Steve placed his beer glass down on the little napkin, “September 30th? Do you know about that date?”
“Sure do. James Dean died when he crashed his Porsche up in the Central Valley, September 30th, 1955; my birthday. Actually, he died, and I was born minutes apart—between 5 p.m. and 6 p.m. Another beer?”
“No kidding! Two Hoosiers, one going and the other coming at the same time? No thanks, I have to drive back to Julian in a couple of hours, so I’ll just finish this one.”
“I need another, too much garlic in this Kung Pao Chicken without more beer,” as he signaled the waitress for another Ching Tao. “Do you think the food quality has slipped since we’ve been coming here? I need too much beer to wash it down, lately. Anyway, the story is that a guy turned left in front of him on some lonely farm-country road, and it was a left-front to left-front, head-on. Dean was on his way to a race he planned on driving in the next day.”
“I didn’t know any of that. I was thinking more about Truman Capote being born then,” Steve said. “Not 1955, but 1924.”
“Why were you thinking about Capote?”
Steve glanced at his fortune cookie strip and balled it up into a little wad before dropping it into his beer bottle. “Nothing important, I just watched a replay of ‘In Cold Blood’ the other night on TBS and they had some information about his life at the end of the movie.”
As he leaned away, allowing room for the waitress to deliver his new beer, Jim asked, “Not a happy way to spend an evening. Did you watch it with Ali?”
“No, she said, ‘No way am I watching that again . . . ever!’” Steve said, feigning masking his eyes with both hands.
“I don’t blame her. I’d rather watch ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ for the tenth time than that.”
“You a big Dean fan?”
“It’s funny. I’d never heard anything about him until I was fourteen years old, when I started watching old movies that used to play after the eleven o’clock news, you know? I watched that movie one of those nights and got hooked on how he looked and with his acting. So nonchalant and cool, but burning up inside with all kinds of tension and passion. I wanted to be cool like that. So I started wearing a ducktail haircut, an unlit cigarette hanging out of my mouth, and everything—at fourteen! But that style didn’t make it later on in the sixties and seventies. People were all gone on the Beatles and Stones by then. But I was still hooked on oldies before they were oldies: Little Richard, Elvis, Chuck Berry, those guys. I guess I’ve always been a little out of step.”
“So, what are you going to do when you retire? Play golf?”
Jim slid his chair away from the table to allow enough room for him to cross his long legs, “Jesus, I hope not! Work on my motorcycles, drive them around the country . . . you know, whatever I feel like doing when I get up that morning.”
“Got a bucket list?”
“Fuck that! I’m not thinking about stuff like that! I figure that’s when I’m going to be born again—not dying. And I don’t mean that in the religious sense; I mean it’s when I become whoever I’ve always supposed to have been.”
“Yeah . . . I can understand that. But, don’t you have a few things you’ve always wanted to do when you can just say, ‘screw it, I’m gonna do this or that?’”
“Yeah, I have a couple of those. One is to drive my Porsche up to Cholame where Dean died that day and, even though I don’t smoke anymore, light up and smoke a cigarette, stand there, hands in my hip pockets, slouching a little, and think of him and Natalie Wood. If I have a shirt with a collar on, maybe I’ll turn it up a little in the back. If it’s a cold day, I’ll wear a black leather jacket. Or maybe I’ll ride one of my motorcycles up there. He loved riding cycles.”
“Are you going to do it on your birthday, September 30th?”
With a frown, “No, too many people will be up there on that day. I’ll do it soon after I retire.”
“What else?”
Jim leaned forward, and enthusiastically said, “A long motorcycle trip. I’m thinking about retracing the ‘Easy Rider’ route from L.A. to New Orleans, but without the Death Valley part. Too damn hot on a motorcycle for that, and I never understood why that leg was included, anyway.”
A surprised, envious look came over Steve’s face as he said, “That would be cool. Loved that movie. Nicolson, Hopper, Fonda, Karen Black . . . .”
“Yeah, and the music. In ’69, when that movie first played, I was fourteen and looking for something I wasn’t sure I understood. And I was still looking when I left Indiana to join the Marines out here in ’73.”
“Sounds like being a fourteen-year-old teenager in ’69 was a big year for you: first seeing ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ on late-night TV, and then ‘Easy Rider’?”
“Yeah. The world changed for me the day I saw ‘Easy Rider’.”
“Ha, me too. I left Ohio for a new job out here just after that movie came out. I didn’t like my job back there and had been looking for something better. Better was California and microcircuit design—and the lifestyle. So tell me, what was it about that movie that made you feel that way? The motorcycles?”
A wistful look came over Jim’s face as he folded his arms across this chest. “Maybe. It certainly wasn’t the story line or dialogue—which was all kind of juvenile. It was the music—the folk-rock coming out of L.A. and San Fran back then. I’d been hearing some of it on the radio before that—but wasn’t into it. I guess it was the whole thing; the music combined with the bikes and the scenes when they were riding through the west . . . . The coolness of it all melded together in a way that I’ve never been able to forget. Peter Fonda replaced Brando for me—right then. I wanted to feel like I thought those guys felt—seemed to feel, anyway—and live where there are mountains and deserts and oceans. And I wanted to be where that music was being created. Indiana didn’t have anything like that: nothing but country and western—and cornfields that went on forever.”
“Yeah—same thing for me—the sixties and going to California. Fabulous times.”
Jim frowned, “But—you know they all hated each other after they made that film—trying to claim who wrote it, who produced it, who directed it; blah, blah, blah. Too bad—I lost some respect for them after I read about that. Hollywood greed, I guess.”
“Tough—they all got rich off it! Well look, Jim—old friend; its one-thirty and I’ve got a conference call with a client. When are you going to tell the company?”
“Soon as I get back.” As he stood to leave, Jim asked, “Hey, what did your fortune cookie say?”
Steve looked perplexed, trying to remember, then said, ‘“Your turn to help old friends will be soon.’ What the hell do you think that means?”
“Same thing, whatever you want it to. Give Ali a hug for me.”
“Will do.”
Jim did as he promised Steve that same day. He worked out a four-week departure with a fat going-away bonus for his innovative work on a new satellite data coding system—and the early retirement package. He never gave it a second thought.
At home that evening he decided to celebrate with a bike ride somewhere the next day—Saturday. Destination yet to be decided.
I wonder if that Penny gal would like to go along . . . .
Five - Idyllwild
When she heard the Harley growling up Highland Valley Road—a few hundred feet below the cabin, and then turning onto Starvation Mountain Road—Penny walked out onto the weathered, broken boards of the little stoop that served as the cabin’s front porch. Pulling her sleeping shirt tightly around her legs with one hand she watched as Jim slid onto the gravel driveway leading to the cabin.
“Hey—Penny—thought I’d drive up and see you. I’m going out riding today and wonder if you want to come along.”
“Hi Jim—so you ride Harleys too? Didn’t think BMW riders would stoop to ride American iron.”
“Actually, they’re my first love. I rode little 125cc Harleys before I was fifteen back on Indiana farm
roads. But I have others too: the BMW, a Honda, Suzuki, an old Triumph, and a BSA. So, do you want to come along?”
“God, yes. I need some fresh air. You are the right man at the right time.” Penny said, emphasizing the are.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but I like it. Ride with me, or do you want to ride yours?”
“I’ll ride mine . . . I mean, you know, the one that’s on loan to me.”
“Okay, let’s go to Idyllwild.”
“I’ll put some jeans on and be ready in a flash.”
Jim admired her legs, exposed well above her knees, as she twirled around, releasing her grip on the tee shirt to open the screen door. He imagined her wearing nothing under the tee shirt. Van Morrison filled his head: Do you remember when we used to sing, sha la la la la la, brown- eyed girl . . . .
She did know how to ride a big, powerful bike. Penny handled it effortlessly through traffic on the I-15 freeway to Temecula where they turned off, east-bound on the two-lane road traversing high desert country to the little community of homes clustered around a convenience store-gas station called Aguanga. After Aguanga, the road became a fun and scenic route through the higher desert country leading to the mountains of the Cleveland National Forest, southwest of Palm Springs.
A fast rest stop for a bottle of water at a little restaurant near the Pacific Coast Trail, full of hikers getting hot food and a fast hot-water wash-up, and they were on the final leg of their trip, through the sparse pine forest and past Lake Hemet at the southern foot of Mount San Jacinto. It had been an easy ride to the little mountain community of Idyllwild, with Jim marveling at Penny’s skill at motorcycle riding. He’d made a point of riding behind her to see how she handled the Harley; watching her hand motions on the throttle and brake to see how early she noticed potential road hazards like wet or sandy surfaces, blind intersections, or dangerous traffic conditions, and how she reacted to them all. Her reactions told him she had years of riding experience.
Sitting in an outdoor patio at a little Bavarian-style restaurant overlooking the downtown Idyllwild area, Jim asked Penny how she became a skilled cycle rider.
“Had to if I didn’t want to spend weekends alone. I married a guy after college who was a weekend Harley rider. You know, the closet biker types who are bankers, lawyers, and business owners who like to feel a little wild on weekends? Bruce was one of those types.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t want to ride on the back all the time, and so you learned to ride your own bike.”
“Riding on the back is okay for short distances, but it makes me too nervous.”
“Because you’re not in control?”
“Yeah, scares the shit out of me, actually. You see cars coming in from the side and wonder if he sees it too. Or you see a wet spot up ahead and wonder if he’s going to miss it . . . . Lots of stuff that made me want to have my own hands on the bars and controls . . . even though he was a good rider.”
“Was?” Jim immediately regretted asking the question. Eyes closed in apology, “Sorry . . . I don’t want to be intrusive.”
“It’s okay, it’s been a long time. Was—until the big accident. It nearly killed me, and he was killed,” Penny said, emphasizing was.
“Jesus! What happened?”
“Jerk started a left turn in front of us. Bruce was riding just off the centerline and didn’t have time to move to the right. I was on my Harley, behind and to Bruce’s right, which gave me a little time to move over. The car driver claimed he didn’t see us coming, and that we were going too fast for him to stop in time to avoid us. It’s the standard bullshit excuse.”
“Yes, I know. Seems like that’s the cause of most motorcycle accidents.”
“And that’s another thing that had me riding my own bike. I want to be right in the middle of my lane so I have time to react to shit happening on either my left or right.”
“How bad were you hurt?”
Penny closed her eyes, taking a minute to breathe, “Very bad. I glanced off the idiot’s left fender and hit a tree: broken arms, broken leg, fractured pelvis, bruised kidney . . . . About the only thing that wasn’t broken was my head. But, Bruce always bought the best helmets; so, you know, if you’re lucky your head’s okay; it’s just the rest of you that’s all fucked up. He went through the car’s windshield and died in the backseat of the jerk’s car with a broken neck.”
“I’m sorry Penny. I didn’t know my questions would take us there. I’m surprised you still ride.”
“That took a long while.”
His interest increasing, Jim asked, “What made you go back?”
“The freedom. I was just holing up at home or working all the time. I wasn’t having any fun. You know how it is, when a marriage ends, most friendships end too? I felt like I was dead.”
Jim nodded and said, “Makes you wonder about those friends . . . .” He listened as Penny went on.
“One night I was sitting up, sipping a Jack on the rocks and watching movies, when a replay of ‘Easy Rider’ came on the Turner movie channel. I watched it and realized I needed to find that feeling of freedom again. My repaired Harley was still sitting out in the garage, so I went in there and just sat on it that same night. Must have sat on it for half an hour, imagining the wind in my face, the power under my seat, that leaning into the curves feeling again, and the pull of the road. I was out riding it the next day.”
Jim smiled, “‘Easy Rider!’ Jesus, I have a story about that movie, too.”
“Ha, I think everybody does. It was one of those movies that captured a whole generation. I think we’re two peas from the same pod, James.”
“Yeah, avocado trees, Jack Daniels, motorcycles, what else . . . ?”
“We’ll have to find out,” she said with a friendly, pretty smile and teasing eyes.
“Ha! Maybe those two peas should get back together—in that same pod? So okay, Penny, I’ve just decided to tell you something. I don’t want to be too pushy, and forgive me if this sounds it, but . . . .” Jim hesitated, not sure if he should mention it.
“But, what?”
“I’m taking early retirement in four weeks and I’ve been thinking about doing something soon after that for a long time now.”
“What is it? Tell me.”
“I’m thinking about retracing the ‘Easy Rider’ route, following old route 66 from L.A. to New Orleans on my Harley.”
Penny’s eyes opened wide, “Oh, my God! I’d love to do that. Are you going to ask me to come along?”
“Well, I was thinking you might be interested. And I can see you’re a good enough rider to do it, but it’s at least four days each way. Is your butt seat-hardened enough for that?”
“I don’t know, it’s been a long time since I’ve ridden all day.”
“And this will be day, after day, after day. You wouldn’t want to get two or three days out and find yourself with seat sores or a backache and have to give up.”
“I know. Then I’d have to ride back, alone . . . .”
“Okay, so here’s an idea; I’m thinking about a long one-day trip, or maybe two shorter days, next weekend. If you want to go along, you can see how it feels.”
Intrigue showing in her eyes, “Hmmmm, that might be a good idea. Where are you going?”
“Up in the Central Valley to a place called Cholame. It’s around three hundred miles. Do you want another coffee?”
“No, I’ll just get a bottle of water for the trip back. Central Valley? Nothing but farms and flat roads. Doesn’t sound like a fun ride . . . why are you going there?”
“Okay, don’t laugh, now. I’ve been wanting to go up to the place where James Dean got killed in a car crash for years. There’s a little memorial there where people passing by stop to pay their respects. Some even make a special trip each year to be there on the day he died in 1955.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about that. Like people go to Paris to see Jim Morrison’s grave! Why do you have such a fascination with Dean?
He was a long time ago.”
“Long time ago . . . yes, I hate to think of it that way. I was born on the same day he died in 1955. Sometimes I think a little of him passed through me as I was coming into the world and he was going out. Sort of like ships passing in the dark, blinking their spotlights at each other, I guess. I’ve always wanted to go up there and see if I feel anything . . . I don’t know . . . mystical or something, I guess.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that you’re old. I can understand what you’re after with this. Do you believe in reincarnation? Is this a reincarnation thing?”
“I didn’t take it that you meant I’m old, hon. But it does remind me that time is passing. No, I don’t believe in reincarnation. But I’d like to think I have a little James Dean in me.”
“You do? Why, what would you like that to be?”
“Independent. Making it on my own. Living on the edge . . . . Doesn’t everyone want that: not living a boring, routine life?”
Penny looked surprised and said, “Independent I can see. Edgy . . . I’m not sure about that. You don’t seem like the edgy type to me.”
“You didn’t know me in my Bay Area days . . . .”
With rolling eyes, “Yes, and I don’t think I’ll ask about that, either. But I don’t see you as a person from that ’50s generation—the beats, and all that. Influenced by it maybe, but not from it. And I like you calling me, hon,” she said, blushing a little.
“Okay, what about the ride? Do you want to come along?”
A weekend trip with a man I hardly know? But he has an honest voice and those warm, friendly eyes. And he always keeps his eyes in eye-contact with mine; no man-scanning my body. I’ve done worse, and I’ll have my own wheels . . . .
Starvation Mountain Page 3
