Aaawww… Mama
can this really be the end?»
No!
Who played that song? Did I actually hear that fucking thing on the jukebox just now? At 9:19 on this filthy grey morning in Wild Bill’s Tavern?
No. That was only in my brain, some long - lost echo of a painful dawn in Toronto… a long time ago, half - mad in another world…, but no different.
HELP!
How many more nights and weird mornings can this terrible shit go on? How long can the body and the brain tolerate this doom - struck craziness? This grinding of teeth, this pouring of sweat, this pounding of blood in the temples… small blue veins gone amok in front of the ears, sixty and seventy hours with no sleep.
And now that is the jukebox! Yes, no doubt about it and why not? A very popular song: “Like a bridge over troubled water… I will lay me down… ”
BOOM. Flashing paranoia. What kind of rat - bastard psychotic would play that song - right now, at this moment? Has somebody followed me here? Does the bartendress know who I am? Can she see me behind these mirrors?
All bartenders are treacherous, but this one is a surly middle - aged fat woman wearing a muu - muu and Iron Boy overalls… probably Wild Bill’s woman.
Jesus, bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing - intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out. Flee… and suddenly it occurs to me, some final flash of lunatic shrewdness before the darkness closes in, that my legal/hotel checkout time is not until noon… which gives me at least two hours of legitimate high - speed driving to get out of this goddamn state before I become a fugitive in the eyes of the law.
Wonderful luck. By the time the alarm goes off, I can be running full bore somewhere between Needles and Death Valley - jamming the accelerator through the floorboard and shaking my fist up at Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., swooping down on me in his FBI/Screaming Eagle helicopter.
YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE
(… warning to smack dealers seen on a bulletin board in Boulder, CO.)
Fuck you, Efrem, that wisdom cuts both ways.
As far as you and the Mint people know, I am still up there l850 - legally and spiritually if not in the actual flesh - a “Do Not Disturb” sign hung out to ward off disturb - The maids won’t come near that room as long as that sign is on the doorknob. My attorney saw to that - along with 600 bars of Neutrogena soap that I still have to deliver to Malibu. What will the FBI make of that? This Great Red Shark full of Neutrogena soap bars? All completely legal. The maids gave us that soap. They’ll swear to it… Or will they?
Of course not. Those goddamn treacherous maids will swear they were menaced by two heavily - armed crazies who threatened them with a Vincent Black Shadow unless they gave up all their soap.
Jesus Creeping God! Is there a priest in this tavern? I want to confess! I’m a fucking sinner! Venal, mortal, carnal, major, minor - however you want to call it, Lord… I’m guilty.
But do me this one last favor: just give me five more high - speed hours before you bring the hammer down; just let me get rid of this goddamn car and off of this horrible desert.
Which is not really a hell of a lot to ask, Lord, because the
incredible truth is that I am not guilty. All I did was take your
gibberish seriously… and you see where it got me? My primitive Christian instincts have made me a criminal.
Creeping through the casino at six in the morning with a suitcase full of grapefruit and “Mint 400” T - shirts, I remember telling myself, over and over again, “You are not guilty.” This is merely a necessary expedient, to avoid a nasty scene. After all, I made no binding agreements; this is an institutional debt - nothing personal. This whole goddamn nightmare is the fault of that stinking, irresponsible magazine. Some fool in New York did this to me. It was his idea, Lord, not mine.
And now look at me: half - crazy with fear, driving 120 miles an hour across Death Valley in some car I never even wanted. You evil bastard! This is your work! You’d better take care of me, Lord… because if you don’t you’re going to have me on your hands.
12. Hellish Speed… Grappling with the California Highway Patrol… Mano a Mano on Highway 61
Tuesday, 12:30 P.M… Baker, California… Into the Ballantine Ale now, zombie drunk and nervous. I recognize this feeling: three or four days of booze, drugs, sun, no sleep and burned out adrenalin reserves - a giddy, quavering sort of high that means the crash is coming. But when? How much longer? This tension is part of the high. The possibility of physical and mental collapse is very real now
… but collapse is out of the question; as a solution or even a cheap alternative, it is unacceptable.
Indeed. This is the moment of truth, that fine and fateful line between control and disaster - which is also the difference between staying loose and weird on the streets, or spending the next five years of summer mornings playing basketball in the yard at Carson City.
No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride… and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well… maybe chalk it off to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get eaten. It’s all in Kesey’s Bible… The Far Side of Reality.
And so much for bad gibberish; not even Kesey can help me I have just had two very bad emotional experiences - with the California Highway Patrol and another with a phantom hitchhiker who may or may not have been who I thought it was - and now, feeling right on the verge of a bad psychotic episode, I am hunkered down with my tape machine in a “beer bar” that is actually the back room of a huge Hardware Barn - all kinds of plows and harnesses and piled - up fertilizer bags, and wondering how it all happened.
About five miles back I had a brush with the CHP. Not stopped or pulled over: nothing routine. I always drive properly. A bit fast, perhaps, but always with consummate skill and a natural feel for the road that even cops recognize. No cop was ever born who isn’t a sucker for a finely - executed hi - speed Controlled Drift all the way around one of those cloverleaf freeway interchanges.
Few people understand the psychology of dealing with a highway traffic cop. Your normal speeder will panic and immediately pull over to the side when he sees the big red light behind him… and then we will start apologizing, begging for mercy.
This is wrong. It arouses contempt in the cop - heart.
The thing to do - when you’re running along about a hundred or so and you suddenly find a red - flashing CHP - tracker on your trail - what you want to do then is accelerate. Never pull over with the first siren - howl. Mash it down and make the bastard chase you at speeds up to 120 all the way to the next exit. He will follow. But he won’t know what to make of your blinker - signal that says you’re about to turn right.
This is to let him know you’re looking for a proper place to pull off and talk… keep signaling and hope for an off - ramp, one of those uphill side - loops with a sign saying “Max Speed 25”… and the trick, at this point, is to suddenly leave the freeway and take him into the chute at no less than a hundred miles an hour.
He will lock his brakes about the same time you lock yours, but it will take him a moment to realize that he’s about to make a 180 - degree turn at this speed… but you will be ready for it, braced for the Gs and the fast heel - toe work, and with any luck at all you will have come to a complete stop off the road at the top of the turn and be standing beside your automobile by the time he catches up.
He will not be reasonable at first… but no matter. Let him calm down. He will want the first word. Let him have it. His brain will be in a turmoil: he may begin jabbering, or even pull his gun. Let him unwind; keep smiling. The idea is to show him that you were always in total control of yourself and your vehicle - while he lost control of everything.
It helps to have a police/press badge in your wallet when he calms down enough to ask for your license. I had one of these - but I also had a can of Budweiser in my hand. Until that moment, I was unaware that I was holding it. I had felt totally on top of the situation… but when I looked down and saw that little red/silver evidence - bomb in my hand, I knew I was fucked..
Speeding is one thing, but Drunk Driving is quite another. The cop seemed to grasp this - that I’d blown my whole performance by forgetting the beer can. His face relaxed, he actually smiled. And so did I. Because we both understood, in that moment, that my Thunder Road, moonshine - bomber act had been totally wasted: We had both scared the piss out of ourselves for nothing at all - because the fact of this beer can in my hand made any argument about “speeding” beside the point.
He accepted my open wallet with his left hand, then extended his right toward the beer can. “Could I have that?” he asked.
“Why not?” I said.
He took it, then held it up between us and poured the beer out on the road.
I smiled, no longer caring. “It was getting warm, anyway,” said. Just behind me, on the back seat of the Shark, I couldabout ten cans of hot Budweiser and a dozen or so grapefruits. I’d forgotten all about them, but now they were too obvious for either one of us to ignore. My guilt was so gross and overwhelming that explanations were useless.
The cop understood this. “You realize,” he said, “that it’s a crime to..
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. I’m guilty. I understand that. I knew it was a crime, but I did it anyway.” I shrugged.
“Shit, why argue? I’m a fucking criminal.”
“That’s a strange attitude,” he said.
I stared at him, seeing for the first time that I was dealing with a bright - eyed young sport, around thirty, who was apparently enjoying his work.
“You know,” he said, “I get the feeling you could use a nap.” He nodded. “There’s a rest area up ahead. Why don’t you pull over and sleep a few hours?”
I instantly understood what he was telling me, but for some insane reason I shook my head. “A nap won’t help,”I said. “I’ve been awake for too long - three or four nights; I can’t even remember. If I go to sleep now, I’m dead for twenty hours.”
Good God, I thought. What have I said? This bastard is trying to be human; he could take me straight to jail, but he’s telling me to take a fucking nap. For Christ sake, agree with him: Yes, officer, of course I’ll take advantage of that rest area. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this break you want to give me.
But no… here I was insisting that if he turned me loose I would boom straight ahead for L.A. which was true, but why say it? Why push him? This is not the right time for a show - down. This is Death Valley… get a grip on yourself.
Of course. Get a grip. “Look,” I said. “I’ve been out in Las Vegas covering the Mint 400.” I pointed to the “VIP Parking” sticker on the windshield. “Incredible,” I said.
“All those bikes and dune buggies crashing around the desert for two days. Have you seen it?”
He smiled, shaking his head’ with a sort of melancholy un - derstanding. I could see him thinking. Was I dangerous?
Was he ready for the vicious, time - consuming scene that was bound to come if he took me under arrest? How many off - duty hours would he have to spend hanging around the courthouse, waiting to testify against me? And what kind of monster lawyer would I bring in to work out on him?
I knew, but how could he?
“OK,“ he said. “Here’s how it is. What goes into my book, as of noon, is that I apprehended you… for driving too fast conditions, and advised you… with this written warning - he handed it to me - ”to proceed no further than the next rest area… your stated destination, right? Where you an to take a long nap…“
He hung his ticket - pad back on his belt. “Do I make myself clear?” he asked as he turned away.
I shrugged. “How far is Baker? I was hoping to stop there for lunch.”
“That’s not in my jurisdiction,” he said. “The city limits are two - point - two miles beyond the rest area. Can you make it that far?” He grinned heavily.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to go to Baker for a long time. I’ve heard a lot about it.”
“Excellent seafood,” he said. “With a mind like yours, you’ll probably want the land - crab. Try the Majestic Diner.”
I shook my head and got back in the car, feeling raped. The pig had done me on all fronts, and now he was going off to chuckle about it - on the west edge of town, waiting for me to make a run for L.A.
I got back on the freeway and drove past the rest area to the intersection where I had to turn right into Baker. As I am proached the turn I saw… Great Jesus, it’s him, the hitchhiker, the same kid we’d picked up and terrified on the way out to Vegas. Our eyes met as I slowed down to make the corner. I was tempted to wave, but when I saw him drop his thumb I thought, no, this is not the time…
God only knows what that kid said about us when he finally got back to town. Get out of sight at once.