“You’re right. I’m not. This ain’t New York. Honey, do me a favor. Do that for me?”
“Do what?”
“When you have an observation like that. Let me know.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No really. Be honest. I can handle it.”
“Okay. You asked for it.”
“Should we go downtown?” Paul said as they approached the exit for downtown L.A. “It looks a lot like New York.”
“This highway ends at Santa Monica, let’s go to the end of the road.”
“I like that. Take it all the way.”
The highway dumped them a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica just as twilight was approaching. Paul was paranoid about parking the Escape on the street with the car and roof rack filled with luggage so he pulled into a parking lot with an attendant.
“Do me a favor,” he said to the middle-aged Hispanic man wearing a pressed white shirt and black trousers, “Can you please keep an eye on my car while we walk around? I’ll give you an extra ten dollars.”
“Of course. But no extra charge, señor! Park right here. Let me move this cone.”
“Gracias, mi amigo!” Paul turned to Tracy and whispered, “We are definitely not in New York anymore.”
The attendant gave them walking directions to the Santa Monica Pier, only a couple blocks away. There it was, with its retro neon sign archway welcoming all to SANTA MONICA – YACHT HARBOR – SPORT FISHING – BOATING – CAFES. There was also a Route 66 sign that read END OF THE TRAIL.
“Man, I could just see Sam Spade walking down here in the Forties, going to grab some oysters and a boilermaker,” Paul said, feeling the wooden planks creak under his feet on the pier.
“Boilermaker? What’s that?”
“A shot of whiskey with a beer chaser. You never heard of that?”
“Nope.”
“Actually that’s a good thing. I knew what a boilermaker was when I was fifteen. Don’t ask me how I knew, either. Wow, check out this merry-go-round!”
Paul and Tracy went on the carousel, played some carnival games, and went on the Ferris wheel. He couldn’t help but feel a certain sadness that he was doing this with Tracy when she was pretty much a grown woman, not eight or nine. They were quiet as the giant Ferris wheel rose to its zenith and probably a hundred miles of coast line was in view, with the sun setting into the ocean. Paul could still see the little girl in her that he mostly saw in photos and fleeting moments over the past 20 years. He could also see her mother in so much of what she was. The mysterious look on her face as she gazed silently into the distance. He wondered if she also would snap one day, and become a stranger to everyone around her. An uncontrollable whirlwind of bad choices and self-destructive behavior. All he could do was hope. And pray she wouldn’t.
“What else do you want to see? Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Dodger Stadium?” Paul asked as they maneuvered through the crowd on the Third Street Promenade, a busy pedestrian mall of bars, restaurants, and street performers a couple of blocks from the beach.
“I’d really rather hit the road, and get to where we’re going.”
“Sure, babe. Whatever you want. Do you mind if we just go in here, maybe grab a quick bite?” They were in front of a bar with crowded sidewalk tables and television sets turned to sports.
“Okay,” Tracy reluctantly agreed.
Paul wondered how she subsisted on lettuce, energy bars, and bottled water. He needed a burger and fries and maybe a beer. Or two. Maybe a few.
On the way back to the car after dinner, Paul could sense Tracy was mad. She stared straight ahead and he could see the tension in her jaw as she clenched it tightly. He figured it would blow over once they got on the road.
“Give me the keys!” She demanded, stopping a few feet from the lot entrance.
“What?”
“I’m driving!”
“What’s this all about?”
“You’ve been drinking!”
“I had three Coors Lights. Are you serious? You can just simmer down and –”
“What happened to me being brutally honest with you?”
Paul did the simmering down. He figured what the hell. “Okay, you are correct. Here are the choices: you drive in the dark a hundred miles and get into Palm Springs late at night, or we get a room near here and get a fresh start in the morning.”
A slight crooked smile appeared on Tracy’s face. “Let’s spend the night and start in the morning. I still want to drive to the hotel.”
Paul dropped the keys into her outstretched palm.
The garage attendant was thrilled at the extra ten bucks Paul gave him, and they were on their way. Paul was shocked to learn from Yelp that the cheapest motel they could find nearby was $200 a night at a Best Western a few blocks away, but that would have to do.
After a good night’s sleep they were already backtracking on the I-10 eastbound, headed for the southern California desert, which they knew absolutely nothing about. Once they passed downtown L.A., the eastbound 10 reminded Paul of the Long Island Expressway after emerging from the Midtown Tunnel and into Queens. Miles of industrial parks, shopping malls, and tract housing. But just like the L.I.E., once they traveled around 50 miles things began to change drastically, although in a very different way from what you’d see on Long Island. Huge mountains seemed to appear out of nowhere. And suburbs transitioned into rural landscapes with rolling hills and horse farms, with the occasional cluster of housing developments and mega malls. But at the 90-mile mark, they were in awe at the sight fast approaching.
“Oh my God! I think we’re being attacked by the Transformers! I mean look at this! It’s like something from outer space,” Paul said amazed at the gargantuan field of windmill turbines that stretched for miles in front of them and on both sides of the freeway. “I heard of these things, but up close, they are startling! And ugly!”
It was a bizarre welcome to the Coachella Valley, home to Palm Springs and other desert cities. Like a futuristic forest of gigantic spindly robots, they gazed at the ginormous turbines slowly turning like some alien pasture of giant robotic pinwheels.
“It’s really otherworldly,” Tracy said, slowing panning across the landscape.
“I expected desolation out here, and we’re in the middle of a freakin’ Futurama nightmare!”
And while they were enthralled with this spectacle of human technological wonder, or perhaps blunder, they didn’t notice that the exterior temperature gauge on the dashboard had crept up to 109 degrees.
“What’s our exit?” Paul asked, while Tracy checked the map on her phone.
“Gene Autry Trail.”
“What? Gene Autry Trail? Should we watch out for Indians?”
“Who’s Gene Autry?”
“Who’s …? Never mind, I keep forgetting I’m a hundred five years old. He was a cowboy actor in old movies, and the original owner of the Angels,” Paul said, noticing the blank look on Tracy’s face. “The Angels are a baseball team. The Los Angeles Angels. But they don’t play in Los Angeles. It’s a long story. And he sang “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”
“Now that I heard of!”
“What happens after we exit the freeway?”
“Oh, Heidi said take it for a while, until Dinah Shore Drive, make a left, and….”
“Don’t tell me, make a right on Frank Sinatra Way.”
“No, make a right on Frank Sinatra Drive. How did you know?”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No. I’m serious.”
“By the way, where are we going exactly? Whose house and what are you doing there?”
“Heidi and some friends rented a condo. There’s a big festival this week in Palm Springs, and Heidi took a few days off so we could hang out.”
“Okay, then what?”
“Then what, what?”
“What are you doing again?
“I’m going to room with Heidi at her place in Twentynine Palms and
she’s going to help me get settled and find a job. She said I could probably work where she works.”
“Driving an ambulance?”
“Not right away. Something else with the … company.”
Paul let that go. He wasn’t going to pry or pull daddy rank on her. She’s twenty-one, he thought to himself. She can do whatever the hell she wants. “Damn, this street is like going through the Sahara! Look at this! A freakin’ tumbleweed. An actual tumbleweed, tumbling across the road on Gene Autry Trail. Nobody at The Buckeye would believe this.”
After a mile or two, suddenly there was green everywhere. Lawns, trees, shrubbery, and even an emerald golf course. On both sides of the road were housing developments with high walls and manned security gates to enter the property.
“Is it one of these?”
“It’s called the Desert Sky Resort. There it is! What are you going to do for the next few days, dad?”
“I was wondering when that would come up. I’m not sure. Isn’t Joshua Tree around here?”
“Oh, that was that U2 album!”
“Very good! Something we both can share! Yeah, it’s Joshua Tree National Park. Maybe I’ll kick around there a few days, and we’ll decide later what we’ll do.”
They pulled into the driveway of the Desert Sky Resort, which looked like all the other developments built around a golf course for the surrounding ten square miles or so. The guard gave them directions to the house. They passed tennis courts, an outdoor café, people on bike paths, golfers in carts, and a swimming pool.
“Is it me, or is it like 90 percent women around here?”
“This is it, I’ll text her!” Tracy said excitedly as she thumbed her message outside the unit they were looking for.
The door to the house flew open, and a young African-American woman in camo cargo shorts and a green tank top came running down the walkway towards Tracy. Paul didn’t really pay attention, because he had work to do. He had to find Tracy’s luggage, boxes, and stuff she had left scattered around the car.
Had he been paying attention, he would have seen Tracy and Heidi in a joyful, sweet, embrace. Not of just two good friends meeting after a few months of separation. But the reunion of two people very much in love.
Paul looked over from undoing the bungee cords on the roof rack just as they were walking towards the vehicle.
“Dad, this is Heidi, and Heidi this is my dad,” Tracy said, trying to dampen the emotional temperature in 109 degree heat.
Heidi was a solid young woman. Five foot five, a good 140 pounds, with a short, neat afro cut. Heidi’s grin was wide, her teeth gleaming white, and her smiling eyes clear and bright. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Santo, sir.”
“Call me Paul,” he said shaking hands. He immediately noticed a firm handshake. She was wearing a tank top and he noticed her defined muscles. She reminded Paul of some of the fine woman he had served with on the police force. “Nice to meet you! I can’t believe how hot is here! Man, I’ve been outside for a minute and I’m sweating like a pig outside a bacon factory. Here, start taking this stuff inside. You’re from Herkimer, Heidi?”
“Yes, sir. Born and bred. I moved out here a few years ago after high school,” she said, taking hold of a large box. “You get used to the heat. I don’t think I could take another upstate New York winter.”
“Heidi, I wanted to check out Joshua Tree? Is that worth doing?”
“Absolutely, sir! That’s the high desert. Only about 45 minutes away, but it’s magical.”
“Magical? I thought it was rocks and cactus? Why’s that?” All three had armloads of boxes and bags and walked towards the house.
“Well, there’s the amazing sky, the quiet, the hidden desert life, the ancient Native American spirits, the mystery of it all.”
“What mystery? Like Agatha Christie mystery? What?”
“Don’t worry dad. You’re not going there as a detective.”
“Just go up there and explore. You’ll see,” Heidi said, winking. “Stay at the Joshua Tree Inn. Stay in the Gram Parsons room.”
“Gram Parsons? The Flying Burrito Brothers guy who hung out with Keith Richards and overdosed, then they stole his body and cremated it in the desert? They made a movie about that.”
“That’s it. There’s a lot to explore. It can expand your mind,” Heidi said, with the look of someone who knew what she was talking about.
“Where can we get something to eat?” Paul asked, after putting down the last of Tracy’s boxes.
“Do you like Jewish delis?” Heidi asked.
“You’re kidding, right? Let’s go!”
Sherman’s Deli wasn’t exactly Katz’s on East Houston Street near Paul’s old precinct, one of the best Jewish delis in New York, but it wasn’t too far off the mark, albeit this was 3,000 miles west of Houston Street. Tracy and Heidi were catching up with things and Paul kept his distance throughout the meal. He realized that he had just entered Tracy’s life in the last five minutes and to try and influence her at this point would probably just tick her off. So he listened to their small talk about old friends, and of course about Tracy’s mom, grandma, and aunt. Paul’s cop skills were honing in fast. He knew that Tracy and Heidi were tight. Tracy was opening up to her like she hadn’t done with him. But still he knew there was something that both were holding back. He didn’t care. Heidi seemed like a good kid. Better than that; she seemed great. He felt Tracy made a good choice of friends and felt a little better about this whole crazy adventure.
“Well, I’ll drop you guys off at the house and be on my way,” Paul said after signing the credit card bill. “I’m heading to the high desert. You know what they say, adventure before dementia!”
The mention of Gram Parsons by Heidi a little earlier caused Paul to do some deep brain digging. He was a fan of The Byrds and the Flying Burrito Bros., and knew that Keith Richards and Gram were tight at one point. But after Gram’s death from an overdose, his legend morphed into myth. Paul saw the movie based on the aftermath of Gram’s untimely death in a high desert motel room, where a friend stole his body from an airport prior to being transported to New Orleans for burial. The friend claimed that Gram had stated he wanted to be cremated in Joshua Tree at the very spot where they used to camp while waiting for UFO’s, Indian spirits, and a myriad of hallucinogenic drugs to take effect. The movie was a strange one, but it added to the mythology of Parsons. He remembered shortly after the movie was released he went out and bought a CD that had two of Gram’s solo albums, GP and Grievous Angel. He pulled the car over on a sandy shoulder on the long stretch of two-lane blacktop that led back to the interstate. He was sure it was in a box he hastily threw several dozen of his favorite CD’s into that he thought could get him through just about anything, and there it was! He hadn’t listened to it in ages, but something told him the right time to play it would present itself. Like throwing a Swiss army knife in a backpack before a trip. You don’t know why you would need it, but you know you are going to. He slid it into his dashboard CD player and the unmistakable sound of fiddle and classic country rock blasted out of the speakers to the tune of “Still Feeling Blue.” It struck Paul that this was why he had thrown the old CD into his box.
His Escape threw a cloud of dust behind him as he spun his tires getting back onto the road towards the interstate. He headed west on the 10 towards the 62, which would head north around the western edge of Joshua Tree National Park. The 62 was also called Twentynine Palms Highway, which led to Twentynine Palms, which was also one of the nation’s largest Marine bases. The desert was a natural training environment for those destined for the Mideast wars of Afghanistan, Iraq, and wherever the hell else barbarians trying to turn the clock of civilization back a thousand years rear their ugly heads and start beheading infidels, which happen to be mostly other Muslims of a different variety. You know, kind of like how the Lutherans and Baptists argue over who has the better music programs during service.
Back in the middle of the Futurama world of
ginormous windmills, with only about a third of them slowly spinning, he took the exit off the I-10 and headed north on Twentynine Palms Highway towards Joshua Tree. The windmills disappeared behind him, and then there was just hardscrabble, dirt, dust, and the occasional yucca tree. In the distance he could see small cabins on top of rocky hills seemingly in the middle of nowhere and he wondered why the hell anybody would live in such a remote, desolate, God-forsaken place?
Straight ahead a few miles he could see formidable mountains. And as he approached them it became clear that the mountains weren’t the verdant sort, like the Adirondacks of upstate New York. Nor were they like the hills above Los Angeles dotted with many varieties of trees. These were mostly covered with just small shrubs and dirt. But the mountains themselves looked more like something out of the Flintstones. Giant brown boulders piled on top of each other and huge stone slabs shooting up at angles. And suddenly the flat highway veered into a steep mountain pass worthy of any John Ford western where the Indians look down on the wagon train from high above the pass. The road kept winding and climbing and snaking up and around and his ears popped, so he knew he was gaining some serious altitude. He felt sorry for the cars in the opposite direction, going downhill, with giant big rigs too close behind. In addition to the increasing altitude, he noticed that the temperature was dropping with every mile or so; it was 109 when he last checked on the flat land, and now it was down to 101. On both sides of the steep two-lane was nothing but rocks: big rocks, gigantic rocks, small rocks, tiny rocks, and mountains of rock.
Paul opened the window when the temperature dropped to 99, and a woosh of hot, dry wind swept through the vehicle. It had a dusty smell to it, as though the air was filled with microscopic-sized rocks. He was making a sharp swooping upward turn around a bend when suddenly he saw things growing out of the dirt and rock. They looked familiar. Yes! Appearing all at once was a small forest of Joshua trees, just like the one on the U2 album cover. He wondered why they appeared so suddenly: Was it the air? The dirt? Or something magical?
After about ten miles on this incline he could see he was coming to the top of what must be a plateau. There were businesses on both side of the highway every few hundred feet. A gas station, a feed store, a tire-repair shop, an Indian-themed junk store, and it seemed between almost every business there were these small abandoned sheds in various stages of disrepair and decay. And up ahead there was yet another long and winding road that went up and up and up probably another thousand feet higher. The Joshua trees were almost everywhere. Growing like those weedy “Trees-of-Heaven” that grow all over New York City, sometimes even out of the sides of brick and concrete apartment buildings.
High Desert High Page 7
