The more I dwell on it, the more of a downer it all is. It doesn’t help that I think Juan is another downer, but I will go along with it anyway; after all, Dad is the one in charge.
We pick up Juan around the corner, where he is waiting with an army green duffel bag and his mirror shades. He thinks he is so cool, and it makes me laugh. Terry shoots me a glance that says, Knock it off, Dawn, but I laugh again anyway, kicking back in my seat up front.
Everything looks so run down around our old streets as we cruise through the neighborhood, and I am glad to be getting out. On the left is the old Kwik Check, where we shopped for groceries with Grandma. It is completely dilapidated now, badly needing a paint job, broken shopping carts lying strewn about in the parking lot. On the right we pass the local 7-Eleven, where I hung out with my girlfriends and spent nights sitting in our guy friends’ souped-up GTO, trying to act tough and cool. At the intersection comes Burger King, the site of my first job. The bright orange and yellow building obnoxiously marks the on-ramp onto the Palmetto Expressway, the highway out of this hell.
The Florida Turnpike is only a short distance off the expressway, giving us a straight shot north past the Everglades on our left, Lake Okeechobee on the right, and miles and miles of rolling hills with lots of orange trees in between.
Juan keeps the joints burning, wanting to maintain the party spirit and to show off for Dad. This eases Dad’s pain and makes him happy. I do my “fake inhale” act, which I have long since perfected, trying to keep up with Juan’s excess, and it works well after the first couple of good tokes. I want to be cool too yet still maintain enough sobriety to avoid falling over immobile and completely stoned.
Eventually, Terry and Juan fall asleep on the extra sleeping bags stuffed between them in the backseat, and the smoky air clears up a bit. Through a glassy-eyed haze, I watch the Suwannee River buzz past. Dad keeps to the west, staying in the Florida panhandle through Tallahassee, and by dinner we stop at an overnight campsite in the Seminole State Park.
Camping outside in the warm, tropical summer weather seems to me the perfect way to say good-bye to my old life. I stare at the stars, bright even with the waning light of dusk at their backs, and I eat my bologna sandwich.
Facing a western horizon and my future, I fall asleep wrapped in the warm colors of sunset.
Oklahoma is where we will camp next. We pass through Alabama, Mississippi, and Arkansas as quickly as we can. In an area where he has heard a lot of racism exists, Juan is getting nervous about being a Hispanic man with a bag of pot down his pants.
We are all a bit nervous, but Dad and I still have fun teasing him as we head out of these states. “Hey, Juan! Get down—quick! There’s a cop!”
Juan’s brown face turns pale, and he falls quickly onto the backseat. He stays down low until we start to laugh.
“Quit it, you guys,” Terry scolds. “That’s not funny.” But the tears stream down our cheeks, and our sides ache from the joke.
The pot keeps our laughter strong as we enter into the boring safety of the country’s plains. Miles and miles of wheat and flatlands make the afternoon sun unbearable. We have no air-conditioning, and it doesn’t help that Juan is running out of grass.
The radio plays the same top-ten hits over and over. Even though we are glad Oklahoma plays more rock ‘n’ roll than the rest of the Southern states, we are slow to jump into our enthusiastic “air guitar” motions when Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” takes its turn. We are tired of singing, “really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree,” the best line in the Steve Miller Band’s song “Joker,” and we get grumpy.
I can tell Dad is weary of being at the wheel for so long, and I am pissed off too that Juan has lied about having a driver’s license. He lies about how much pot and money he has as well, telling Dad he is about to run out only after we are well on our way. No wonder he’s so scared, I think.
We find another cheap campground in the western part of Oklahoma, and for dinner we load up on bread, lunch meat, and sodas. I am glad to be close to the Texas border, hoping its scenery will be more exciting, and I settle down to go to sleep. Again, the summer sky is beautiful. Purples and pinks, yellows and magentas blaze vividly as we watch, mesmerized by the colors fading into darkness on the huge curve of the Oklahoma horizon.
The landscape in the northern tip of Texas is just as dreary, and the music much worse. Country music plays on every radio station, but Dad says this is to be expected here in the cowboy capital of the country. It is 1976, our country’s bicentennial: two hundred years since the Declaration of Independence was signed. This is a special year. We all know we won’t be alive to see another celebration of history like this one, so we focus on this moment in time, even if the music is a drag.
The mood in the car is still uptight, though. It’s obvious that Dad’s face is causing him a lot of pain, and it frustrates him to have to change the bandages every day while on the road. To top it off, we smoked our last joint in Oklahoma, and everyone is feeling ridden hard and bummed.
Terry and Juan are crashed in the backseat, drooling and snoring loudly. Sleep seems to me the best way to get through Texas, so I try to doze off, but Dad doesn’t want me to.
“You asleep, Dawn?” he teases whenever he sees me nod off.
“Hmm? No, I’m awake,” I lie, my neck sore from snapping to attention. “Hey, look! Right on! There’s New Mexico!” I finally announce, making the border call loud enough to wake both Terry and Juan.
“Far out! Finally!” Their heads pop up from the backseat.
New Mexico is much better. Once we are in the state awhile, the scenery is overwhelming. Massive multicolored rock formations appear out of nowhere and seem to follow us for miles along the highway. We gawk out of the windows as we travel through the most amazing state parks.
The music gets better too, thank God! Radio stations now play rock ‘n’ roll again with some groovy new tunes that send our “air guitar'” strings flying wild again. Our spirits are lifted as we cruise on Interstate 40 and head for Albuquerque, then continue west through the southwestern part of New Mexico.
We are relieved that the monotony of Middle America is behind us, and when Arizona’s border call is made, we are all hoots and hollers. “California, here we come!” we chant, laughing at the cliché.
Flower power, peace, and love are everywhere. Dad especially relates to these emotions because of Vietnam, he tells us. Hitchhikers flash us the letter V with their fingers as peace signs to prove, “Hey, it’s cool, man,” even if we don’t stop to pick them up.
Some of them look desperately needy, and out of sympathy, I ask Dad why we can’t give one a ride.
“Ehhh,” he says, shrugging it off, “it’s too much trouble.”
He’s probably right, I think.
Then, as if he’s had a second thought, Dad asks, “Why? You think any of them have weed?”
“Hey! That’s a good idea!” I perk up. “I’m not sure. Maybe…We’d have to check ‘em out to see.” I point to an approaching hitchhiker. “Look, there’s one!”
“Ooooh, let’s take a look at him.” Dad sits up in his seat. “What do you think? Quick—does he got any?”
I wait until the car gets closer, and then I lean toward the window to look at our prospective passenger. “Uhhhh, nawww, nope!” we conclude simultaneously as our car whisks past a straitlaced-looking young man.
“He looked like metro,” I tell him, using a Florida term for the police. “Did you see his hair? Too short.”
Dad agrees. We keep the search going for many miles into Arizona and eventually turn it into a driving game.
“What about him? Nawwww, nope!” We excuse each prospect for various reasons, driving by too quickly to stop anyway. Sometimes it is just because the hitchhiker doesn’t look “cool” or looks too dirty, creepy, or crazy. Or they look like they might want to smoke our pot! “No way!” we shout, insulted at the idea.
Dad keeps driving on Interstate 4
0 through Flagstaff. We eat sparingly in the car. Except for bathroom breaks, he doesn’t like to stop much. He insists repeatedly there isn’t the time or money to do any sightseeing, even though we don’t have anywhere in particular to stay once we get to California. “We’ll figure it out,” he tells us, not leaving room for me to ask the obvious questions about Pen Ci and Jack.
Finally, when we realize we are close to the Grand Canyon, we can’t resist pleading with him to take the short detour north. “For just a minute?” we beg. “Please!”
We win. Dad is just as curious to see such an amazing natural beauty, and he gives in. “Besides,” he rationalizes, “we need a bathroom break.”
“Whoa! Is that it?” we yell, crooking our necks out the windows to get the first look.
“Yeah! I think so. Over there!”
This was it.
“Wow! It’s beautiful!” we whisper in wonder as we get closer.
Dad pulls up to an open parking space and shuts off the engine. Paper and cans spill out as we open the doors to scramble to the edge of the roped-off canyon and gawk with the rest of the tourists.
It takes our breath away. Standing there speechless, I realize time is nothing; it slips by without notice. We listen to the sound of the wind whistling through the miles of ominous levels below.
“All right.” Dad breaks the silence after only a short time. “Let’s get going. We gotta head out. We wanna get to the border tonight, remember?”
Reluctantly, we peel ourselves away from the spectacular view and wait in line for the john.
By the time Terry, Juan, and I get to the car, Dad is putting away his bandage kit and quickly presses down the ends of the tape that hold the gauze to his face. He doesn’t want to clean his wound in the bathroom here because of all the people; he always wants privacy when he faces the horror of his uncovered image.
“Is it okay to come in, Dad?” I ask respectfully, so as not to embarrass him. “Are you done?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m done.” He turns away and secures the bandage a final time. “Get in,” he says, signaling the “all clear.”
Protective and sensitive to my father’s pain, I feel deeply sad watching him suffer such a disfiguring ordeal. Although he doesn’t ask, I try to help in any way I can, even if it is only making sure he has his space, time to himself with his affliction. What else can I do?
On the way out of the Grand Canyon, we pass many more tourist outlooks, but Dad refuses to stop and we don’t press it. It is obvious he is hurting quite a bit. We remain quiet as the car winds back down to Interstate 40 and out of Arizona. Dad finally breaks the uncomfortable silence and begins the hitchhiker game again.
“Hey! Does he got any?” he says, straining to sound lighthearted.
Everyone’s mood lifts, happy that Dad seems to be in better spirits.
“Well, maybe,” I tease back.
“Nawww! No,” chime Terry and Juan.
“Well…maybe?” Terry changes her mind as we quickly pass by, smiling and waving.
“Well, I hope someone looks good soon,” Juan pipes in, “'cause I need to smoke a joint!”
In fits of laughter, we agree, and not much farther down the highway, we see him. “Oh! Oh! What about him?” Terry and I shout, pointing at the road ahead.
“He looks like he’s got some!” We’re excited as we spy the groovy-looking blond guy with his thumb sticking out. Dad slows the car.
“Wait. Wait,” Dad warns. Then suddenly he makes up his mind and urges us, “Quick! Quick! Yes or no? Yes or no?”
“Yes. Yes!” It’s unanimous. “He’s definitely got some. He’s carrying a bag. Look!”
“Okay! Okay! Here we go.” In one fast move, Dad pulls off the road while Terry, Juan, and I stick our heads out of the windows, smiling and waving him over.
He runs toward us, clutching his suede, fringed shoulder bag close to his side, and a bad feeling suddenly comes over me. Catching up to the car, he stops at my window and in a breathless voice says, “Hey, man. How far you going?”
“California,” I reply, trying to keep my cool.
“So am I. Where in California?”
“Ah, don’t know.”
I look toward Dad.
“Get in, man,” Dad offers hurriedly from behind me.
“Are you going as far as LA?”
“Yeah, sure, man. Get in.” Dad waves for him to come on board and not hold us up. Smiling big, the blond guy climbs in.
His name is Marty. He is from Los Angeles and returning from a trip to Colorado, where he was visiting an old girlfriend. When his car broke down, he decided to hitchhike home, stopping to see the sights along the way. He has long, sandy blond hair with a lighter blond moustache, and he wears a button-down shirt, white pin-striped elephant bells, and a headband that hides the beginnings of baldness. He is older than I first think, around Dad’s age, and not as cute. Draped across his shoulder is an overstuffed leather bag decorated with different-colored beads tied on the fringes, and there is a sleeping bag strapped to his back.
“I’m Wayne. This is Terry, my daughter, and her boyfriend, Juan.” Dad makes the rounds through the backseat. “And this is Dawn, my oldest daughter.”
“Hi,” I say shyly. I feel a little awkward at his stare, and uncomfortable at having to sit between him and my dad.
Marty looks at my dad as if he is lying and then sits up in his seat, winks at me, and smiles. “Right on.”
Ewwww, I think and flash my sister in the back a long look that says, Don’t say a word.
“So, we’d, uh, smoke a doobie with ya, but we ran out back in Oklahoma, man,” Dad says, fishing to see if we were right about this guy.
Marty’s head shoots up. “I got some!” he offers enthusiastically.
It is music to my father’s ears. You can see the excitement rise in Dad’s body; his legs begin to bounce. “Right on, man. Right on.”
Like a pro, Marty rolls a joint on his lap and lights up. “Man, I wasn’t sure it would be cool, uh, with your daughters in the car, you know.”
“Aww, no, no, man, it’s cool,” Dad assures him, trying to act laid-back and casual when Marty hands him the joint.
Hours have passed, and I am stoned and uncomfortable. Marty’s head keeps falling onto my shoulder as he struggles to stay awake. It is getting dark, and Dad wants to stop. The road signs tell us we are almost to California, and we decide we will sleep at the border on the Colorado River.
Marty stretches his legs. “So, where are you going, exactly?”
“California. Somewhere.” Dad lets out a short laugh.
“No. Really, man. I mean, where in California?”
“Not really sure. We’re kinda looking for a place to, you know, get on our feet. I’ve just had this operation, uh, on my face. Cancer. They took the whole nose a couple weeks ago,” he explains, a bit shy about his appearance, “and I was in the middle of a divorce from Dawn and Terry’s mother, when, uh, it all came down.”
“Bad scene, man.” Marty shakes his head. Nobody speaks, and the air is uncomfortable. Then, as if he has struck gold, Marty calls out, “Hey, maybe you can ask this chick I’m gonna stay with if you can crash there for a few days.”
“Aww, naw, man…Really? Do you think that would be cool?” Dad perks up. He was hoping Marty might be able to help us. What luck.
“Yeah, we’re together now and then, you know, man. Nothing serious, but she’d like it to be.” He raises his eyebrows, and they start laughing together as if it’s a private joke.
“I know what you mean, man. I know what you mean.” Dad snickers.
“Her name is Harriet—she’s kind of a Jewish princess. She lives in Glendale.”
“Where’s that?” I ask, wary of his story and this place: Glendale.
“It’s a suburb of LA.”
“Right on, man,” Dad says. “Just point the way. We ‘preciate that, man. ‘Preciate that,” he mumbles. Turning up the tunes, he is feeling pretty good. I, on the
other hand, am feeling sick inside. I have been hoping Dad knows what he’s doing for us. I mean, he is the one who always talked about a “plan.” But now it is clear we will have to rely on luck…and a woman named Harriet.
“Right on, man.” Marty reaches into his leather bag and lights up another doobie in celebration.
We make camp that night on the California side of the Colorado River. We are here! California! Too tired to get really excited, we focus on eating dinner. We are right in the middle of the Mojave Desert; the wind blows viciously on our small campsite, flinging sand everywhere, making it hard to even breathe.
We call it an early night, and Marty, Terry, and Juan lay out sleeping bags at the side of the car, which serves to block the sand and wind. Dad and I sleep in the car, he in the front seat and I in the back.
What a luxury, I think, happy to be out of the blowing sand. As I settle down for the night, the wind howls mournfully. I toss and turn, covering my head with my pillow, trying to drown out the eerie noise.
Something lets the wind and sand blast into the car. Marty is trying to climb into the backseat with me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, shocked that he would try to lie down with me.
“Shhh, it’s okay. Let me in,” he insists.
“No! Get out of here!” My voice is getting louder. “I’ll wake my dad, and I mean it!”
His eyes turn angry and glare at me.
I think about the weather outside and feel a twinge of guilt, but I don’t want him sleeping draped over me, even if that’s all he wanted.
“Okay! Whatever, man,” he hisses and backs out of the car.
I stay awake for most of the night listening to the sounds of the sad howl of the wind and worrying that Marty might creep in on me again. For the first time since we left Florida, reality strikes and the sad pangs of the permanence of the separation from my mother and brother sink in. They were always there, somewhere near me, for all of the fifteen years of my life. Now the safety of their constant nearness is gone, and I miss them. Aware of the distance and weary from traveling, I suddenly feel very lost in this vast California desert. Holding myself tightly to block out the wind and the loneliness, I finally fall asleep.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 7
