I
The highway can be a very lonely place. On certain nights, the only company given to the asphalt would be the chirping of crickets and the light of the moon. On this night, however, the black asphalt was given the gift of a prisoner, but one who was not bound by its white and yellow lines.
Slowly, two headlights, a lit cigarette, and a wayward soul were making their way across the country on the Interstate 40 near Flagstaff, Arizona. The soul was the most interesting character in the travelling party; it was one that had been born under the eyes of God, but no longer remained under such vision. The second most interesting character was the cigarette, as it was a Marlboro Gold, which wasn’t smoked often in Arizona. The headlights were just a pair of average headlights, belonging to a red Ford or a black Chevrolet.
Unlike the cigarette and headlights, the soul belonged to no corporation; the subject’s given name was Don Fremont, and he’d been driving for over 12 hours. Under his fingernails was cocaine; on his breath was bourbon; above his head shone stars. While the highway was tame and monotonous, his mind was aflame.
How long do I have to go? How fucking long? 1400 miles. How far have I gone? 800 miles. Fuck. I’d love to have Anderson in front of me right now. I’d punch his fucking teeth in. But what would that achieve? To achieve peace, what is necessary? I feel like shit. Do I have a fucking fever? How hot am I? 215.8 Fahrenheit. 102.11 Celsius. Delirium was setting in.
The last time he had a fever was when he was five years old. He could vaguely remember his mother tucking him in bed, kissing his forehead, his window shades billowing like blue sails in the background. That night he was blessed with one of the most vivid dreams he had ever had. And while both the dream and his mother had passed, their memories still dwelled deep in the recesses of his mind. Reaching into his glove box, he pinched some white powder between his fingers, put it up to his nose, and snorted.
His mother had been beautiful. Whenever he pictured her, he saw her in a blue-checkered frock with red painted lips. She held his hand; he was still quite young. They were on a picnic, which was unfortunately interrupted by a lightning storm. His mother had been struck, and had never recovered. The sound of the rain and thunder still haunted him, as did the contents of his fever-induced dream.
The dream itself was beautiful in its own right. He had gone to sleep in Woodside, California with a fever and had awoken, spry and well, in a field of location unknown. The sky above him was purple, and his shadow seemed to stretch towards infinity. Fireflies danced in the air. The only discernable landmark was a tree far off in the distance; a tree that seemed to be calling his name. Slowly, he began running towards the tree, the pitter-patter of his small legs breaking the serenity of the scene. As he got closer and closer, its calls grew louder and his feet moved faster.
Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t move any further; it was as though he had hit an invisible wall. Looking around the field, it now appeared that the ground was covered with endless glowing lines. Some were orange, like the fireflies. Some were purple, like the sky. Others were green, still others red. Every color he could imagine was there. The lines crisscrossed erratically; they followed no set pattern. It was as though he was standing on a giant circuit board. Looking down, he realized that he was standing on the edge of one such horizontal line. This was what was preventing him from reaching the tree.
Frustration began to creep over him. He had to get to the tree, but how? There was no way to cross the line. Taking a few steps back, he ran towards it. Just as he was about to reach it, he leapt off the ground. The line passed under him and he let out a cry of success. He had made it! Trying to take another step forward, he realized he couldn’t. Once again, he found himself stuck. Looking around, he realized he was in the same spot he was moments before. Tilting his head downwards, he realized he was still trapped by the very barricade he had just thwarted. Impossible!
Beside him lay a rock. Reaching down, he picked it up and felt its smoothness against his still unblemished skin. If he couldn’t leap over the barrier, he would break it. Getting down on his knees, Don raised the rock above his head and struck the glowing line. The ground began to rumble, but his obstacle still remained. Letting out a roar, he raised the rock above his head for a second time and brought the rock down on the line with all of his might. The ground shattered beneath him like glass. He felt himself falling. Slowly, the tree drifted further and further away until it was no longer in sight, and nothing remained but darkness. As a child, this is what he imaged death was like: pure emptiness. Back in the present time, he was unsure.
Driving along the Interstate 40, he saw the same ley lines glowing throughout the desert as he had in his dream. Their light reflected onto the road, lighting it like Las Vegas. It was wonderful. Unlike his dream, however, he was now able to pass through them without consequence. It was as though they no longer possessed their fantastic powers; he was free. Swerving back and forth across the yellow line of the highway, Don let out an expletive. Where the fuck am I? I’ve got to be getting close. I’m not tired. I can go for another twelve hours. Fuck it. Let’s do it. Let’s fucking do it.
The sun was beginning to rise, bringing new life with it. In a few hours, the heat would be almost unbearable. The cacti on the side of the road didn’t mind. Up ahead on the horizon, Don spotted a green sign with large white letters. Getting closer, he realized they spelled out “Navajo Nation”.
Navajo fucking nation. The biggest Indian reserve in the United States of America. Heh. Grade school knowledge does come in handy. Grinding his teeth, Don lit up a cigarette. Those poor bastards. They don’t even get a civil rights movement. Just a bit of white guilt. If I knew what I could do, I would help. The cigarette made Don feel like shit. Tossing it out the window, it hit the desert floor and rolled along the sand until it found a resting place next to a cactus. And while this cactus looked like any other cactus in the desert, the fact was that this was no ordinary plant. This cactus was known in the scientific community as lophophora williamsii, in the common tongue as peyote, and in certain Native American tribes as a deity.
For thousands of years, peyote had been used as a method of soul searching and soothsaying. It was thought that the hallucinations and thoughts induced by its consumption were messages from higher powers, and that one could even talk directly to gods under its influence. Tales have been told of young men walking far into the desert with naught but a satchel of peyote and returning as men of purpose.
It was the arrival of Europeans in the New World that created a cloud of notoriety around the plant. The conquerors sought to destroy and assimilate every part of Native American culture, and peyote was no exception. Deemed “satanic trickery” and thought of as a way to contact evil spirits, the Catholic Church set out to punish all who chose to participate in the peyote ritual. Those who resisted were forced to flee to the hills.
It was the chemical compound mescaline that caused these visions, a compound that differed only slightly from the lysergic acid diethylamide found within Don’s glove compartment. Don was partaking in a ritual that was older than the United States of America, older than the Catholic Church, older than the asphalt beneath his wheels. Just as the Native Americans had done for thousands of years, Don was on a quest for purpose. And it had just begun.
II
Water. I needed water. My mouth was as drier than an upstanding bar in the time of prohibition. I couldn’t remember when I’d passed out, but at least I’d had enough sense to pull far off of the road. I was lucky nobody had stopped to check in on me and steal what little I had.
Looking down at my watch, it read one o’clock. If I had to guess, I’d been out for five or six hours. Taking off my jacket, I grimaced, realizing it was drenched in sweat along with the rest of my clothes. My fever was gone, but by no means did I feel well. My body ached, and my mind felt heavy. My sinuses were so clogged I could hardly breathe. Opening the car door, I spat a mouthful of speckled phlegm into the sand. Closing the door, I laid back. I always viewed the morning after a drunken stupor through darkly tinted glasses, but often with good reason.
It was too hard not to think of what I’d left behind; slowly the voices of my demons were creeping back into my head. The bourbon I’d drunk last night had lubricated my mind just enough so not to hear them. I’d almost thought they were gone, but now I realized they’d be sure I wouldn’t forget my mistakes. The boy. Keith. Jimmy. Anderson. Everything. Luckily, hunger interrupted my thoughts before I could lapse further into a depressed state. I wondered if the doped up mice back in our lab were this self-loathing.
Growling at me, my stomach sounded though it was eating itself and I decided I needed food in addition to water. Rummaging through my backseat, I searched for anything I might have had the foresight to pack. I found nothing except a bottle of bourbon that’s very sight made me throw up in my mouth. I hadn’t prepared for this awakening at all. Turning around, I put my keys in the ignition and started the car. I had to be close to some sort of civilization.
The highway to wherever I was headed was nearly empty. Every so often I’d see a car pass by in the opposite direction. Whenever this happened, I’d try to make up a story for the passengers to take my mind off both Stanford and my hunger. The travelling salesman; the young couple in love; the murderer on the run (that was me). I wondered if I’d ever guessed right.
Though my haze, I noticed something big and pink coming up on the right side of the road; it wasn’t a sign, as it was moving. As I got closer, I realized that it was a woman. As a matter of fact, it was a black woman in her Sunday best making her way through the desert. Her back was hunched over and she was dragging a travel bag on wheels behind her. How’d she get all the way out here? As I passed her, I put on my left blinker and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. If I were to be an agent of change, I might as well start now. Sticking my head out the driver’s side window, I yelled back to her.
“Excuse me, ma’am? Do you need a ride?” No answer. The woman continued her torrid pace towards the car. I only hoped she wasn’t a mirage. “Ma’am?”
I hopped out of the car and ran over to the passenger side door, opening it up and making a motion with my hands for her to get in. As she reached the back bumper of my Chevrolet, her eyes finally turned upwards. Fanning her face with a gloved hand, she opened her mouth to speak.
“I see my chariot has arrived. Thanks for stopping, I’ve been walking fo’ miles.” I smiled and again motioned towards the passenger seat. Bending over, her large hat barely made it through the door. The car sunk nearly three inches as she let out a sigh, transferring her exhaustion to the axles of the Chevrolet. Tossing the travel bag in the back seat, I walked back to the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind me.
“Where to ma’am?” I asked, my eyes on the road.
“Albuquerque, New Mexico. I suspect we’re not far. Just keep on the highway. You’ll see the sign.” She could tell I wasn’t from around these parts.
“Albuquerque it is.”
Playing the role of chauffeur, I smoothly let off the brakes and merged back onto the empty highway.
“So, how’d you get all the way out here?”
“I should be asking you the same question, child. I passed by your car just hours ago; I was surprised there weren’t buzzards circling ‘round it. I would have woken you, but a man in your state needs all the rest he can get.” I smiled to myself. If only she knew the half of it. “I can tell you’re lost out here, child, but you’re not alone. Many a lost soul winds up out here in the desert.”
“And are you one of them?”
“Lord no, child. I know where I’m headed. To Albuquerque, like I told you.” I laughed to myself. “Though I have been lost out here more times than I’d care to admit. One has to be careful not to get too lost, however, especially a woman in my shoes.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The winds of change are blowing, child, but there are some benign orchards in this desert that are immune to such things. I pray someday sense will find them; but until that day, one has to take proper precautions.” The woman nodded towards me and reached behind her seat for the travel bag. After a moment of digging, she turned back towards the front of the car with a green book in her hands. “I hold here a gift for you. In this book, you’ll find the names and maps of all towns in these parts friendly to people such as you and I. Keep it close; you never know when it might come in handy.”
The woman placed the book on my lap. “The Negro Traveler’s Green Book” was spelled out in large font on the cover; it was only the size of a pocket book. I was sure its maps did not contain Hattiesburg.
“I thank you kindly, ma’am, but won’t you need this more than I? I’m not sure if you can tell, but I’m a white man.” The woman cackled with laughter.
“Child, you’re whiter than the desert sand surrounding us. But you picked me up, and that means something. They sell these all over the place; you just need to know where to look. I’ll find another soon enough.” I slipped the book into my jacket pocket, exited to explore its contents at a more opportune time. In my mind, I thought how much of a coincidence this meeting was. And as my mother used to say, coincidences always came at once. Suddenly, a gloved hand broke my line of sight and train of thought. “The exit to Albuquerque is coming up.”
She was right. Just on the horizon, a large green sign that read “Albuquerque, New Mexico” was visible. I took a left just as the rumblings in my stomach began again.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but would you mind if I found a dinner? I’m starving.”
“Of course, child. Do as you will. I will not be joining you, however. Would not be wise.” I opened my mouth to make an argument, but a kind, stern glance of the woman made me rethink such a thing. We sat in silence for another moment or two until we reached the city and a dinner came up on our right hand side. The dinner looked as though it would serve up a decent meal; It wasn’t the Ritz, but I’d get filled up for a couple of quarters. I threw on my turn signal, made the right, and parked the car.
I got out, rubbing my legs as I did so. Walking around to the passenger side of the car, I was surprised to see my newfound friend was already out and standing with her travel bag behind her. Looking towards me, she moved to place both of her covered hands on my face; I recoiled out of habit, but she was too fast.
“Child, be careful now. And know that you are capable of great things; this old woman can feel it in her aching bones.” I gazed into her worn eyes, and they gazed back with an unfathomable sincerity. She was right. As she turned to leave, I called to her.
“Why are you in Albuquerque, anyway? You never said.” Hearing my words, she turned back to answer with a smile.
“For my father’s funeral, child.” Raising her gloved hand, she said goodbye. “To new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings.” And with that, she disappeared into the urban oasis. Turning, I entered the dinner, my stomach singing songs of salvation.
III
The diner itself was void of any customers. I reckoned all the regular customers would be at their place of employment at this hour, but who really knew? I supposed it could be a sign of bad food, but at this point I’d eat rubber. An American flag hung behind the counter over the standard diner fare; coffee pots, a griddle, a turned-off radio.
I was seated by a middle-aged woman whose face was caked in makeup and who smelled of a tropical perfume. The smell reminded me of some girl I’d been sweet on years before, one whose face I hardly remembered. Caught between a memory and the present, I managed to crack a smile at the waitress. She stared blankly back.
“Rough night last night, hun?” she asked, handing me a menu. It was a fair question, I supposed. I hadn’t washed myself in a couple of days. I probably reeked of cigarettes and bourbon, but I imagined half her customers did.
“…Yeah. Listen, do you guys still serve breakfast?” I asked. The server made an unenthusiastic motion with her pen towards the corner of the menu. It enthusiastically read “All Day Breakfast!”. What was her problem? “Thanks. Yeah, I’ll get the bacon and eggs, a coffee, and some water. Eggs done over easy, please. Do you guys have any newspapers around?” I needed something to keep my mind from reverting to darkness. My hitchhiker had filled my mind as best she could, but now I’d need something else. The waitress picked up my menu and turned towards the kitchen.
“Newspapers are over there. They’re a nickel apiece. You read it, you bought it.” She pointed at a stack of papers near the entrance as she walked away, her scent still lingering. I momentarily travelled back to my memory once again.
Some people believe that music gives the strongest link to memories; for me it has always been scent. The smell of my dead mother’s apple pies; the odor of a long lost lover’s perfume. We consume these smells, just as we sometimes consume our lovers. While a symphony can awaken recollections of some dull waltz, the smell of a lover can awaken visions of two entangled entities becoming one as though you were both witnessing the shadowy scene on top of being a part of it. Shaking off my distant past, I broke free from my cobwebs by standing and retrieving a newspaper. I can become such a romantic when I’m hungover; too much so. Sparking a cigarette, I opened it, only for my memory to remind me I had something else to read.
Setting down the newspaper, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the book gifted to me by my kind hitchhiker. Running my fingers over its textured green cover, I wondered what secrets were held inside. Instructions on how to survive my journey? Secrets never possessed by my kind?
Opening the book, I was struck with disappointment. Turning page after page, my excitement faded until I realized I held nothing in my hands but a glorified map, one not too dissimilar from the one in my glove compartment folded neatly beneath my stashed substances. The deserts of New Mexico and hills of Mississippi looked less than impressive on paper. Finding myself at its end, I let out a sigh and returned the tome to my pocket. Picking up the newspaper, I began reading, hoping for better news.
Castro had marched into Havana, somehow a blow to freedom in America and not Cuba. Protestors were calling for the banning of nuclear weapons across the pond in merry old England. Only three short days ago I would have disagreed with these protestors and thought them imbeciles. I still think it not unreasonable to make the argument that these bombs are not weapons; in fact, in a cruel twist of irony, one could argue that their existence is preventing death. However, drawing comparisons between Project MKUltra and The Manhattan Project, which birthed the atomic bomb, I couldn’t help but see the similarities. People had died during their creation; in the case of the atom bomb, worlds had been destroyed. Hell, President Truman was probably still trying to wash the blood off his hands, just as I was. These bombs were not something to be celebrated.
Turning the page, I found what I was looking for. News from Mississippi. Before I could start, the server was back with my coffee and water. Without any hesitation, I gulped down the water as fast as I could. The waitress shook her head and moved along. Lighting up another cigarette, I took a sip of coffee. Sometimes, coffee gave me a feeling of impending doom; today, I felt fine. Mentally and physically prepared, I began reading.
The man who had first attempted to be enrolled at Mississippi Southern College had been arrested and sentenced to seven years; on trumped-up charges no doubt. The university’s president, one Dr. William David McCain, was taking a no bullshit stance towards the whole movement. There was probably a stick shoved so far up his ass he couldn’t walk straight.
I shut the newspaper. My bacon and eggs had arrived. I nodded my head towards the server in thanks. It was worth my two quarters. As I ate, I began to contemplate my mission. I finished quickly.
My plan was simple enough; I would first try to get a job at the university and infiltrate it from the inside. With my credentials, I would have no problem. Of course, I would first have to meet with community leaders, preferably in secret. I’d always loved a good scheme. If I were to be a champion of the people, I would first have to understand them and their plight. I would no longer be dealing with academics or bureaucrats, but instead with everyday people. The old woman I’d picked up was a blessing in disguise, even if her book was near worthless. Her words had given me hope that I was on the right path.
“Are ya done?” I looked up to see the server standing over me.
“Yes.”
“Alright, that will be forty cents please.”
“Does that include the newspaper?”
“Forty-five cents.” I handed her my two quarters.
“Keep the change.” She turned and walked away without even a thank you; was she being rude on purpose, or was this just how people acted in the modern world?
Standing up, I glanced at my watch and decided it was time to get back on the road; I was halfway to my destination. The rest of the journey would be a walk in the park. Taking a step towards the doorway, I started blinking profusely. Something was wrong; slowly but surely, my vision was fading to black. It was as though all the blood in my body had rushed to my head. What had started as a few specks had become a blanket of darkness, and after a few moments I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t even think. My shoulders felt as though they couldn’t support the air above them. As I came crashing down, I knocked a ceramic plate off a nearby table. It shattered into countless pieces. Why did I have to drink that coffee?
“Sir! Sir!” I couldn’t answer. “Sir?” I stayed on the ground. I was conscious, but I couldn’t move my arms or legs. I took a deep breath. “Sir, you have to leave.” Feeling returned to my body and I managed to slowly stand using a chair for support.
“Sorry…sorry…” I managed to stutter. There was a large mirror hanging on one of the walls. Glancing over, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. I looked like my own ghost.
“No needs for sorry, just get out. I’m tired of you riff raff coming in here and messing the place up. I saw you fraternizing with that Negro out there, and I didn’t take too kindly to that. ‘Least ya didn’t bring her in. Besides, you reek of booze and shit. Be gone with yah.” A wave of anxiety rushed over me. Was this what I had become? What was I doing to myself?
Over the course of three days, I had gone from a distinguished scholar to being accused of smelling of shit. Was this a symptom of madness? No. I knew I was doing what I needed to do. It was the world that had gone mad. And I’d seen the writing on the wall.
“Get outta here! Shoo!”
Stumbling out on to the street, I basked in the fresh air. I momentarily thought of lighting up a cigarette, but I couldn’t smoke, not now. What did that bitch know anyway? She had no idea who I was, what I’d been through, what I’d accomplished; she was probably some rube who’d never stepped foot outside of Albuquerque. I opened my car door and sat down inside, slamming it behind me.
The voices in my head were flaring up once again. My old mode of thinking had returned and taken over my brain like a poison. What I’d been through? My accomplishments? I had a long list of them, the most recent being murder, and unfortunately not that of my ego. I had been naïve to think a drop of some lab-produced acid could change a man so utterly and completely. At least I wasn’t blind to it.
The judgment of others was beyond my control, and on this journey I would face it time and time again. A sore ego was the least of my worries. For now, I could lose it. Opening my glove compartment, I reached in and retrieved my soiled litmus papers. One would do for now; it would make the drive more interesting at the very least. I put one of the papers into my mouth and tossed my head backwards in a goodbye to the world.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my key and inserted it into the ignition. There was no turning back now, ego be damned. I started the engine and drove out of Albuquerque, continuing towards my vision of redemption and rescue.
IV
I couldn’t say how long I was being followed. The acid had worn off for the most part some time ago, and it was only then that I realized that the blue Oldsmobile behind me had been trailing me for what seemed like forever. The driver looked strikingly like Mr. Anderson, though I couldn’t be certain, as his size was dwarfed by the vastness of the highway. In the passenger seat sat an older gentleman who resembled the decrepit Mr. Magoo from my Saturday morning cartoons; his face (save for his oversized nose) was hardly visible above the car dashboard. In my head, the two formed a slapstick comedy duo, which I had dubbed “The Misters”.
My time on acid had been a subdued yet pleasant one. My thoughts were clear and my vision had been almost unaffected save for some kaleidoscopic shapes in the sky. Perhaps the dosage had been too low, or perhaps I was growing a tolerance to the drug; was such a thing even possible? I wasn’t sure. I’m sure the answer was buried somewhere back in Stanford. In any case, my purpose was clear. I was coming up on Dallas now, and would be entering the open arms of the hospitality state in mere hours.
The Misters had been riding my ass for the past thirty or forty miles. If they were trying to follow me stealthily, they were doing a piss poor job of it. When I had first spotted them, I had been paralyzed with fear. Surely they were sent to kill or detain me. The first hour had been excruciating; was this how my journey was to end? The more I thought about it, however, the more hilarious it became. Perhaps it was the acid still lurking within my blood stream; perhaps it was the absurdity of the entire situation. Either way, I had a smile on my face.
Mr. Magoo believed that the Texas sand was actually snow and they were moving their way through the great white north. In his mind, the peaks and ridges of the Texan desert were the towering mountains of the Alaska Range. With each passing comment, Mr. Anderson would smack him upside the head in a no nonsense kind of manner. It had continued this way for hours. On more than one occasion, Mr. Magoo had mistaken the gearshift for his cane and had attempted to dislodge it, causing the vehicle to stall and sputter. Mr. Anderson continuously shouted expletives at him as they barreled down the highway.
Chuckling to myself, I lit up a cigarette. I’d have to lose these buffoons at some point, and I’d rather it be sooner than later. I began to slow. Switching on my turn signal, I pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. The misters sped past in their Oldsmobile coupe, Anderson laying on the horn, Magoo shaking his cane out the window. Letting out a sigh of relief, I was glad they were gone for now. Using this lapse in time to my advantage, I made sure I was still on track. Opening my glove compartment, I navigated my hand past the drugs within to find my road map.
Unfolded, the map was nearly the size of my entire windshield; it was almost cartoonishly big. The thing was a nightmare to read. Cursing Rand McNally under my breath, I slowly traced my route. It seemed as though everything lined up. I was now on the interstate 20, which would take me right on through to my destination.
In the distance, I heard the sound of screeching tires. Bringing the map down from my eyes, I looked out my windshield. It was the misters, and they were racing back towards me, black smoke billowing behind them in contrast to the clear desert sky.
“Shit.” I grabbed one of the bottles of bourbon from the back seat and took a swig. This was it. I wouldn’t go out in a flash of glory or leave any legacy behind. I’d never truly loved. I hadn’t gotten my shot at redemption. I had done nothing. And was it really that bad? I took a puff of my cigarette. There was no point in fighting it. If I tried to hightail it out of here, they’d just find me in another place, in another time. I was destined to become a bullet-ridden corpse on the side of the interstate. This was my punishment.
Taking the biggest gulp of bourbon I could stomach, I let out a laugh. Surely Anderson would do the deed; he wouldn’t trust Magoo with a firearm. The duo was getting close now. Taking a deep breath, I slowly folded my map back up and put it in the glove compartment.
While just days before I had been terrified by the prospect of death, now I was relatively calm. For a split second the possibilities crept into my mind. In death, would I have to explain myself to my maker and to the boy I’d killed? Would I be greeted by the patchwork of light and darkness I’d seen at the onset of my hellish vision? Would I be omniscient, all seeing and all knowing? Some things I didn’t want to know.
Faced with infinite options, there was no point in contemplating further. No point in prayer. I would have an answer soon enough. The Oldsmobile sped past my Chevrolet, then quickly pulled a U-turn and pulled off the road behind me. This had all been a mistake. My journey of nonviolent beginnings would be met with a violent end.
Reaching upwards, I fiddled with my rearview mirror so I could see exactly what was going on behind me. The passenger door of the Oldsmobile opened and Magoo stepped out. He was just as short as I’d imagined h