Issue 110, Spring 1989
A salesman who shared his liquor and steered while sleeping .. . A Cherokee filled with bourbon .. . A VW no more than a bubble of hashish fumes, captained by a college student . . .
And a family from Marshalltown who head–onned and killed forever a man driving west out of Bethany, Missouri. . .
. . . I rose up sopping wet from sleeping under the pouring rain, and something less than conscious, thanks to the first three of the people I’ve already named —the salesman and the Indian and the student —all of whom had given me drugs. At the head of the entrance ramp I waited without hope of a ride. What was the point, even, of rolling up my sleeping bag when I was too wet to be let into anybody’s car? I draped it around me like a cape. The downpour raked the asphalt and gurgled in the ruts. My thoughts zoomed pitifully. The traveling salesman had fed me pills that made the linings of my veins feel scraped-out. My jaw ached. I knew every raindrop by its name. I sensed everything before it happened. I knew a certain Oldsmobile would stop for me even before it slowed, and by the sweet voices of the family inside of it I knew we’d have an accident in the storm.
I didn’t care. They said they’d take me all the way.
The man and the wife put the little girl up front with them, and left the baby in back with me and my dripping bed–roll. “I’m not taking you anywhere very fast,” the man said. “I've got my wife and babies here, that’s why.”
You are the ones, I thought. And I piled my sleeping bag against the left–hand door and slept across it, not caring whether I lived or died. The baby slept free on the seat beside me. He was about nine months old.
. . . But before any of this, that afternoon, the salesman and I had swept down into Kansas City in his luxury car. We’d developed a dangerous cynical camaraderie beginning in Texas, where he’d taken me on. We ate up his bottle of amphetamines, and every so often we pulled off the interstate and bought another pint of Canadian Club and a sack of ice. His car had cylindrical glass–holders attached to either door, and a white, leathery interior. He said he’d take me home to stay overnight with his family, but first he wanted to stop and see a woman he knew.
Under midwestern clouds like great gray brains we left the super highway with a drifting sensation and entered Kansas City’s rush hour with a sensation of running aground. As soon as we slowed down, all the magic of travelling together burned away. He went on and on about his girlfriend. “I like this girl, I think I love this girl —but I’ve got two kids and a wife, and there’s certain obligations there. And on top of everything else, I love my wife. I'm gifted with love. I love my kids. I love all my relatives.” As he kept on, I felt jilted and sad: “I have a boat, a little sixteen–footer. I have two cars. There’s room in the backyard for a swimming pool.” He found his girlfriend at work. She ran a furniture store, and I lost him there.