{"id":12299,"date":"2011-12-27T09:00:52","date_gmt":"2011-12-27T14:00:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=12299"},"modified":"2013-01-09T11:28:29","modified_gmt":"2013-01-09T16:28:29","slug":"part-ii-escape-to-newark","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/12\/27\/part-ii-escape-to-newark\/","title":{"rendered":"Part 2: Escape to Newark"},"content":{"rendered":"

We\u2019re out this week, but we\u2019re re-posting some of our favorite pieces from 2011 while we\u2019re away. We hope you enjoy\u2014and have a happy New Year!<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em>The second installment of a three-part saga. Martin is hitchhiking from Kansas City, Missouri, to New York City in order to catch the last day of Christian Marclay’s<\/em> The Clock at the Paula Cooper Gallery. Read Part 1<\/a> here. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThe thing is we gots to get my dog. I understand you got a bus to catch. But I can\u2019t get my dog alone. You come this far, you gots to help me get my dog.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mouth is dry, we\u2019ve gone through all the gum, and in gazing up the long reach of the highway as it ascends into the blue, late-morning sky I have achieved an atmospheric clarity with regard to the meaning of clocks. Marclay\u2019s idea is to be at the center of things\u2014that is the categorical imperative of the timing device, that is why the hands spin round. Being and time. Must check if Marclay is British neo-Nazi.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut where was the center? I moved around a lot\/ and thus from an early age,\u201d I remember the line from John Ash, and quote it to Duze, who looks at me like \u201cwhat the fuck\u201d and wipes his hands on his jeans.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe need some beers right about now, man, is what we need.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am thirsty,\u201d I admit. Suddenly I understand that we are out of luck, I have to get out of this semi as soon as possible. I\u2019m Ratso from Midnight Cowboy<\/em> and for three days now I\u2019ve been sitting next to Jon Voigt. I\u2019m sweatier than Ratso. I look to see if Duze has blood on his jacket.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I can count every sharp hair of his red-and-brown goatee. Duze is handsome but balding young.<\/p>\n

\u201cPull over,\u201d I say. My hourglass is filling with sand. I lick my lips. \u201cI have to get out of this truck.\u201d<\/p>\n

Duze unsubtly accelerates. He swings into the left-hand lane.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re up on Columbus now. But I\u2019m telling ya\u2019 we gots to head north. I need your help with my dog, man. My girlfrined ain\u2019t gonna let me have that dog back lessun I have a buddy with me, someone she can trust. Not to mention if there\u2019s another man there. That\u2019s just like her. It doesn\u2019t take her twenty-four hours before her legs are back up in the air. That bitch. That cold-hearted whore. She never appreciated my music neither.\u201d<\/p>\n


Duze wears a knife on his braided belt and my options are clear: stab him in the larynx and leap through the window as the truck careens off the highway or be chopped into kibbles and bits for his dog. He hasn\u2019t told me the breed but I have intuited astrally that it is a pitbull, rottweiler, or Jack Russell terrier. I associate Chihuahuas with Columbus, Ohio. There must be a large Mexican community here, I think. Or perhaps I smuggled cocaine into this town back in my crazy twenties. But we never went this far east.<\/p>\n

\u201cShit! Sunuvabitch! Get rid of the pipe! We got a smokey!\u201d<\/p>\n

A smokey? Then I see the red and blue lights in Duze\u2019s mirrors, which have multiplied into many bright rectangular suns. They need dimmer switches or curtains in these trucks, I think. I am able to gather up Duze\u2019s drugs and paraphernalia with extraordinary efficiency and hide it all in the secret compartment beneath his folded sleeping bench.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey never look there. They never look there,\u201d he repeats. I think, How am I going to explain to my wife that I am in jail in Columbus, Ohio? Maybe my editor will bail me out. Without looking at the time, I confirm that I have his numbers on my contacts list and begin memorizing them. But I have arranged them in a circle in my head like the numbers on a luminescent alarm clock. I hope I can keep the order straight. The cop sails past us, waving angrily because Duze hasn\u2019t pulled over to open the lane.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck, man, that was close. You almost got us busted, man! You\u2019ve got to learn to keep your shit together. I need a beer.\u201d<\/p>\n

When Duze takes an exit ramp I understand God has loaned me grace I will have to repay, and before he is fifty yards into the Pilot Travel Center, probably just at ten miles an hour, I swing open the door and leap out with my backpack, running. The door swings back and tries to trap me but misses. My legs are working better than they ever have before and I stride lightly and easily in enormous leaps across the tarmac until I begin to tumble in a ball and as I am rolling I ask myself, watching the roll with patience and very little pain, How many times will I fall from a truck during this pilgrimage? Is there a connection between Christian Marclay and pitching from an 18-wheeler? If they had twelve wheels, maybe. Of course there are watches with eighteen jewels, it occurs to me, and there again we have rotation and the center. I come to rest, my head bleeding and my left forearm road-rashed, in an itchy rectangle of dried yellow grass. I stand and see Duze running toward me so I sprint for the other side of the truck station, and though I\u2019ve always been a terrible runner, I outpace him easily.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m dodging between the pumps, staying low, watching for Duze\u2019s long arms and fingers.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, fella! Hey there, you!\u201d<\/p>\n

A man with an unmistakable Tennessee accent calls out to me but when I pinpoint him I\u2019m mistaken: there\u2019s a six-and-a half-foot-tall Asian man gesturing at me and speaking words that cannot be coming from his mouth. He raises his gold-mirrored sunglasses.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou in some kind of trouble. Get on over here. Come on, I ain\u2019t a snake, I ain\u2019t gonna bite ya. Come on now, boy, what\u2019s the problem?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s complicated,\u201d I explain with difficulty. \u201cI don\u2019t suppose you\u2019re headed towards New York.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, now, maybe I am and maybe I ain\u2019t. You looking for a lift? You on the run from the law?\u201d<\/p>\n

Abruptly the cogs of my brain become sprockets and gears again, and the lie comes out effortlessly: \u201cWoman trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI figured as much. Here, just hop on in.\u201d I was standing beside his truck the whole time.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to Albany for a race, but if you\u2019ll chip in some gas money and handle a bit of the driving I can take a bit of a side trip and leave you in Newark. Would that get you close enough to do it?\u201d<\/p>\n

I have no idea how far Newark is from New York but I seem to remember being trapped by heavy winds in an airport there once, and I know Duze is right behind me, so with my legs bent low, I sneak around the front of the truck to the passenger side of the black Chevy Tahoe and pull on the door. It\u2019s locked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou ain\u2019t some kind of a weirdo, are you? Cause I don\u2019t need no crap. I race Vipers and I\u2019m on my way to a track. I don\u2019t have anytime for fucking around. Excuse my language. You\u2019re not on drugs, are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Suddenly I remember how Matt Dillon is moving his jaw<\/a> while Kelly Lynch tries to seduce him just before the cops break down his door in Drugstore Cowboy<\/em>. This is my big chance and I\u2019m blowing it. I stand up straight and think of my Ben Hogans. Do I look like I\u2019m using?<\/p>\n

\u201cNo sir,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m a college professor,\u201d I explain, as though that excuses everything.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell you got yourself all jangled up on something, doctor,\u201d he says. \u201cBut if you can drive we\u2019ll turn this nine hours into six and a half. I\u2019m in a hurry.\u201d<\/p>\n

He unlocks the door and I climb in and it\u2019s the cleanest car I\u2019ve ever entered. The seats are slippery it\u2019s so clean. It smells like Murphy\u2019s Oil Soap.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll take the first shift. You close your eyes for a bit if you like.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not very sleepy,\u201d I explain. \u201cI don\u2019t suppose you have anything to drink?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a drinking man myself. But there\u2019s some bottled water in a box in the back. I ain\u2019t saying it\u2019ll be cold.\u201d<\/p>\n

He\u2019s already on the highway and I climb across the seats to get us both a bottle of water. I start to open his, out of politeness, but realize I shouldn\u2019t so that he won\u2019t think I\u2019m trying to slip him a mickey.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you from the Big Apple?\u201d He takes a sip of the lukewarm water and places it carefully in the black cup holder.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I explain. \u201cI\u2019m traveling to see a clock.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou like watches?\u201d He shakes his watch down his wrist. \u201cLook at that one there.\u201d<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a stainless steel Rolex Daytona Cosmograph, one of the most collectible consumer watches in the world. I have the uncanny feeling that I\u2019m making up the world as I\u2019m going along, and I\u2019m working with a very limited box of tools. Come on, I tell myself, you can do better than this. Like Wallace Stevens says, With a wishing lamp and a bucket of sand I could make a better world than this one.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor your racing,\u201d I say. I\u2019m not ready for explanations.<\/p>\n

\u201cSomething like that,\u201d he says, and laughs as long as the howl of a wolf.<\/p>\n

I take another sip of my water, and try not to think of David Bowie.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Eventually this shit will wear off. I\u2019m not that skinny. I\u2019ll be in Newark in seven hours. The Korean\u2014Sam is his name\u2014gives me a box of Kleenex and I clean up the blood from my head and my arm. I still haven\u2019t checked the time.<\/p>\n

Clancy Martin is the author of<\/em> How to Sell<\/a> and a contributing editor of <\/em>Harper\u2019s Magazine. Next: “Time’s a Goon<\/a>.”<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We\u2019re out this week, but we\u2019re re-posting some of our favorite pieces from 2011 while we\u2019re away. We hope you enjoy\u2014and have a happy New Year! The second installment of a three-part saga. Martin is hitchhiking from Kansas City, Missouri, to New York City in order to catch the last day of Christian Marclay’s The […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":126,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[1920,1544,1927,1926,387,1921],"class_list":["post-12299","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-christian-marclay","tag-clancy-martin","tag-columbus","tag-hitchhiking","tag-ohio","tag-the-clock"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nPart 2: Escape to Newark by Clancy Martin<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"December 27, 2011 \u2013 We\u2019re out this week, but we\u2019re re-posting some of our favorite pieces from 2011 while we\u2019re away. We hope you enjoy\u2014and have a happy New Year! 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