by Jim Dodge
‘It would probably be best for all concerned if the guy took a vacation where he couldn’t be reached for a few days. Then he wouldn’t have to lie.’
‘I was thinking along the same lines,’ I said. ‘No need to pull on a wet noodle.’
John said, ‘All I need from you is a photograph for a new driver’s license, and the rest is easy. And I will need the current registration and that letter from the woman … Harriet Gildner, was it? Think I met her once at the Magic Workshop. Definitely out there.’
I had the registration and letter with me. John was impressed. ‘Why, George, you’re becoming lucidly thorough in your foolishness.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
John shrugged. ‘Well, at least it’s grand foolishness.’
‘I hate to hurry an artist at work,’ I said, ‘but do you think you could have the paperwork finished in four or five hours?’
‘By dawn’s early light.’
‘Well, shit, if you have time to kill, how about putting some of your legendary scholarship to work and see what you can find out about the Big Bopper for me? Especially where he’s buried.’
‘Really, George, that’s not my field. Prosody, history, the graphic arts, baseball – those I might be able to help you with. But I lack the proper references for the burial sites of rock-and-roll musicians. However, I recently met a darling young boy who happens to be a janitor at the library. He should be there now, and maybe he can help us out.’
‘I just want to get rolling in the right direction.’
‘I understand,’ John said. ‘What’s a pilgrimage without a destination?’
My immediate destination was my apartment. I parked around back and climbed the stairs. I stood in the center of the room and thought about what I’d need, and decided to go as light as possible. I threw together a duffle of clothes and my shaving kit, then withdrew my life savings from the First Bank of the Innersprings. I counted it on the kitchen table – $4170, including the $2000 Scumball had fronted me.
That reminded me I had to call. I dialed the new number he’d given me. As always, he answered on the third ring.
‘Complications,’ I said.
There was short silence, then a displeased question: ‘Yes?’
‘Of the heart.’
The pause was longer, but I waited him out. ‘Well?’ he said, not happy.
‘Don’t worry. The job’ll get done. It’s just going to take some time.’
‘I hope we’re talking minutes.’
‘Maybe three or four days. Could be a week.’
‘No.’
‘Fuck you,’ I said.
‘I don’t know what your problem is,’ Scumball hissed, ‘but if you got a dumb urge to play games or mention names I got something for you to remember, wise-ass. There’s over two hundred bones in the body, and I have friends who’d enjoy breaking them for you, one by one, slowly. When they got done, you’d be a fucking puddle, savvy?’
‘Fuck your friends, too, and the Sheriff, and the whole posse. If you want your ass covered, tell your shithead friend to be gone for a week. Might do his slimy soul some good to take a long hike in the Sierras. I’ll take care of my end. I don’t need any premature mention about missing machinery. That might make it tough on everybody concerned. You can keep what I have coming, make up for your inconvenience, but this one gets played my way. I’m going to deliver it where it rightfully belongs.’
‘You’re gonna eat shit, is what you’re gonna do. Save some money for doctor bills. This is gonna make a lot of people unhappy.’
‘Not for long. And they’ll get over it. But you know what? It’s going to make me very happy. Ecstatic, I hope. I’m going to send it roaring upward in the flames. What do you think of that?’
‘I think it’d be nice you went with it.’
‘Listen, it’s not a rip-off, you understand? It’s going to go down, like all the rest. A few days’ extra time ought to be worth the balance due. Goes in your grubby pocket. I’m not jerking you around. It’s just something that I need to do, and you can’t do shit about it, so why not squeeze a little grace out of that fucking mustard seed you call a heart?’
‘Die,’ he snarled, and hung up, depriving me of the chance to urge him to improve his imagination.
Given Scumball’s nasty mood I figured it wouldn’t be wise to hang around my apartment too long – nor the city, for that matter – so I locked up and loaded my stuff in the Caddy’s trunk, then cruised over to the all-night Doggie Diner for two large coffees and a double burger, which I ate on my way over to John’s.
My traveling papers were ready. At John’s insistence, we sat down at the kitchen table to go over them. He flipped through and explained each one. A new California driver’s license in the name of George Teo Gass (John’s sense of humor), a Social Security card, draft card, and other ID featuring my new name. In addition, a very official looking DMV Certificate of Interstate Transport, a document I didn’t even know existed, and I’m not sure John did either. There was a notarized letter from Cory Bingham attesting to the fact that Mr Gass was authorized to transport the vehicle for display at a memorial tribute to the Big Bopper. Cory’s letter was accompanied by a sheaf of papers on letterhead from the law offices of Dewey, Scrum, and Howe, which covered the terms and liabilities of the car’s display at the memorial. John said that if I got stopped, I should be sure to explain I’d been hired through an agent for the lawyers and had never personally met Mr Bingham or the lawyers, though the agent had told me there was a kind of legal hassle going on between Cory Bingham and the Big Bopper’s estate. He even had a card from the agent, one Odysseus Jones.
Poetry or forgery, John Seasons knew what to do with paper and ink. He wouldn’t take a penny for it, either. I told him I had a wad of money to cover travel expenses and that proper documentation was foremost in the budget, but John, with the exaggerated professorial tone he used to mock himself, said, ‘Ah, but my dear young man, the object of price is to measure value, and the highest value is blessings. One easily infers from the works of Lao-Tze, Dogen, and other Masters of the Path that blessed most deeply is he who helps a pilgrim on the way.’
I was about to insist on a token $50 to at least cover wear and tear on the seals when there was a loud pounding on the door. I spun around, the ruby neon flight-light pulsing in my brain stem, certain one of Scumball’s goons had spotted the Caddy down the block. John grabbed my arm. ‘Easy,’ he said softly. ‘Too late for fear.’ He went to the door and asked, ‘May I inquire who has come to call at this ungodly hour?’
Myron and Messerschmidt, as it happened, both wired to the tits, just hitting town after a forty-hour nonstop run to Mexico and back. They came in babbling, each bearing a large, rattling shopping bag full of drugs available only by prescription in this country, while in Mexico, with its less formal notions of restriction, they were available in bulk over-the-counter, especially at the more enlightened border farmacias. The first item out of Myron’s bag was a 1000-tablet bottle of benzedrine, factory sealed. They wanted $150, and got it on the spot. John clucked his tongue but I ignored him. I was already tired, and it might be a long drive. Besides, I was bold, imaginative, and decisive; such virtues wither without reward.
While Myron and Messerschmidt rummaged through the portable pharmacy for John’s order of Percodan – I clucked at him – he accompanied me to the door. ‘Any info on the Big Bopper,’ I asked.
‘Ah, yes. I called my young friend at the library and he went through the newspaper files. The Big Bopper’s real name was Jiles Perry Richardson, born and raised in Sabine Pass, Texas. If my spotty geography serves, that’s right on the Louisiana border, near the mouth of the Red River. He was working as a disc jockey in Beaumont when he “hit the charts,” as they say. My friend said there was no information on his burial site in the papers, but I would assume he was interred in Sabine Pass, or possibly Beaumont. If I were you, I’d head out yonder to East Texas – Beaumont’s not far from Sabine Pass
– but it would be smart indeed to do a little library research along the way. Shouldn’t be difficult to find out where he’s buried. But I’d find out before you get too far, because you’re going to feel like a dumb shit if you’re parked in Sabine Pass and find out his bones found their rest in LA.’
I blessed him for his help and gave him a big hug, putting some feeling into it. He returned it, then held me at arms’ length and looked in my eyes. ‘So,’ he said approvingly, ‘the Pilgrim Ghost.’
‘Hey, I’m no ghost yet,’ I objected, slightly unnerved. But I’d misunderstood.
‘No, no,’ John laughed. ‘Goest. Go-est. Like, “The pilgrim goest forth, the journey his prayer.”’
‘More like it,’ I said, relieved.
‘Well, give my best to the dragons and wizards, and pledge my honor to the maidens fair. And the pages, if you see any cute ones. And George, seriously: fare well.’
The stars were fading in the dawnlight as I left, forged papers under one arm and a 1000-hit bottle of bennies tucked inside my jacket. The Caddy was waiting where I’d left it, pure white and heavily chromed, blast-off styling and power everything, a cross between a rocketship and Leviathan, an excessive manifestation of garish excellence, a twisted notion of the American dreamboat.
I slipped inside and turned it over. While it warmed up I put the papers in the glovebox and clipped the registration back on the visor. I lined up three bennies on my tongue like miniature communion wafers, swallowed, and stashed the bottle under the seat. I sat there tapping the gas, wondering if I was forgetting anything. But I’d reached that point where anything I was forgetting was forgotten. The clutch plate kissed the power and I came down on the juice. By the time I hit the end of the block I was long gone.
MESOLOGUE
‘Blessed are those whose necessities
find their art.’
—Schiller
JUST AS GEORGE was taking off on his pilgrimage in ’65, we arrived in the present, the tow truck bucking as he geared down for the Monte Rio stop sign.
‘Monte Rio,’ I announced. Given my nearly comatose condition resulting from the tangled combination of the doom flu, many milligrams of codeine, the paralysis of speed-induced terror, and the hypnotic lull of George’s voice, I was as impressed by my perspicacity as my ability to articulate it. ‘Monte Rio,’ I repeated, enthralled by its existential certainty.
‘Yes indeed,’ George confirmed. ‘Five miles to Guerneville now; got it by the dick on a downhill pull and tomorrow will be a different world.’ He hung a left on 12 and took it up through the gears. ‘How you feeling? Hanging in there? Ears bleeding?’
I thought about it but I couldn’t find the words. I’d shot my wad on ‘Monte Rio.’
‘Better?’ George prompted. ‘Same? Worse?’
I nodded.
‘All of the above?’
I nodded.
He nodded back. I couldn’t tell if he was sympathetically acknowledging my inability to construct and utter words or simply confirming some inner judgment of his own – about what, I didn’t know and didn’t care. I sank into that luxurious indifference like a high-plains cowboy sliding down into his first bath after five weeks of merciless heat and horse sweat on the trail. The words to ‘Red River Valley’ were floating through the remnants of my brain. ‘… hasten to bid me adieu …’ Adieu? What sort of horseshit was ‘adieu.’ Cowboys didn’t go around talking French.
George was giving me a look of pure appraisal, friendly but frank. ‘Might be smart to stop by the Redwood Health Clinic for a quick check-up. I think you’re fine, but opinions ain’t diplomas.’
‘Bed!’ I sobbed, distantly astonished that I’d spoken. It was the voice of my involuntary nervous system seizing control from a cowboy-consciousness now bidding adieu to the home of buffalo roaming. Bed. A bed. A physical demand, the need of it pure, unsullied by lengthy evaluation, careful consideration, or thoughtful judgment. Rest, sleep, surcease. The last round-up.
George was passing a log truck like it was frozen in time. Deft, decisive – no question the man could drive. As the log truck faded in the side mirror, he said, ‘You’re the boss. The first order of business, then, is to get you to bed. When you’re squared away I’ll haul your rig over to Itchman’s.’
My head nodded itself.
‘If you got no place particular in mind,’ George said, ‘how about the Rio del Rio? Bill and Dorie Caprenter run it. Good folks. Towed in their ’54 Hudson when they snapped an axle up near Skagg Springs. They’d been out bird watching. The Rio del Rio isn’t fancy-ass, but what it lacks in glitz it more than makes up for in comfort. Very quiet. Always clean.’
‘Faster,’ I said.
George, laughing at my regrettably invincible wit, gladly obliged. Though all the windows were cranked up tight, I could feel the wind roaring against my face. It felt good. It felt even better to be a mile out of Guerneville and closing fast.
The Rio del Rio was on the west side of town, set back in a grove of second-growth redwood on a plateau above the Russian River flood-plain. There were nine cabins, counting the office, all painted dark green with white trim, the green the same shade as the moss tufted between the cracks of the redwood-shake roofs.
George flicked the floorshift into neutral and set the brake. I hadn’t realized we’d stopped. ‘I’ll check in with Bill and Dorie and see what’s what,’ he said. ‘Hang tight. Back in a flash.’
The rain had relented into a swirling mist. Through the wet wind-shield, George seemed to blur as he approached the office. I heard a loud knock, followed in a few seconds by a delighted female whoop, immediately sharpening into a mock scold: ‘You crazy ol’ ghost, we see you about as often as we do a pileated woodpecker.’ My brain refused the comparison as impossibly complex.
I glanced down at my hands folded rather primly on my lap. They seemed far away and unconcerned. I wondered if they could open the glovebox for more codeine. The index finger of my right hand twitched. Where there’s communication, there’s hope. I was sure George wouldn’t mind; there seemed to be plenty, and I might need some later in case I hemorrhaged or something. Might save my life, a life, it was not lost on me, that seemed remarkably free of moral or ethical restraint. Why did generosity seem to inspire my rapacity?
I was still pondering this when I heard the slish-slap of someone running toward the truck. The driver’s door flew open and George dumped an armful of paper and kindling on the front seat and swung himself in as he cheerfully announced, ‘Okay, pardner, you’re all set.’ He held up a key, dangling it like bait. ‘Lucky seven. You have it as long as you need it, pay when you can. Dorie says there’s a special winter basket-case rate of three-fifty a day. Told you these were people with soul. Allow me to chauffeur you to your quarters.’
In the middle of a time warp, this was way too much information for me to process. Ten seconds to the cabin. Hours to climb down out of the truck and get inside while George jabbered encouragement, comments, commands. ‘Easy does it now…. Watch those flagstones – slick as snot on a doorknob…. Now take a dead bead on the bed there, and I’ll put some flames in the fireplace. Little warmth and a couple of days’ sleep appeal to you any? You make a conked-out zombie look like a fucking speedfreak, but hey, lookee here, you made it to the land of your dreams! Just peel off those duds and crawl right in. Yes! Curl up like a baby and let it all go so far away your toes will have to shoot off flares to get your mind’s attention. That’s right. Now I’ll go prove I deserved my Fire-Building Merit Badge while you snuggle down solid and sing for the Sandman. Nothing like wood heat to get the warmth to the bones …’ His voice trailed off as he disappeared through the door.
It was complicated, especially the buttons on the shirt, but I got undressed, slipped shivering between the cold sheets, and pulled the quilt up to my ears. George was back with the paper and wood, saying something I couldn’t hear over the crackle of the kindling catching in the riverstone fireplace. He came over and grinn
ed down at me in bed and said something about my wet clothes and picking them up at the office and I could leave his there or keep them if I needed a more diverse wardrobe with a working-class cut to properly woo the Guerneville women, but I was already gliding away, his words lost in the sound of fire and the rainy redwoods dripping on the roof.
‘Dreamers awake,’ a voice murmured. ‘Soup’s on.’ George held a steaming cup in his hand. ‘Hate to wake you, but even if you had a sword stuck through your heart I wouldn’t let you miss this soup. This is Dorie’s justly famous Cosmic Cure-All Root Broth. Over thirty different roots simmered down slow. And by slow, I’m talking a couple of weeks, you understand? Sloooow. Extracting essences. It’ll put some lead in your pencil or I’ve never been out of first gear.’
I feebly accepted the cup. The broth was almost translucent, with a faint greenish-brown tint. Every swallow had a different taste: carrot, hickory, ginseng, licorice; now ginger, burdock, parsnip, garlic. It felt wonderful in my gut, a calm radiance soaking outward from the center. ‘More,’ I asked hopefully.
‘Whole thermos on the nightstand here,’ George said, reaching to pour me another cup. ‘Comes compliments of the house with best wishes for a speedy recovery. But it’s all there is, they ain’t no more – this was the last container from the freezer. You can only make it once a year. Best fresh, Dorie claims, but it doesn’t lose a hell of a lot in aging if you ask me. Incredible stuff. Cures flu and the bad blues, gout, malaria, shingles, impotence, schizophrenia, serum and viral hepatitis, terminal morbidity, most moral quandaries, senility, bad karma, and even that dreaded Hawaiian killer, lackanookie.’
I drank greedily while my reviving brain analyzed corporeal input. My joints ached like decayed teeth, the fever (or perhaps the codeine) had turned my skull rubbery, but the piercing headache seemed blunted and the gastrointestinal maelstrom had definitely abated.
‘You getting on top of it,’ George asked solicitously.
