Chapter 17
But I had deep reservations about going into the desert. I kept thinking of the neo-Nazi greeting parties and Manson-like cults just waiting for some poor soul to wander off the road. Anything could happen out in the boondocks. You could get robbed, killed, tortured, or just run out of gas and bake to death. So I put my .38 in the glove compartment for peace of mind. I didn’t know if I’d ever use it, but I had to believe I would. You’ve got to think like Dirty Harry when you’re trying to face down your worst fears; Hollywood can be quite an inspiration for those of us who never had a shoot-to-kill moment.
Despite my concerns, I liked the down-home ambience and rural sensibility of small towns, where people greet you with smiles and not phony, drawn-out lips. And while the food isn’t as good and cultural delights are sorely lacking, it can be quite a relief to be far from the melting pot of Southern California. Sometimes it’s nice to see white folks hauling trash and doing all the dirty work around town.
I’d been traveling for an hour or so and was combing through a number of subjects in my skull to pass the time. It was a straight-up ride all the way, no tricky turns or hard-to-find exits, which made it easier to concentrate on my ruminating. All I had to do was keep my foot on the gas, watch out for road kill, and stay on my side of the highway. But it was getting warmer as I moved east and I worried how much more heat would come my way once I got over the mountain passes and into the Mojave desert.
I wasn’t much concerned about getting the job done. It seemed a cinch handing a stupid little package to a kid. I figured you’d have to be a bona-fide moron to blow it. So I just took in the sights, lots of high desert fauna along the way, and kept singing the praises of all that beautiful terrain. The 15 Highway wound its way through high desert and straight through Victorville, a more amenable place than I thought it would be. I even passed a brand-new performing arts center on the way out, a sure sign of changing demographics.
After Victorville, it took another hundred miles to reach Barstow, which felt like the entrance to purgatory in the middle of August. I was now on the desert floor crossing the Mojave Desert past towns with names like Needles, Yucca and Daggett. Not very comforting appellations in the blast furnace I was driving through. Just sand and cactus to decorate the highway, which was now the 40 Interstate that runs east through Flagstaff. I must have lost all my marbles somewhere back in Santa Monica.
Luckily, the route took me south of Death Valley, bypassing one of the hottest places on earth. Located on the desert floor a few hundred feet below sea-level, that’s as close to old Scratch as you’d ever want to get. Perhaps it was just will power, but with the temperature gage moving stubbornly into the red, I kept on going all the way to Kingman, skipping through Yucca and Needles like I was running from the devil himself. I found a service station just outside of town and got out to gas up the car. I was soaked with sweat from the heat, and after setting up the pump I walked Homer over to a bin and started hosing him down. But the water was coming out warm and he didn’t seem to be looking any better. I was getting real nervous about him. He was a furry animal meant for the Arctic, and traveling this far south of the North Pole was asking for trouble.
It was a furnace outside, alright, but the people around here took it all in stride. They just stayed inside air-conditioned rooms most of the day. Besides, there weren’t any trust fund brats or Hollywood types to compete with for overpriced living space or some freakin’ table at a coffee house. It was quiet around here, and the locals seemed to like it enough to stay, even for a lifetime. At the end of the day, it’s not the weather or terrain that can make life miserable, it’s people that do it to you, end of story.
I went over to talk to the manager; I needed some advice from a local if we were going to make it to Flagstaff in one piece. He was standing behind a plexiglass window in air-conditioned comfort. With his sun-dried raisin face and short-cropped silver hair, he looked like an authority on survival in these parts.
“Hi,” I said, hoping to catch his attention as he sorted out some dollar bills. “Do you know when the road starts climbing up in elevation?”
“Which way are you going?” He was still counting the money.
“I’m headed for Flagstaff.”
“You’ve got some time. Better make sure you’re all filled up with fuel and ya got water in the radiator.”
“How much time? Do you know?”
“A couple of hours.” He looked up and glanced over at Homer. “Is that your dog?” He had a forlorn look in his eye as he took the measure of Homer’s appearance.
“Yeah. I’m a little worried about him. It’s pretty damn hot in that little car and he’s looking kind of sick, don’t you think?” He nodded in agreement. “I hosed him down just now and I’m making sure he’s drinking water. I don’t know what else to do.”
He stayed silent, staring out the plexiglass window. His tone was somber when he finally spoke.
“It’s not a good idea to take him through this desert. I don’t know what else ya could do other than hosing him down and givin’ him water. There ain’t no help out there once ya leave Kingman, at least not till ya get to Seligman, ‘bout two hundred miles east. Ya better cool him down before ya start heading out that way.”
For a moment, I suspected he was putting on that folksy quality just to entertain this city slicker. But I put that thought to rest after he motioned me to the garage, then came out from behind the window to point me to a water tap I hadn’t noticed.
“That there’s cold water, just take as much as ya need. Cool him down good before ya take off for Flagstaff,” he smiled, and headed back inside. He didn’t waste a word.
“Thanks, I really appreciate this,” I shouted to him.
I proceeded to give Homer a good hosing-down, then turned the tap on myself, pouring it over my head with abandon. I got back in the car, soaking wet but feeling a lot better, and flashed the storekeeper a big grin when he waved good-bye. I took off once again for the desert and beyond.
City slicker gets religion and learns the simple ways of the humble hick. That movie’s been done, but I’ll pitch it again to some producer when I get back to L.A., I quipped to myself, and broke into a much needed laugh.
I got back on the Interstate, still fearing the desert heat and worrying about Homer. When I managed to stop thinking about broken radiators, I got to wondering who this Seligman guy was that got a town named after him. He might have been from Brooklyn with that name, I thought.
But being smack dab in redneck country, that seemed unlikely. It occurred to me that the land I was currently traversing once belonged to Mexico, and I wondered if it would again in a hundred years or so. I didn’t think it would take that long.
I turned my thoughts to the collectibles her ex had locked up in his bedroom. I’d been ruminating on whether to go for it all or just leave little Joe the goods under his bed for a measly four hundred fifty bucks. But something told me I knew the answer to that or I’d have been robbing houses years ago.
I got into Flagstaff just as it was getting dark and found a motel that took in canines. The air was thinner and cooler at seven thousand feet, and I felt quite relieved that Homer was still kicking and breathing. That hosing down back in Kingman did him a lot of good, and gave him enough confidence to pull through the rest of the way. When you get down to it, dogs aren’t much different from us. We’re all just looking to get through another day in this crazy world.
The motel was called the Econo-1nn, and just as its name advertised, it was very affordable and the extra charge for Homer was minimal. It was spread out pretty wide, had two levels that made it look like a new condominium development, and was clean as a whistle.
The receptionist was very nice and polite; not folksy like back in Kingman, but motel school trained. I took a room on the ground floor in case Homer had to go in the middle of the night, unpacked, and considered my appetite. It was huge and I was looking forward to a big dinner.
I left Homer in the room with his bowl well-stocked and went out looking for a place to eat. I drove down a few blocks before coming across a restaurant outlet you could find almost anywhere in the country. I parked and headed straight in, taking a small table in the back.
I ordered meatloaf with mashed potatoes and all the trimmings and devoured every last morsel of food on the plate, and didn’t even give the waitress a chance to ask me how I was doing.
After wolfing down a generous portion of chocolate cake and a tall glass of milk for dessert, I experienced the kind of contentment a caveman would have understood. I just sat back, gazing out on the savanna and looking forward to tomorrow’s hunt. After leaving a generous tip, I scooted back to my room, took Homer out for a short walk, watched a cable news show, and finally went out like a light.