IV: STRANDED

A WEEK TO WAIT, A WEEK TO WONDER

     EUGENE, OREGON

     JULY 3RD-9TH, 2022

     It was way too early for sunlight, but it glowed defiantly beyond the blinds anyway. The whole room glowed. A gold trim ringed the leftover furniture from my incomplete past. There’s the polished coffee table Anna bit a chunk out of. There’s the couch that was deep enough to be swallowed into, but so short it was impossible to sleep comfortably; hence the air mattress. It had deflated a bit overnight. I switched on the internal pump and winced as the whirring of the electric motor echoed throughout the tiny apartment. As soon as it had enough air, I switched it off and waited, dead still, expecting Lydia to come out any minute.

     The noise had only woken up one: Pippin. He sleepily wandered into the room and approached me with a dull but curious trill. I invited him onto the mattress and he put a cautious paw forward. After negotiating the unstable terrain, he plopped down next to me.

     I woke up again an hour later, Pippin’s head still on my arm. I tried very slowly to withdraw, but it was no use. He was already awake and stretching his legs out away from him. I stretched too. My stomach was still sour from the rum, and my body felt weak. I moved slowly into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal, then slowly into the living room to watch TV. Everything moved slowly until that afternoon.

     By then, Lydia was awake. She let me drive her car and gave me directions to the cellphone store. South Eugene is for the most part, a grid. Parallel streets running east and west as they intersect with parallel streets running north and south. North Eugene is a tangled mess. The roads snake in nonsensical directions and the intersections join at angles I’d never seen. Reading the traffic signs is useless. Your best bet is to do what the car in front of you did and hope they get pulled over and not you.

     I took a suicide run at a three-way Y-shaped intersection and found my way to the bridge. Just over it was at the phone store. I sat nervously inside as we waited on a salesperson. I stared out the window and across the street to the car wash. The people passing by gave me hope. Maybe a man wearing cowboy boots and eyeliner wasn’t the most unusual thing here.

     “Why did you start wearing makeup AFTER I left?”

     “I didn’t know I liked it yet.”

     “Well, if you would have tried…” she joked.

     “I wasn’t then who I am now. I’m trying new things. And I really feel like I’m coming into myself.”

     I don’t think she was as impressed by me as I was with myself. The last time we had spent a substantial amount of time together was when we were dating. That was almost a year ago. And without her, being on my own, I’d become a new person. Not completely new, built from the ground up. But with enough change that I’m unrecognizable compared to the past.

     Being a bachelor had done me good. It got me out of the domestic routine. I had a lot of time to focus on me, to learn from myself about myself. It’s not that she ever had total control, or complete influence on me, but being alone gave me a lot of time to think. To focus on who I wanted to be.

     I wanted to be adventurous, willing to try new things. I wanted to live spontaneous and free. And being on the go, I was doing it. I went where I wanted. I decided when I’d get there. And I did what I wanted to do. But for the time being, I had no car. Instead, I was jammed behind the wheel of a Mini Cooper: Not built for taller men like me.

     I drove her car to Mandy’s. Inside, the house-turned-diner was empty, save for an old waitress and the cook. They opened the windows and ran the fans at full speed. Outside, birds were chirping and leaves were rustling in the trees. I don’t remember what I had, I just remember that I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t finish the strawberry shake either. It had been so long since California, I had no idea how this compared to In-N-Out or Carney’s. We took the leftovers to her apartment, but there was a lot of daylight left.

     “There’s a place I’ve been wanting to go. Are you down for a little road trip?”

     We rolled down the Willamette highway to Pleasant Hill. The map said to follow a snaking road north, turning left, right, left, right all the way up to an inconspicuous barn set about two hundred feet from the road. I turned around and parked directly across from it. To my right was a field of grass, bordered by some firs that seemed to stretch all the way to the green hills on the horizon. To my left was a black-roofed barn. A big picture window sat surrounded by a few narrow, tiny ones. To the right of the windows was an old orange door.

     “This is it. There it is.”

     Beyond that orange door, Ken Kesey had written a multitude of his later novels and his collection of short stories, as well as “Demon Box,” which had inspired this pilgrimage to begin with. The majority of Demon Box takes place on this very farm. I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the past. Where’s the pond? The cattle barn? The loft? It was no use. The barn stands, still and silent, traces of Ken Kesey’s soul somewhere inside.

     Outside, there was peace. The clouds drifted low overhead as a gentle breeze swept across the fields from down the hills. Easy to see how this would be a good spot for writing. But where would I find my peace?

     Somewhere by the sea. The next day, before we headed to the beach, we ate at an ice cream chain exclusive to the west coast. The people behind the counter were all smiles and giggles. Good work environment? Is everyone stoned? Or is life on the carefree west coast really just this blissful?

     I ate my cone in the sun. It was another gorgeous lower-eighties day. Plenty of clouds, but no chance of rain. I’d spotted some cologne they were selling earlier, and I felt it would be a worthy souvenir. I grabbed the box and walked up to the grinning girl behind the counter.

     “How much for this?”

     “Is that a large or a small?”

     “I’m not sure, it’s the only size up there.”

     “The small is eighty. The large is one-twenty.”

     I thought back to the car and how much the repair would be. A man named Junior called me this morning. He quoted me around $1,500 for parts and labor. He told me he wouldn’t have taken my car had he been in the shop. But he’s gonna fix it anyway. For fifteen-hundred dollars. How much do I have left?

     “You can open it if you need. I’m buying it either way.”

     The girl examined the box one more time, unable to determine the size of the bottle inside. She looked up at me and grinned wider.

     “I’m just gonna charge you for the small.”

     In the car I tore open the package. It was definitely a large. I spritzed myself with “waffle cone” and overwhelmed Lydia with the smell of syrup. In an hour and-a-half, I’d be overwhelmed by the smell of ocean.

     We left Eugene through the wetlands, then wound through the mountains to the west. The last set of rises before the Pacific. I had saved Wet Leg’s new album just for this drive. “Wet Dream” will never sound as good as it did when I was hugging mountain curves. I sped through the Knowles creek tunnel and missed my car again. I wanted to rev the engine the way I did the last time I was here. I followed the Siuslaw River to Florence, then headed north on the 101. I’d never get to go south on this highway, so I’d better enjoy this drive while I can.

     The road was lined by trees on either side. Conifers reached high into the air. Tropical scrub grew close to the ground. I peered desperately through the gaps between foliage to catch a glimpse. It was still too early. The trees gave way to a long green field, and in the distance, I could see it: A thin strip of blue between the land and the sky. After climbing a hill and coming around a curve, I could see it in its full glory.

     Foamy waves tumbled onto the thin strip of beach, then rolled back into the turquoise surf. Rowdy waves stretched to the horizon in a gradient going from blue to navy to indigo before meeting the sun-bleached shade of sky.

     We followed the road past the sea lion caves until we crossed over a bridge. To the left was an unbroken view of the Pacific. Nothing but ocean and sky as far as the eye could see. Down a smaller, steeper road was Heceta Beach. I walked along the shore, right at the wet line until a rock wall stood in my path. There was a small alcove at sea level, then another one higher up. I poked my head into both, then scrambled up a water-beaten rock until I had a decent view of the Pacific.

     Did you miss me? I know, it’s been so long. Just three weeks ago and I was splashing in the shallows at the foot of L.A. Now I stand before you, completely dry. If it were a little bit warmer, maybe. I’d wade into the water and stand there all day. Until the sun was down and the stars were out. Maybe I’d remain until sunup the next day.

     I don’t know why we left so early. But when we did, I didn’t put up much of a fight. We were back in the car and heading up the coast. Up to Yachats and then Waldport. Seal Rock and Newport. We turned inland there, passing a sign that said “BOSTON, MA 3,365 MILES.”

     Maybe next year.

     The drive out was just as wooded as the drive in. But the trees cast melancholy shadows on the road now. This was the last time I’d see the ocean for an indeterminable amount of time. I’d reached the edge of the continent again, and now, the only place left to go was back.

     The rest of the road to Eugene was easy riding except for a brief period of panic where I thought I’d left my wallet in the bathroom at Heceta Beach. Luckily, I had hidden it from myself under the seat. As the sun shied away from the sky, Lydia and I looked up good spots to watch the firework show from. At nightfall, we gave up and resolved to watch The Simpsons instead.

     I could hear the dull thud of explosions outside the window. Right now the whole United States was celebrating freedom and independence. But I didn’t have a car and was running out of money. I was bound to where I was. A slave to circumstance. Misfortune.

     I couldn’t even drive to get breakfast on my own. I woke Lydia up early so we could return to a diner we had eaten at when I moved her out here. They were closing in an hour. Time was of the essence. We made it just in time to grab a table by the window. The 50’s aesthetic of the diner was an annoying contrast to the hungover feeling of a lazy July morning. A cardboard cutout of Elvis silently wailed a tune as I cut away pieces of French toast with my fork.

     “So, when is the party?”

     “Eight or nine. I don’t know. Whenever people show up, I guess.”

     The people showing up were her classmates from the University of Oregon. An even mix of guys and girls. Names I’d heard before, but never had a face to put them to. She left to pick some of them up. I put on the Hawaiian shirt from the day before and carefully put on my gray eyeliner; a gift from Lydia. I smoked a Spirit on the porch, watching a chipmunk skirt the edge of her building and dive behind the recycling bin. I blew thin white clouds and thought back to my own friends. Where were Isaac, Tanner, and Sam right now?

     Without my familiar crowd, I was a stranger in this group. I made small talk where I could, but most conversations were exclusive to people enrolled at the U of O. I drank beer after beer, waiting for my opportunity to jump in somewhere. After waiting patiently and contributing when appropriate, I had been accepted and brought in to the greater conversation at hand. Now, with an intoxicated bond working as our aid, we were all friends with the exception of a shy few. I drafted a work party to carry a broken recliner Lydia couldn’t get on her own to the dumpster, then played games with the group until the first two members had to leave. I bid them goodbye and let the Kraken speak for me:

     “There’s a ninety-nine percent chance I’ll never see y’all again. So drive safe, don’t talk to cops, and never take shit off of anyone!”

     The rest of the night was a blur of mixed drinks, a Disney musical, dying a pink streak in someone’s hair, and being driven around by a sober member of the party. They took us to a graveyard. The old Pioneer Cemetery. The massive fir trees reached all the way to the stars. They wandered to a spot in the middle of the field, concealed from the road by two bushes. They offered me a hit from their pipe and I took the most cautious inhale of my life.

     It was pleasant. A euphoric, loose kind of high. Not like that existential mind-shatter at the strip club. I giggled and thought of Savannah. Are her goth ways rubbing off on me? No. I’ve always hung out in cemeteries.

     After a lot of talk and political gripe, the bowl was empty. It was time to leave. I followed at the tail of the group, imagining ghostly chuck wagons creaking their way through the headstones. The sour weed had tasted foul on my tongue. I absentmindedly spit off to the right and then froze in my tracks.

     I walked right back to the spot I spat in and apologized. Hoping not to bring any haunts or curses back with me. Even if the notion of an angry ancient spirit was plausible, they probably wouldn’t dare to ride back east. If the plane ride scared them, think of what effect the Lincoln would have.

     Lydia dropped the last of her friends off and drove me to her home. I was still high. We had another drink and talked about our separate romantic misfortunes. We agreed that it wasn’t easy being single. But I don’t think either of us would have it any other way.

     At three in the morning, under the light of the stars, I had decided that it was the perfect time for a cigarette. I pulled one from the pack and she retreated inside to sleep. I went to light it and my lighter just sparked. It was out. The pink playboy lighter that I’d held onto since October, that had survived being dropped in the ocean, and lit countless cigarettes, was dead. The loss was heartbreaking. The alternative was humiliating. I lit my Spirit with a kitchen lighter and smoked alone in the dark.

     Another lazy day. The immobility was starting to wear on me. I wanted to call the shop to check on my car, but I knew it would be no use. We got dinner at a pub nearby. I noticed that a field under the elevated highway was fenced off to keep the homeless out. Much different from when I saw it last year. It was a colorful jumble of tents, lean-tos, and makeshift shelters shaded from the sun. Did Eugene resolve its homelessness issue? Or did they bus them off? Or force them elsewhere? Out into the sun to die of exposure and dehydration.

     I didn’t see many homeless there. I didn’t see many in Portland either. Not outside the shop where I bought the “stay nasty” patch, nor the big bookstore that didn’t have any Kesey. They weren’t outside of the restaurant either. I bought a modest lunch to save money, but the curiosity was killing me. I ran across the street to a convenience store ATM to check my balance. Disappointing numbers appeared on the screen.

     Two thousand and sixty-nine dollars. That was all I had. I knew I would be broke, but not like this. Had my car not broken down, I was going to use that money to fund a long ride down the 101. Just me, my car, music, and the coast. A most intimate experience between me and the road. But now I barely had enough to get home after paying for the repairs.

     We strolled through Lone Fir Cemetery. Beams of light streamed down between the dark green leaves of the trees that towered above us. But for the most part, the whole scene was cast in shadows. We followed a well-worn path to a bench by a well-maintained war memorial. I sat in the gloomy shade and tried to finish a cookie.

     “Something got you down?”

     I heaved a big sigh.

     “I’m practically broke… I won’t have a penny to my name once I get home. Everything is going to the axle and whatever’s left is going to gas.”

     I wondered if the food I had left in the trunk was going to be enough to get me to Norman. And just as I was figuring out a way to cook roadkill, Lydia broke in:

     “Was it worth it?”

     I looked at her almost startled.

     “Of course it was worth it! I could do without the axle breaking and costing me fifteen hundred dollars, but aside from that, every moment, everything I had experienced has been well worth it.” I thought of all of the most significant moments so far:

     Singing karaoke in Goodsprings. Being dazzled by the lights of Vegas. Staring out at the ocean in Los Angeles. Getting blind drunk in San Francisco. Smoking in the rain in Chicago. Holding hands in Santa Fe. Making wild love in Denver. Everything. Everything good and everything bad, I would do all over again without a doubt. Even the stuff I didn’t like. Staying up all night worrying about Savannah. Feeling my feet swell in my boots in Fresno. Feeling my mouth dry up and the pit of my stomach drop as I saw my driver rear tire bounce away. Even those moments would be worth reliving, so long as I got to relive everything that proceeded and followed.

     But for now, I was blue. I missed my car and I missed my girl. I wanted to get back on the road, but I couldn’t do a damned thing other than wait. And wait. And wait.

     The next day, the sorrow got worse. The melancholy feeling dug itself in deeper and sunk down, the same way I had sunk into Lydia’s couch. It was the same as any other day. Pip would wake me up at eight, I’d cycle between watching TV and playing video games, Lydia would get up at noon, eat, then hang out before taking another nap. Still no word from the mechanic. Still no light at the end of the tunnel.

     The next morning, I made the call. Would it be ready? Or would I spend another week in Oregon? My heart raced as I waited for Junior’s verdict.

     The car would be ready that afternoon. They just had to replace a parking brake cable.

     Yes! YES! I frantically scrambled to shower, brush my teeth, get my things together, pack, and kiss the cats goodbye before throwing my bag into the back of Lydia’s Mini and searching for flights.

     They had all already left. No busses to Twin Falls either. The ultimate birthday present to myself was quickly stolen away. And where there was once ecstasy and excitement was now a bleak and heavy funk that I just couldn’t shake.

     We drove to the “Junkyard:” A restaurant in the hamlet of Lancaster, Guy Fieri approved. I stood in line and browsed flights as conservatives and hicks ate around me. It was a far cry from Portland.

     I ate the cost of a flight and chowed down on my bratwurst. It was just as good as it was the last time I ate here.

     I was on the move again, and, naturally, my spirits started to lift. I was on the brink of exploding from the excitement and impatience of knowing that I’ll be back on the road, but not until tomorrow.

     We scoured Eugene for a soft pack of Strikes, and finally found one at the third store we tried. We went back to Lydia’s spot and I took a call from Savannah. She wished me a happy birthday and I gave her the good news. My car was ready and I was only two days away. Two days. Forty-eight hours. Two-thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes. And counting down.

     After the sun had set, the night was cool. I washed down the day’s last cigarette with my last PBR, staring at Savannah’s picture. Inviting lips bordered a warm smile, pushing her cheeks high. Cool, dark eyes stare back into my own and I can see my tiny, heartsick reflection in her pupils. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. Get me back on the road.

     I finished the night by writing a thank-you letter on the postcard I picked up in Santa Fe, then sipped rum until I was ready to sleep.