Roadside Bodhisattva

by Di Filippo, Paul

  “No, not dull, that’s for sure. What’s the other one you got?”

  The tiny hardcover came to hand, and I gave it to Sid.

  He roared so loud I jumped. He didn’t stop laughing until he had wiped away all his tears and snot.

  “Oh, Jesus, what a hoot! I haven’t seen anyone reading this in thirty years. Lordy, lordy, some things never change. Did your folks have this on their shelf too?”

  I snatched the book back “No, I discovered this one myself. Anyway, what’s so damn funny about The Prophet? It’s at least as good as the Kerouac, maybe better.”

  “Kid A, these two books aren’t even part of the same universe. Your Kerouac is a shot of super-antibiotic to cure you of mental clap. But the other one is like a stolen blank prescription pad. You can write yourself all the prescriptions you want from it, but there’s no authority behind ’em, and you’ll never get ’em filled.”

  Now I was starting to get really angry. “You’re full of crap. A person could live their whole life really well just by following the advice in this little book.”

  “Jesus, I pray you don’t really believe that. Because you’ll end up hip-deep in shit if you try such a nutty program. Listen, Kid A, you can’t run your life out of any book, even one of ol’ Jack’s. All that the best books can do is clarify your vision and inspire you. And the lousy ones just confuse you or fill your head with bullshit. But the minute you try to adopt any book as your Bible, you’re doomed. Haven’t you already seen that happen a hundred times around you? I’ll bet your folks—”

  “Shut up now. I don’t want to talk about my folks.”

  Sid got quiet and sympathetic. “Okay, I can understand that. Well, I’m sorry I pissed you off. Maybe I was a little too harsh. It’s just that I hate to see anyone your age go down a dead-end.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s my choice.”

  “That it is, Kid A. That it is. So, ready for some sleep? I only got the one blanket here, but you’re welcome to borrow my coat.”

  “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Sid took off his boots. He made a pillow out of the jacket I had refused, and laid it atop his boots. He wrapped himself in his blanket and was snoring in about sixty seconds flat.

  I sat up hugging my knees until the snap-crackle-pop of the fire died away, and even the embers began to wink out. Strange sounds came out of the darkness. I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep. It got pretty chilly after a while, and I realized the nylon windbreaker in my pack wasn’t going to be much good against the cold. But I was still glad I had turned down the offer of Sid’s fucking coat.

  “Long were the days of pain, and long the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and aloneness without regret?”

  Oh, man, how true, how true! How could that idiot Sid say Gibran wasn’t like totally smokin’?

  Sid’s raspy voice was my alarm clock.

  “Up and at ’em, Kid A. Day’s wasting.”

  I opened my eyes. Golden sunshine slanted through the canopy of leaves like spotlights onto a stage. I was curled up on the ground, hugging my pack. My windbreaker was slick with dew, and my damp jeans clung to my legs. I straightened myself out, and immediately felt all the aches and pains I expected, plus some others. There must’ve been an invisible rock under my ribs all night, because I had a stitch low down on my side.

  “Damn, Sid, how can you stand there smiling? Aren’t you sore?”

  “Not one damn bit. Sleeping on the bare ground’s good for your back. People get soft when they sleep on a mattress every night. Not that I ever turn my nose up at the chance to sack out in a real bed. But that’s only because I know the next night I’ll probably be out in the woods or on a park bench or gravel or steam grate again.”

  Once I stood up and stretched, I felt a lot better. The air sure smelled fresh, and the world looked rich and friendly. Maybe just because there weren’t any other people around.

  My stomach growled. “Any chance of breakfast?”

  “Not out of my pack. You?”

  “I licked the print off my last candy wrapper yesterday.”

  “Fair enough. Just means we’ll get our exercise before we eat.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “Roughly. State and county. But if you mean, can I tell you what’s up around the next bend, no.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Then I guess we gotta make like the ol’ bear that went over the mountain.”

  “Huh?”

  “Christ, what do they teach you kids nowadays? Don’t you have any sense of tradition, Kid A? Ever study any history?”

  “A little. But this is a new millennium now. Everything’s different.”

  “And where the hell do you think your fresh new millennium came from? Straight out of the old one, and all the ones behind that! Go take a leak and a dump, if you have to, and let’s get moving.”

  I did what Sid said, and as soon as I returned to the camp we headed straight for the road.

  I looked back over my shoulder at the big towering tree. Somehow it looked different than it had just last evening at sunset, when I first came upon it. I felt a little sad at leaving it behind. Moving in a soft breeze, its leaves seemed to be waving goodbye.

  Neither of us said anything for the first few miles. The leather straps of Sid’s knapsack creaked like squeaky shoes. I used the time to think about why I was following along with Sid.

  Sure, he had been nice enough to share his supper with me last night. But I wasn’t like some lost puppy who automatically fastened onto the first person who fed him. But Sid did seem to know a lot about bumming around, and I figured that if this was gonna be my new lifestyle for however long, then I should try to pick up some tips from an expert. Plus he was an interesting guy, even considering his age. I got the sense that he had a lot of good stories to tell. He liked Kerouac, even if he was a jerk about Gibran, so that counted for something. He seemed like an honest guy who would play it straight with someone if he got the same treatment back. And trucking along solo was a lonely business. Even just five days on the road had proved that to me. Like Sid had said last night, “Company is good.”

  I remembered how Ray Smith had met Japhy Ryder, and how they had become tight, getting their kicks together. Maybe that could be me and Sid.

  And of course, I could still cut out any time I wanted.

  After a while, Sid began to talk in an easygoing way. He rambled on with no particular plan to his speech that I could see, and I just listened. Every once in a while I’d contribute a sentence or two, but mostly it was him who did all the talking.

  He talked mainly about recent events in his life. I learned that he had traveled about a thousand miles in the past week, through a combination of hitching rides and walking and hopping freight trains. Hitching wasn’t as easy as it once was, Sid claimed. “People are too suspicious nowadays. Can’t say I entirely blame ’em. These are mean times, here at home and around the globe.”

  I figured I had made about three hundred miles myself in the past five days. I thought that was pretty decent, and said so. He agreed that it wasn’t too bad for an amateur.

  I heard how he had lived in some kinda place called an “SRO” for a while earlier this year in New York City, down on the Bowery, and worked delivering Chinese food on a bicycle. According to Sid, every other customer was either a naked woman hot for sex, or a drug lord who wanted to tip him with a bag of primo dope. These stories I didn’t put much stock in. He told me about how he had first hit the road when he wasn’t much older than me. His parents had been rich and important people, but he just couldn’t get behind their lifestyles. Too fake and pointless and grim. Sid had been enrolled in some fancy prep school, “with a lot of other wealthy white boys,” and one night on an impulse he had just taken off. Ditched it all and never looked back, with just the allowance in his pocket and less clothes than I was carrying. Apparently even rich kids didn’t have credit cards or ce
ll phones back then. Not that I had ever had either one of those things myself. But I knew plenty who did.

  I tried to picture myself at Sid’s advanced age. What would I be doing? Would I be walking down some dusty road like him, with everything I owned on my back, telling my story to some young kid? I couldn’t get a clear picture of myself one way or another, even a year from now, so I gave up that line of thought.

  Sid’s easy, funny, boastful talk made the miles fall behind us easily. I realized after a while that I was really happy walking along with Sid. I didn’t even mind being hungry. I felt like we were Ray and Japhy on some kickass adventure. I didn’t care if we ever met up with anyone else.

  But before too long, I heard a noise I hadn’t heard for a while: traffic.

  “Sounds like civilization,” said Sid. “Or at least a facsimile thereof”

  The road we were on climbed now toward a crest, and we worked a little harder to get up the grade.

  At the top, we could see an intersection up ahead, a few hundred yards down a gentle slope. The highway wasn’t much, just an old-fashioned four-lane concrete slash though more damn trees. And the traffic was hardly big-city numbers.

  But there was a cluster of buildings not far from where our road flowed into the highway, and maybe that meant food.

  I felt good seeing this sight. It wasn’t as impressive as Ray and Japhy’s view from the sierra mountain they had climbed north of Frisco, but it would do just fine for me this morning.

  As we trotted down the hill, Sid sang offkey, the same lines over and over. “Bear went over the mountain, bear went over the mountain, bear went over the mountain, and what do you think he saw?”

  I still didn’t know what the hell that song meant. But somehow it sounded right.

  Two

  We had to cross the oil-blotched gray highway to get to the establishment on the other side. A roadsign told us we were facing route 1. No traffic-light helped us, so we just dashed across, dodging cars and light delivery trucks whose bored or irritated drivers refused to slow down, our packs slapping against our backs like enthusiastic teammates. The buildings we had seen waited for us another few feet down the road.

  A weedy gravel parking lot stretched in front of two shabby structures. One building resembled a small ranch house, with its front rooms fixed up to be an office. I knew this because there was a darkened neon office sign in one window. The other sign above this door said deer park motor lodge. The second building struck me as more important just then. It was a long, low-slung boxy diner that billed itself as deer park kitchen. A third building, set off to one side, had its own paved frontage. It was a gas station with just one pump and one bay, deer park filling station and repairs.

  Behind the office building, about six small crummy-looking cabins sat on a grassy area that called out for a good mowing. Sharing a gravel path, they seemed to huddle against the dark forest behind them. A busted-down old-fashioned torpedo-shaped rust-spotted silver trailer was tucked away partly out of sight behind some birch trees.

  The gravel lot held three or four cars. I guessed it was about ten o’clock or so, and the breakfast crowd must’ve faded away. I had left my watch back home on purpose when I set out, and Sid didn’t seem to carry one either.

  Sid smacked those thick lips of his like a cartoon wolf. “Man oh man, this place has hungry traveler’s heaven written all over it. You willing to part with a few bucks, Kid A? Pancakes, bacon, eggs, coffee. That appeal to you?”

  “Sounds sweet.”

  “What’re we jawing for then? In we go!”

  The heavy wooden door opened outward, allowing delicious smells to escape. My mouth watered and my stomach clenched in on itself.

  Booths with window views ran along the outer wall of the diner, to either side of the door. A counter with stools and a cash register occupied the other wall. Behind the counter stood deep-friers, a grill and several drink dispensers. Standing at the grill, his back to us, was a small, skinny guy, his apron knotted behind him. Sparse hair was slicked across his skull in a totally gruesome comb-over. Also behind the counter was a pretty woman, stocking shelves and cleaning. She wasn’t young, maybe even as old as Sid, and her face was red from hot work and her brown hair was pinned up sloppy. But she was still pretty. Out among the booths, a waitress was scooping up dirty plates from an empty table and loading them into a big rubber bin. She was about twenty-five, I figured, and she was really sexy.

  Some groups of people were seated in the booths, chatting and eating. But several booths showed still vacant.

  “Let’s shuck these packs and grab us a seat, Kid A.”

  Sid and I got ourselves seated. After the waitress had carried her bucket full of dirty dishes into a back room, she ambled over, taking her time. I studied her as she came.

  She had long black hair clipped up atop her head so that it fountained forward. She wore a tight one piece white waitress uniform that showed off her curves and which stopped about mid-thigh, and clunky white waitress shoes. Her long legs were bare. She used a lot of makeup, and her nails were long and painted raspberry color to match her lipstick. She didn’t look too stuck-up or conceited, but she didn’t look cheery or real friendly either. Just kinda bored and above everything.

  Her voice was nice but neutral, without a lot of energy. She had some kind of way of talking I thought maybe showed she came from California.

  “What can I get for you two?”

  Sid said, “Well, now, that depends on what your fine establishment offers. Any chance of us snagging a couple of menus?”

  The waitress sighed, and brought us stained laminated menus from the counter.

  “Thank you very kindly, darling.”

  She rolled her eyes and made a point of digging out her pad and pencil and holding them poised like she was in a hurry. I wanted to rush my order, but Sid deliberately made a big deal of taking his time and studying the menu, so I did the same.

  “Let’s see now. Is the hash homemade?”

  “Do I look like the chef? How should I know?”

  This smart-mouthing brought a response from the lady behind the counter.

  “Yasmine! Show some respect, please!”

  Yasmine sighed deeply again and said, “I’ll ask. Sonny! Did you make the hash?”

  The skinny chef turned around. His face was all sad big eyes and beaten-down weariness. His nose was a large blade of flesh too big for the rest of his wimpy features. But he smiled when he answered, “Fuh—fresh today!”

  Sid appeared pleased beyond all measure. “Excellent! I’ll have four eggs over easy, the hash, and a stack of waffles.”

  Yasmine swiveled on me.

  “Uh, the same.”

  “And bring us a two orange juices, two ice-waters and a whole pot of coffee, honey. Don’t forget a pitcher of sweet cream. We are two knights of the road with a mighty deep hunger and thirst.”

  Yasmine didn’t bother to answer, but just turned to go. Sid wasn’t done with her yet, though.

  “And if you could warm up the maple syrup, darling, our tip might knock your nonexistent socks off!”

  The coffee came first, and Sid dumped enough cream into his cup to float a battleship, then added enough sugar to sink one. I was used to coffee, but not the hot stuff. I used to have a frappacino every day after school. But after I doctored it up and took a few sips I got used to drinking it this way, and I figured it wasn’t so bad.

  Sid started talking about how many miles we might make today. He was kinda loud, and I was worried the normal people in the restaurant were looking at us. But then after a while I saw they weren’t really, and I relaxed. I guessed this place must get our kind of drifters fairly often, being situated on a fairly busy highway like it was.

  When our breakfasts came all our conversation dried right up. That long morning walk had left me hungrier than a homeless dog. I broke an egg, forked off a hunk of waffle, soaked up some runny yolk and scarfed down almost more than I could chew. Sid was doing the
same. The hash was super good, nothing fake, lots of real onions and potatoes in with the meat.

  People left and one or two others arrived. The little chef guy kept busy, the nice older lady replaced a big empty cardboard container of milk in a dispenser with a full one and chopped vegetables for lunch, and Yasmine sat on a stool like a grouchy cafeteria monitor, admiring her nails.

  We went through one pot of coffee and got another. By the time our plates were so clean that it was like an army of cats had licked them, I was flying high from the coffee. Sid didn’t seem bothered one bit by all the caffeine. He slouched back in his seat, let out a mild burp, then closed his eyes.

  That was the signal for Yasmine to tromp over and toss the check down on the table.

  “Pay at the register,” she ordered us real snidely, then went back to her seat. But the boss lady wasn’t having any of her bad manners this time.

  “Yasmine, go fill the dishwasher and get it going.”

  “Oh, all right!”

  Yasmine stalked off to the back room where she had brought the dirty dishes. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but she made such a racket it sounded like she was breaking half the plates and glasses she was supposed to be loading.

  The older woman came out from behind the counter and right over to our table. I saw now that she had a lot of worry lines on her face. Or maybe, I hoped, some of them were laugh lines. Despite all her wrinkles, a small mole above her upper lip was kinda sexy. She wiped her hands on her apron and smiled.

  “How was everything?”

  “Ma’am, if God had a favorite diner, this would be it.”

  Her smile got bigger, and she stuck out her hand. “I’m the owner. Ann Danielson.”

  Sid took her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ann. I’m Sid, and this is Kid A.”

  Ann cocked her head at me like she didn’t quite understand. Once more I felt stupid about ever withholding my name from Sid. But I couldn’t see any graceful way to reintroduce myself, so I just shook her hand and said, “That’s what I go by on the road.”