved. And once the cowboy is finished, let him be it. While some died curzin’ and many died prayin’.

Hot. He saw white bones bleached by the sun. O wind and heat, and clouds without rain, no sign of water. Water was crucial. It hadn’t been a good day, and the worst was far from over. When he jumped off the train, he got into some cactus, or the cactus bit him. The cactus jumped at him and bit him. For more than twenty miles a basin, and it didn’t seem like he was making progress.

Jack pushed on in spite of being on the verge of insanity. Suppose he met Cabeza de Vaca, or an Yaque Indian. Imagine how he’d embrace them. For Catholic Spain and for God, the conquistadors were determined to succeed in this land or die trying. Jack could see why the desert near there had become a proving ground.

He finally reached a dirt track, and it so revived his spirits that he took off running. It gave him a false sense of hope. He scoffed at the idea that this was a road but felt lucky that it was something after so much nothing. He could’ve wandered for days, but now he had something to follow, and it led to Paradise.

He thought of his mother’s piano that she never played and a sewing machine she never used. Thought about Indiana and Blue Hole Lake near Brazil; and a train that left the trestle and with three cars and an engine plunged to the bottom. His own train seemed derailed. He thought of his dad and wondered what he’d be like without a track to follow. His father loved fishing at Blue Hole Lake. He missed the lakes and streams and roads and hills and hollows of Indiana, and always would. Thinking about catching bass, out of a hole or a sink, kept his mind occupied. Bob Ruby liked fishing Frog Pond better than Blue Hole Lake. Firewater drove poor Bob loco, while like every Hoosier he spoke his mind, while he planted lies and debated the weather. How could Jack forget the soldiers for Christ marching like an army with banners, while they lived wicked lives with impunity? Jack let his mind wander like this until he collapsed from the heat.

In Paradise, he slept between clean sheets. Whether he’d ever wake up seemed questionable. Did he dream of prospecting gold and of rough and racier times, when money was easy and life was gay? Of drinking, fighting, gambling, and whoring? Of when the promise of Paradise meant good men caught gold fever and the fever drove them mad? Imagine men with cyanide, sage, and silicate in their blood, and miners, promoters, and gamblers losing sight of everything else but gold. It was a crapshoot, when those who didn’t strike it rich lived or died for another chance.

Let’s suppose Jack dreamed. Let’s supposed his dream, which he enjoyed contained the voices of senioritis and their intonation of “no sabe,” or “quin sabe.” To be enjoyed. You couldn’t know how sweet it sounded without being in Jack’s shoes.

What was in store for him? Suppose he caught the fever, would he trudge around in the boiling and then freezing desert, searching abandoned cuts and tailing dumps and rocky canyons to satisfy his lust for gold? How would he conquer the urge? The old camp nearly died and was too far-gone to be revived.

Abandoned except for four women. They lived there alone and between them owned the whole town. There were those who thought they were well off. Then Jack entered their lives. Unceremoniously picked up and given supper, a bath, and a bed, after what he went through how could he turn it down?

It was Jack’s American face and his guileless nature that made Juanita’s heart skip. Was he the gringo of her dreams? Was he the young man of her imagination? Full of charm, would he make her day? Dreams that she couldn’t distinguish from reality. Waiting for him to wake up, two of the three women sat close by. On each side of the bed he was in. Happily, Juanita watched Jack smile while he ate his first cooked meal in days. Before she knew him, she liked his smile.

Juanita was from Mexico, part Indian, and worked most of the time. She had muscles where Jack expected flab, muscles she’d use to wash and mend him. She was shocked by Jack’s condition. He was filthy and exhausted from riding the rails and trekking through the desert. She knew from childhood what wearing dirty clothes meant. She fluffed his pillow, made sure his sheets smelled clean, gave him a razor and a toothbrush, and often checked on him while he slept. Nothing felt better to Jack than sleeping between clean sheets so he never wanted to get out of the king-size bed. Assuming she’d burned his dirty clothes, he let Juanita wait on him and was once again content. And while Juanita preferred a steady beau, his ideas fluctuated.

On the other hand, Hetty had nothing to do with him. She was an individual and was proud of it, and she got her greatest joy from digging and panning for gold. Never content, she hoped that some day her sweat and toil would pay off. But the blazing sun drove her silly. Heavens! Could this mighty fine looking woman have been a beauty queen? Could someone so hard and coarse have been? Someone who could work all day as hard as a man and who left behind the remains of a sewing machine and a kitchen stove. She looked like she was born with a pickax and a shovel in her hand.

Much had changed for her, but some things never would. There was still a woman inside Hetty. There were still dresses in her closet. But since Jack’s appearance, she worked the tailings all the time, with the wind messing up her hair. She was always the first to start digging and the last to call it quits. She also was attracted to Jack but felt that she didn’t have the luxury to wait for him. She was smart and thought while he slept that she should maintain her routine.

A widow, Lenora was a mestiza like Juanita. She had a white dad and an Indian mother. She had blue eyes, shiny hair, and expressed herself in a passionate way. There weren’t many women left like Lenora, who lived through hysterics, slurs, and banishment. Her eyes were a dead giveaway and a reminder of scandal. Her intolerance wasn’t appreciated. Life hadn’t been fair to Lenora; so she felt she had more of a claim on Jack than the others. Agony made it certain that she would tell him about her Anglo Saxon father.

“O, Juanita,” implored Lenora, “can’t you see that you’re not giving him room to breathe?”

But no one could stop Juanita from hovering over Jack, not even Lenora. Yet Lenora knew that she would prevail and immediately started plotting. She viewed each difficulty as a challenge. So she sat close to Jack’s head, while she engaged in a stupid struggle with her rivals. How many times would they repeat this?

Lenora suggested, “Maybe he’s coy and is pretending to be asleep.”

Juanita paid her no attention. She never considered the allure of Lenora’s blue eyes, and it all soon came to a head. They had a real snit, which had never happened before. It developed into a major rift that became impossible to bridge.

In charge of cooking, Christina was an excellent cook. A fifty-year-old widow, who marveled at changes in life, particularly changes in her body, she found her greatest joy in the kitchen. She often sang. Let her hasten from conflict to the joys of the kitchen, where she opened the curtains and escaped confusion. She couldn’t help herself, as she went back and forth.

Had Jack been a real prince, Christina would’ve done more to get his attention. A maid-of-all-work, she wasn’t shy. She still had a hint of pink in her cheeks from pinching them. Voluptuous, Christina had a supple body and had as much pride as a duchess. She kept her hourglass figure in spite of having two babies, gifts of love, once from a husband and once from a lover. Her pleasant demeanor covered up any defects.

She of all people became a Catholic and wore a crucifix of silver. She sang like an angel and often as she was singing thought of a good priest who gave her a special gift. It was with a loud voice that she proclaimed her happiness, for he gave her a child. Public exposure might’ve driven a lesser woman away from the church.

Christina got to a place where no one could hurt her. Cooking gave her sustenance; and Paradise was the only place she would live. Contrary to many women, she wanted to remain a widow, though widowhood was new and sad for her. Jack could’ve been her son, her miracle child; and he let her call him any name she wanted. He was just a boy, too young for her, a boy who came out of nowhere and reminded her of her husband. An American, who rode into her life on a horse, Christina’s husband followed an unbeaten path. Her Bill may have lived long enough in the West to call it home but unfortunately mistook a chorus of coyotes for laughter of madmen. You can imagine how Christina felt and how her feelings were misconstrued. And there was Jack, wide-awake now, but not out of bed yet feeling embarrassed. But how could he object to so much attention and kindness?

Then Lenora saw Juanita caressing Jack’s arm. Caught in the act, Juanita jerked her hand back. All she wanted she said was to make sure he felt comfortable. .

Excuses were made about the room, the bed, and the house; but there was no need for them. Lenora muttered something about Juanita being a bitch, about her shameful behavior, and a great deal more that remained untranslatable. She never had a reliable man; a reliable horse yes; but a man, no. Here was a possibility, young and trainable. Lenora, though, was not so sure. She was as ready as she was at seventeen; but how to proceed eluded her. “ You were sound asleep, beautiful sleep….” was about all she said. She could tell Juanita liked him too.

Christina protested that it wouldn’t be any trouble or would hardly cost them anything for the extra food and, without consulting Hetty, asked Jack to stay. Hetty felt abandoned, as she searched for a few flakes of gold. She pouted, cursed and picked through rubble at the end of Main Street near Piety Hill. Finding gold would’ve cured all of her pain. Gold enough to pay the mortgage and a few other bills. Hetty held onto the notion that Paradise hadn’t died. It didn’t matter then that men didn’t understand how she showed affection. Sober or not, she cursed all gringos.

Poor, misunderstood Hetty, unlucky Hetty, stopped several times for shade and water. Healthy, barring fevers, she suffered from gold fever, silver fever, and yet boiled inside over being left out. She had a problem with it and clung to the idea that tasks around there should be equally shared. She, however, avoided an explosion. She stopped thinking about fairness. Look, there was no excuse for it. After the ore played out and the ten-stamp mill shut down, everybody left Paradise, left the town to the wind that caught pieces of corrugated tin and made a terrible racket. The sound grated Hetty’s nerves until she nailed the tin down. She, unhappily, felt let down, but believed that her problems could be solved the same way as she stopped the flapping.

Jack never forgot the women’s hospitality. Whenever he thought of Paradise, he missed it and wondered what would’ve happened had he stayed. He soaked up all of the attention, and still young and essentially a boy among experienced women, he didn’t know what to make of it. He could’ve easily gotten used to it, but it wouldn’t have been long before he gotten lazy and rotten.

Pertaining to this fix, Jack rejected what he was taught by his folks. They were wrong about the idea that the amount of respect you receive was proportionate to the amount of respect you gave. He couldn’t explain why it didn’t work. He just knew it didn’t. He had three women waiting on him; and couldn’t explain it. He soon got in the habit of sleeping late. He also ate and drank too much, but instead of disgusting them, it amused three of his hostesses.

Mornings he wasted. Lounged around half-dressed, loitered, and sometimes never got out of bed. He insisted on hot water. Cold water wouldn’t do; but shaving hardly mattered. He often nicked himself and rarely shaved all of his whiskers off. Rising hours before he did, the women treated him like royalty. No wonder Jack felt guilty. Still the more he slept the more sleep he required.

Around noon he would walk around outside and feel like it was a mistake. His gut told him to watch out for Hetty. By noon he knew that the best part of the day was over, and he knew he would find Hetty sitting in shade. “Dama,” and he misused “Dama,” when he asked, “Find any gold?”

“Only fools gold” was her standard reply because she knew the first rule of prospecting was to lie. While at the same time she muttered, “Where the hell did he come from?”

Hetty had no plan yet; but resenting the intrusion, it would be only a matter of time before she had one.

She gave him a tour of the old streets, including the narrower side streets, flanked by crumbling foundations and decomposed lumber. However friendly these tours might’ve been it wasn’t long before it became clear that Hetty wanted to concentrate on gloom, i.e., stop at the old cemetery where she placed plastic tulips on graves and fixed up the fences around family plots. She showed Jack where so and so cut his throat during a fit of delirium. They walked streets of the ghost town and (as much as their imaginations allowed) relived dreams of the past.

All was quiet except for a hot breeze. There was no sign of the hustle and the bustle that was once Paradise. Two stores, a restaurant, two saloons, an assay office, and a butcher’s shop but just where was the post office? Hetty researched and identified each home and building, when someone less determined would’ve given up. She found old maps, records, and newspapers, but her main focus wasn’t history. Instead, she was more interested in gold. So the two toured Paradise, while the guide told blood-curdling and hair-raising tales and before the sun set she pretty much showed him the town.

Jack dreamed that he’d stumbled upon a lawless gang of women. Perhaps he should’ve armed himself. Clearly the lawlessness past of the West stirred his imagination. Now there was no evidence that connected these ladies with a crime. Or no reason for them to be hiding in Paradise. They didn’t look the part, and he found comfort in not having seen them with guns. Then Hetty brandished a shotgun. Was it, as she said, for shooting rattlesnakes or was it for getting rid of another kind of nuisance?
Casually Hetty pointed the shotgun at him. She ordered him out of bed and cautioned him not to say a word. But as they were going out the door, he caught a glimpse of Juanita with the saddest expression. Then the truck wouldn’t start.

Then Hetty ordered Lenora to saddle two horses, while Christina packed some grub and plenty of water. That left Juanita, who infuriated the others by nervously prancing around. Jack was forced once again into submission, yet questioned what was coming down. Things moved in slow motion until Juanita passionately grabbed Jack and kissed him on the lips. Under different circumstances, he would’ve enjoyed it. He appeared dazed, having been startled out of a deep sleep.

What was Jack facing? He soon found out that he wouldn’t be harmed, but Hetty wanted to make sure he didn’t come back. By then he looked pale; and Christina said to him, “Please, don’t judge us harshly. We all wish you could stay. No doubt Hetty has her reasons. And she’s angry with us and not at you. She’ll get over her pouting and this snit soon.”

Juanita stood by and waited for her cue. After Christina, she said “Because she doesn’t have an ounce of sympathy in her, Hetty has been bitchy and has humiliate herself. She hasn’t learned that friendship is reciprocal.”

Lenora flirted with Jack as she saddled the horses. To this day Jack remembers what was said and how quickly his life changed. But no one overruled Hetty. Jack might’ve stood a better chance had he been more useful and pitched in as he had on the towboat. But could he satisfy four women? From the beginning Hetty sized him up. Now she was going to run him off or escort him away.

It was the hottest place on earth. It seemed like it anyway. Once more Jack entered a furnace, and without water they would’ve died. On a horse for the first time, he cursed the critter. Whenever he got off, it felt like his legs were dismembered. Without a horse and a guide, he knew he’d perish.

And as the sun bore down, the glare hurt, and as the wind blew, they plodded through sand dunes and lava beds. They had to drink water sparingly, rationed it. Jack wondered what was going on. Why he was being tortured? Should’ve brought more water. The horses also needed water.

Hetty knew the way, and she maintained a steady pace, but how long could they keep it up? Jack, a greenhorn, in his borrowed hat? He asked, “Why am I going through this?” Hetty showed no sympathy.

She kept her guard up, or else she would have killed someone. She feared the most ridiculous things and covered it up the best she could. Hetty liked some men, particularly the way they smelled; but it wasn’t something she publicized. Now you see she’d been hurt and didn’t want every stray tom to see her weaknesses.

As she considered her next move, she felt the chemistry that she and Jack had. He was reasonably handsome. Suppose they weren’t about to say adios, could she bring him to his knees? While she imagined this, she prodded her mare up a wash that she discovered by luck, and so far thanks to her mare his horse kept up. The hot wind blew in his face, as if the wind were conspiring to make him blush.

“Come on, Jack, hold on; you can make it.” And that from a woman who would giggle if he whispered the right thing in her ear.

He tried to keep his mind off of his pain. His thoughts went from ruining his family jewels to standing in front of St. Peter. At the end of the day, he forgot about eating. As he lay on the ground, he worried about what still could happen. The chill alluded to how cold it would get. Morning wouldn’t come quick enough for him.

Meanwhile, Hetty thought about the young man lying next to her. All day she couldn’t clear her head. She couldn’t have been unattractive to him. The chill and his aches and pains opened an avenue for her. It was nice for him, nice in the sense that she helped him stay warm. He was clumsy, she was beautiful, and she wished she had resisted. Amateurs like Jack weren’t suppose to be very good.

By the end of the next day, they arrived at Crossroads. Here they would say goodbye, and with an onslaught of emotions, she admitted her mistake. She was forced to take stock of herself and felt really sorry. His age bothered her. She also surprised herself. And blamed herself. And she had been ready and willing and had given into romance and sentimentality and didn’t want the girls to know about it. Hetty reminded Jack of her address hoping that he’d send her a post card. PARADISE was easy to remember.

His parents would’ve liked to hear from him, if for no other reason than to let them know that he was still alive. And he’d gone through so much, but Jack couldn’t write home about any of it. He’d traveled across the country, experienced the good and the bad, but how much did he really see? Did he question who he was? Did he lose his perspective? America, would he ridicule her?

Jack stayed in the Crystal Palace until it closed and sat in the furthest corner from the door under a mounted buffalo head. It was very nice. It was why he stayed there so long. It was always a rule: if he liked a place he would stay there for a while. The spot chose him. He felt sorry for the buffalo. Having crossed the plains where buffaloes once roamed and then to end up in a crummy bar, “Christ!” he exclaimed. “Christ, what a pity and a shame.” Imagine taking aim for the hell of it. Imagine the immense herds, with hundreds of thousands of buffalo galloping all at once. Then you single one out, the last of a breed, and take a shot. It was a slow time and after midnight. ”Christ! What am I doing here?” He wasn’t from there, you see.

While he sat in a Texas jail, it all changed for him. Sitting in a Texas jail can make you feel small. Jack never got over it. And never got over Tex’s death either. He listened to Tex before he died talk about America the beautiful. The kid hadn’t reached the point of agreeing with him yet. Too much had happened to him, and he hadn’t settled in yet. There was too much to take in, and he was too much on the go to appreciate any one place. Did he miss a turn somewhere, or get the wrong directions? Why was he alone in a strange place? Why was he alone sitting in a dark bar under a buffalo head? Why did it seem inconsequential? He missed the Wabash, the Ohio, and the Mississippi as he soon missed San Diego, San Francisco, and LA. From the beginning of his journey, he had a sense that he was missing things. It got where he anticipated missing places before he got somewhere.

He went through spells of drinking a lot. He developed a familiar blind way of drinking. Once he got started he couldn’t stop. No stopping. And as long as he was drinking he didn’t have to think. He could hear his mother say never take that first drink. You’re bound to end up an alcoholic and a drunk, and at the same time he kept asking himself what he had to do with Tex’s death. He drank alone. He never drank with anyone else. There were intervals when he didn’t drink and learned that drinking didn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t think or keep him from thinking about how Tex died. Choose his poison … all of it was poison. Of course he realized that the bull was a cop, and the cop murdered Tex, and a judge sanctioned the murder. It then seemed fitting that Tex died in a boxcar. .

Jack spent his first days in LA walking around. He didn’t think about what to do. He wandered aimlessly. This allowed him to think. He wasn’t drunk and could think. He had no plan. Unable to sleep day or night, his situation worried him. Fear was inevitable. Fear was useful, except Jack couldn’t get beyond it. He felt nervous every time someone approached him, but he wasn’t going to give up, especially after successfully panhandling.

Wow, Hollywood! Follow the arc lights to Hollywood. Tinsel Town. Hollywood and Vine! The Walk of Fame roped off for the stars … gold rope! Wouldn’t stop a steer! You see people who have followed those lights all the way from their hometowns, though not always cognizant of it. Not sure of the price of admission, Jack wondered whether he’d be turned away or not, as he stood outside Madame Tussaud’s Hollywood Wax Museum. Inside he saw a cast of characters, including Errol Flynn. “See Errol half-dressed, wearing only boots, tights, and a belt.” Jack was glad he wasn’t wearing lace and ruffles and didn’t want to hear how his drinking affected Errol Flynn’s acting career.

Strolling west on Hollywood Boulevard, he walked over the stars of the famous, and came to Grauman’s Chinese Theater, with its Heaven Dogs. He wanted to take it all in and asked directions to RKO. He wanted to run into a star. Would he recognize one when he saw one? Who would recognize Ned Johnson, the eminent screenwriter, or Steinbeck, the novelist? What would he do if he saw Claire Trevor, who won the year’s nomination for Best Supporting Actress in “Key Largo”? As he slowly plodded along, he imagined the people he could possibly see. That was how he spent the day.

Someone sang “Mean To Me,” which was his favorite song. From behind him, he heard someone call, “Hey, you, yes you, that’s right you!” Was it a casting call? No! A cop with a billy club cornered him. Jack saw the irony of this. The policeman never changed his tone, only intensified it until he screamed like a lunatic. “Slime ball, what does this sign say? No Loitering! Look at me! Ain’t I making myself clear? No loitering! Soap and water are cheap; you hear me? Cheap!” And intimidated, Jack moved on.

Shaking, Jack tried to get on a bus. The driver took one look at him and yell, “Now, sir, please step back and watch it!” Jack did the opposite, and when he stepped forward, the driver dropped the please. “Off the bus, you stinking mother fucker!” Jack obeyed him and, as the bus sped off, felt stabbed in the back.

He talked to everyone, yet felt alienated. He dreaded tomorrow, felt shackled, and lost sight of the future. Wandering the same streets alone, he ate and slept where he could. This became his routine. He cleaned up at the Salvation Army, after he learned he had to stay clean.

He finally wrote home, sent an unsigned postcard. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t sign it. He said nothing about himself. No more specific than a few sentences about a buffalo head. All alone. Unable to write anymore, he could’ve written about how quickly he developed street sense, which meant he never took his eyes off his stuff.

Around the Greyhound station and Whelan’s drug store, he asked for spare change. By the end of the day he usually had enough money for a meal and a ticket for a show. On Main Street, old men in tattered clothing lined up for a burlesque show. Jack could be seen there too. Afterwards, he walked the streets thinking about the women of Paradise, of Hetty and Juanita, and of beauty and love. The thought of sleeping in the arms of Hetty drove him crazy. Time and time again, Jack went back to Main Street, but he didn’t expect much from it.

He listened to Girrls exchange dirty quips with the comic. Then standing in line for love, yes, there was love on Main Street. Catching Jack’s attention with a gesture from a second-story window, communicating with a forefinger, the lady offered herself. He hurried across the street, hastened through the door and up a flight of stairs. There was no need to knock. The lady was eager to take his money. Five in the afternoon imagine it. For both of them, it was serious business. So hurried, he didn’t notice that there weren’t any sheets to mess up and immediately afterwards asked, “Was that it?” The lady immediately answered, “More will cost you more.” He just got out of there then.

What happened next seemed to Jack too good to be true. For one day love seemed again possible. With a breath of spring and the smell of the sea, eternal hope once again gave him a reason to live. Almost instantly they connected. They were on a city bus; restrained their meeting seemed auspicious. For him a cosmic force seemed at work; and she should’ve known better. Next came a few awkward words from him about being new in town, which left him groping for something else to say. She took the opening, which then led to a long silence. Both of them had to catch their breath. Then he found out that she road this bus often, maybe as often as everyday.

On her way to school, she began naming the districts: “Vermont and Hoover and Franklin and Sunset.” Then with exuberance, she told him that she had only one class that day….”Beverly Hills, Bel Air, La Cienega, Venice,” and by this time, she became his tour guide. Pointing out where the movie stars lived, she smiled and gave him her name. Elaine. By then Jack could talk with strangers. In fact, he often felt closer to strangers than people he knew. If he didn’t talk to strangers he wouldn’t talk to anyone, so his conversations with strangers tended to be longer than conversations with friends.

Like a pair of cats exploring each other’s scent, they shared the essence of their lives. But Elaine, foreseeing where this might lead, tried to divert his attention. ”Everybody,” she said, “likes to go to Hollywood and Vine,” and he pretended he hadn’t been there and kept looking at her thoughtfully. This made Elaine feel uncomfortable, so she told him about her boyfriend. But what did Jack care?

To think they had a deep conversation, a surprisingly deep one, and he could lose her at the next bus stop. The bus stopped, turned there; and it was apparent that he didn’t know when it would come to the last stop and then turn around. She found him pleasant and the attention flattering. Impressed by his clean clothes and very neat haircut, she didn’t think he had anything evil in mind. She sensed his determination but never guessed how much his appearance cost him.

On and off Arroyo Seco, bumper to bumper, there was more time for them to talk because the bus went all the way to Pasadena. Optimistic, Jack hoped he could follow Elaine home. ”Hello,” he said for the fifteenth time, and Elaine repeated the word too. Neither one of them noticed any longer streets or other people on the bus.

On the verge of taking her hand, his mind suddenly jumped to other things. Having such thoughts bothered him, especially when Elaine seemed like a nice girl. But shucks, fuck! But so had the barge lady. He couldn’t help but think about how he scored before and felt screwed up. He slid the widow open and benefited from air.

“Such a nice girl.” It seemed for a minute like she was like the girl next door. It was if he were back in Richmond. He noticed Elaine had tiny breast, as he looked at her from head to toe. Her manner put him at ease and kept him from becoming tongue-tied.

Pasadena wasn’t far from LA; and before they knew it, they had to pay for a return trip. Elaine would have to reconcile missing her class and the madness of spending a day with a stranger. She tried to rationalize her behavior but couldn’t come up with an excuse for it. A crazy idea, it remained inexcusable. If he found out, her boyfriend would be livid. She planned to write in her diary about how cute Jack was. There was even a slight resemblance to Errol Flynn. Certainly Elaine had reservations; but their conversation seemed natural. Jack appeared lonely and seemed like he needed her. He wondered if she felt his manliness.

Before too long they were back downtown. The bus then turned onto Main Street and filled up again, requiring people to stand. Suddenly Elaine said, “Let’s get off.” Whoo, they felt pushed and crushed until pushing became like everything else. They felt trapped, though it didn’t matter to Jack.

“You look great.”

“So do you.”

“Swell.”

But he doubted that she’d later remember him.

Elaine’s thoughts jumped around. It seemed strange that she skipped class.

He took her hand, continuing the drama of possibilities, and guided her through a maze of people. Maneuvering down Main Street, they passed the theater where he spent so much time. Having enjoyed a ghost town never came up. They could’ve explored a Monastery, where within fifteen minutes you can say you’ve seen it all or spent a whole day there. But of course Jack wouldn’t confess to a priest. He wouldn’t talk to anyone about his confusion and disillusionment or illusions, or how the death of Tex changed him forever. Somehow, until Elaine came along, it seemed like he had been robbed of life’s music.

After passing up a movie or eating burgers and fries (he didn’t have the nerve to ask for a kiss), she got so excited about going into a dress shop that she seemed to forget him. Of course, he didn’t have any money left and she wanted to spend. With money from her own purse, she bought blouses and a skirt, and drove him crazy by trying on the whole store. Doing that, Elaine ran out of time.

She almost broke her neck hopping off the bus. Jack hurried to keep up with her. If he lost her he wouldn’t know where she lived. Unhappily then, they ran into her boyfriend. He was waiting for her at her house.

Just being with Elaine had been super, super keen. Even considering she let him down, he still felt that way. The experience lifted him. Jack could now leave Main-street LA and take his chances someplace else.

Except he now needed a passport and knew nothing about visas. “One world or none,” Wendell Wilkie’s phrase stuck in his head. For good reasons he needed papers. At that moment in history, unknown to Jack but obviously placing him in good company, Bertrand Russell, Albert Schweitzer, Gandhi and Einstein shared this sentiment. On the spur of the moment, he decided that his chances for landing a job on a ship were better in San Francisco. On the spur of the moment, he found himself hitchhiking again; and on the spur of the moment, he started preparing himself to leave a country he just as suddenly decided he loved.

From San Francisco Jack worked his way over to Manila, serving as a kitchen helper. He did his job well, but was never respected. The purser ran the ship and never stopped his extortion. Jack found himself frequently the target. Most of the rest of the crew accepted him. The captain appreciated him, because Jack reminded him of when he first went to sea.

Randy Ford

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