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My spirit of adventure limits itself these
days to an occasional trip to the mountains
or the sea in the comfort of my user-friendly
Mustang. I broke in my old friend gently
after its delivery off the lot of a car
dealership in Bakersfield and gave it full
rein as a stallion in thrilling cross-country
drives from its native California to the
rock-bound coast of Maine and Eastern Canada,
south to the coral-reef shores of the Florida
Keys, and home again, time after time.
It never let me down, and now, twenty years
into its life, patched, freshly painted,
restrutted, rewheeled and deeply loved,
it takes me off again on what may be our last
trip together.
Unlike my car, not much patching can be done
on this old carcass of mine. Symptoms tell me
quietly, and doctors loudly, that if I don't
watch it and stay near the civilized world,
I may find myself alone and far away once
too often, and my car may become my tomb when
I slump lifeless over the wheel. But such a
good way to go, at rest forever within the
confines of my friend in a lonely place where
none shall find us till we lie rusted together
in a dark spot on the infinite sand.
The sand! The desert I have come to love during
my life in Southern California!
At first it was the trees, redwoods and sequoias,
stately, tall, aloof in cool shadows, where I
drove my friend and supped in splendor leaning
against its fender, using its hood for a table.
The fragrant forest air was seasoning enough to
turn my sourdough bread and bit of Monterey Jack
into a Parisian feast I washed down with mineral
water whose bubbles could be heard bursting in
the silence of the glade.
Then, it was mountains and, next, the edges of
the sea, before I came at last in preference to
the land of the stumpy Joshua tree, the flowering
cactus, the lizard's tongue-darting hellos, the
land of Rattlesnake Joe who never once came out
to see me, but whose distant rattle I have often
heard when I stepped from the car to pee. When
a coyote's howl seemed like music to me, I knew
that the desert had become truly my home.
I drive through gullies now, gently, as my
Mustang requires me to do. We are not man and
machine, but friends who help each other along
the way. I steer and give him the gas. He snorts
a bit and takes the brake, but never falters
on the rocky soil.
We round a bend. What's this? Ruined and ghostly
shacks in these forlorn wilds? What men were
here? Ah, a mine gapes in the mountain wall,
collapsed scaffolding bent to time and wind,
draped like wooden veiling across the entryway.
An old mine tram upended on broken railings
looks so sad with its worn wheels pointing to the sky.
I stop the car and go over to lend a hand.
"Well, old feller, what burden did you carry
in your working days? Gold, perhaps? Yes,
let's say gold. The miners prospered and
left you here to die? Poor thing! Upright
you go! Stand tall! No tracks left, I fear.
only a broken yard or two. What's this?"
I stand back, surprised. There is tracking I did
not see before, and an engine sounds around the
bend! A train? In the desert here?
Lo, there it comes. Good God, will it stop in
time? Whew! Just in the nick! Just at my dick!
What the hell?
"Excuse me, sir," I hear. "I am conductor of
this train. All aboard!"
"But what is this?" I say. "I have no ticket,
no place to go!"
"No matter, sir," he replies, a bit impatiently,
his lips set in a narrow, disapproving line. "The
bill is paid. You take too long. No more delay.
Come quickly, please. It is time."
I board the train. We pull away. My old Mustang
sits forlorn. Do its headlights droop? Does it
cry?
"Sit down, sir. Dinner soon. The bell will ring."
I sit, the train picks up speed., the desert
whizzes past as sunset comes, and darkness. I
can see outside no more. The bell sounds. I rise
from my seat in the railway coach and go forward.
I have not been in such a train in years, what
they used to call a Pullman car with seats that
make up into beds. It's not old at all. It seems
so fresh and new.
This train is smooth, without a lurch. Ah! The
dining car! A table prepared for one, the others
empty. Am I alone?
"May I seat you, sir," the conductor asks from
behind. "I recommend the meat loaf tonight.
Very good."
"If that's what I smell, it's got to be good.
Haven't smelled anything like it since my mom
died when I was a kid! Who's your cook?"
"It's on the menu, sir," he says, passing a bill
of fare to me.
"Mother's in the kitchen, and all is right with
the world," is the slogan across the top. "A
meal without potatoes is like a day without
sunshine," is the slogan at the bottom. The only
things on the menu are "Special of the Day -
Meat Loaf with Mashed Potatoes and Brown Gravy,
Green Beans, Whole Milk, and Mom's Apple Pie a la
Mode with Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream."
"Well, I'll be damned!" I exclaim, sitting to the
table and tucking the large napkin into my collar.
"I'm ready for a helluva feed!"
The conductor shakes his prissy head. "Tsk, tsk,
sir. Your frames of reference are hardly correct.
You will be BLESSED. You must be prepared for a
HEAVENLY feed."
This is too much. I snatch the napkin from my
throat and spring out of my chair. Shit! My
tired old ass feels great! Hasn't had that much
spring in it for years!
"Conductor, " I rant, "what's going on? I want
off this crazy train!"
Another voice echoes though the dining car.
"I don't think so, pal. I'm your waiter on the
Dream Train. We've got a big surprise for you."
I look around and see a husky man rumbling along
the aisle in a waiter's white jacket, bearing a
plateful of food.
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
A third voice comes over the loudspeaker on the
ceiling: "Sit down and eat your supper, son!"
Mom! "Mom?" I cry.
The waiter rolls his index finger around his
ear signaling that I must be a dingbat. The
conductor nods. They look at me. Feeling mighty
foolish, I sit. Mom died when I was eight. Okay,
so I'm nuts. This guy in the white jacket, is he
from the nuthouse, or is he really a waiter, like
he says?
The meal is served. Oh, boy, was that conductor
right - a HEAVENLY repast, and the house wine
doesn't taste exactly cheap.
The apple pie?
"In words of Oliver Twist," I say, lifting my
empty plate aloft, "I want some more!"
"Enough, son," I hear my mother's voice say over
the loudspeaker again. "I see you grew up and
got fat!"
I blanch. I am sensitive about my weight. "Yes,
Mother," I agree to the empty air, feeling more than
ever a fool. I look at the waiter. The conductor
is gone. "What's my surprise?"
The waiter sits down across the table from
me. "Well, for starters, we know you're gay."
Shit! Sixty-five years in the closet, and
some stranger on a train knows that I'm GAY?
This is no Dream Train. It's the Nightmare
Express!
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