My Last Ride

(This is a piece that I wrote last year, a story about some adventures I had hitchhiking, a lifetime ago.)

It is cold, and the wind fans the dry patches of grass in the ditch where I am laying.  I am still and quiet, trying to keep myself warm by thinking of the Thanksgiving dinner that I would have had if I had stayed home, and not gone off to try and shed my skin again.  The stars above me are brilliant and bright, I welcome their company.  I am trying to stay awake, although there is nothing more that I want in this world than sleep.  I hear the occasional hum of tires on asphalt in the distance, and every so often, the rustling of some creature of the night.  I hope it is not the man who is out there, looking for me.  By now, the fear has bled out, and I am spent.  If I am found, I wonder if there is enough strength left in my limbs to strike out in my own defense, because until I felt my legs give way, I ran.  

I ran and did not look back until I could no longer hear his cursing, as he fumbled around for a flashlight and pursued me through the red dirt somewhere in Western Oklahoma.  If I am killed, I will disappear into the landscape, my ghost cut loose to roam these lonely roads that are the guts of America.  In the long hours that pass, from the dark of midnight until the sun begins to lighten the Eastern sky, I dream my death.  It is not at all what I expected when I set out from Fayetteville, a few short weeks ago. 

I did not hesitate when Poppy asked me to walk away from my job,  It was warm, for November, and we were out back sharing a joint while Carolyn, my co-worker covered the register.   Poppy said that if we left in the morning, we could make Albuquerque by the weekend.  He told me that Albuquerque is a good place to spend the winter, and he knew a few people out there that wouldn’t mind if we crashed on the couch.  When we walked back inside, I told Carolyn that I was leaving.  

I left her with my uniform shirt, and told her to hang on to my last paycheck.  We pilfered some snacks and cigarettes from the shelves and went to collect my things from the place where I had stashed them.  That night we had a party in the way that kids do, as if we were setting out on an expedition to Mars, and that we would never see our friends gathered in a room like this one again.  

In the morning we untangled ourselves from the bodies splayed out amongst flooded ashtrays and crushed cans.  We tossed our packs on our backs and marched like soldiers off to fight a war.  By noon we had made it as far as Van Buren, and feeling the wind in our sails, we decided to find a place to have a cup of coffee and sit down to eat.  We made it to the parking lot of a convenience store before we encountered our first sign of trouble, a police cruiser that followed slowly behind us and flashed lights.  

We sat on the hood of his squad car while townspeople slowed down and leered at me, a Manson family reject, and Poppy, a punk rock version of Jimi Hendrix.  When the cop felt satisfied, that we had been made to feel unwelcome in this small place that he protected from those whose only threat was their disregard for the things he held sacred, he drove us out past the limits of his control, and set us free.  We pieced together one short ride after the next until we crossed the border and it was the evening of the first day.  We spent that night under an overpass outside of Oklahoma City, as the wind came roaring in from the north and we struggled to sleep in our thin Army surplus jackets and quilted blankets. 

Another day passed and the grass thinned and the land looked empty as we drifted in a sea of dirt.  We felt the first pangs of hunger and our lips chapped and bled from the grit that constantly whipped our faces.  

A lifetime of experience was compressed into the span of five days as we watched one car after another drive by and told each other truths and fictions, to pass the time.  Every so often, a pickup truck would slow down and we would hop in the back as we inched our way a little further down the road.   We crossed into Texas, our heads hung low and our bellies empty, but we talked about Albuquerque like it was the promised land and there was no turning back.

In the afternoon of our last day in the wilderness, we saw the familiar silhouette of a Volkswagen van crest a hill and gear down, throwing up a cloud of debris as we ran to meet it.  The smiling face of asaint with eyes bloodshot, beamed down on us and we knew that we were delivered.  As the miles ticked by on the odometer, we filled the cabin up with a thick heavy smoke and watched it drift out the windows, until we spilled out onto the sidewalks of Albuquerque at long last.  

We beat a path towards the University, picking up a bottle on our way to find a cozy spot on the flat roof of a building on campus, where our driver told us no one would bother us, if we kept to ourselves.

The two weeks that I spent in that fabled city was a tale not worth telling.  True, the weather was mild, and we found spaces in the corners where we could crash.  But, for me, there was a point when things began to turn.  The easy life got to be just as monotonous as standing behind a register collecting someone else’s money, and when Poppy told me he was taking off with a girl to California, I knew I’d better go home while I still had a few dollars in my pocket.

I don’t remember saying goodbye, I just remember walking away and sitting on my backpack looking to the West at the painted sky, and the sun glinting off the chrome on the cab of a Peterbilt.  I climbed in and looked across at the driver, a great beast of a man, his face hidden behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. 

The first words the trucker said as we took on speed were, “You ain’t one of them goddamn queers, are you?  Because I will kill a faggot.”  I considered the circumstances, and knew that there was no right answer.  I felt the pressure of the folding knife so far out of reach in my pocket.  I answered, “No.”, and saw him glare at me.  He began to rant, and the hate that was covered by pale, scabby flesh made my stomach churn and I began to feel sick.  He would pause, and wait, playing a game to see if I would crack, if he would find his reason, his excuse.  For hours the game continued and the tension made me tired.  I leaned on the door, pretending to drift off to sleep, with one hand searching for the handle.  Through slitted eyes I watched him, wondering what the end of all of this would be.  By the time we crossed into Oklahoma, it was late, and the world was dark.  He didn’t slow down when he hit the off ramp and it wasn’t until we were well out of sight that he began to brake.  

I waited for my chance and I pulled the handle and launched myself out the cab, tumbling ass over elbows as the truck lurched to a stop in the gravel.  I fell face first over a barbed wire fence, and felt it pull at me.  I let it take my flesh, but I did not stop.

That night in my fitful sleep, I dreamed my death, and I flew up and over the spiteful land until I reached the shore of a distant sea.  When I woke to the dawn of a new day, I was hungry and alone, but it didn’t matter.  I got a ride from a kind man who had been a traveler too.  He said that he picked up everyone that he passed on the side of the road, because he’d been there.   He let me make a call to Carolyn’s mom who lived in Norman.  He bought me eggs and hash browns, and we talked until she arrived.  Carolyn’s mom took me as far as she could, but when I saw the look on her face as the gas gauge slipped over into the red, I gave her the last of my money and waved goodbye.  

When the rain started to fall, cold and hard I began to walk, and I let the cars pass by me without a gesture.  I walked back into town, bedeviled by the wind and the water.  I went straight over to Carolyn’s, took the key from under the mat and let myself in.  I peeled away the clothing so heavy and wet, and lay down on the warm rug to take my rest. 

Dream City

It takes the better part of a day to cross the mountains from the sweltering heat of Guayaquil to the cool, damp air of Cuenca in a shuttle bus. In the fashion of a true Guayaquileño, the driver of our van goes slow when he should go fast, fast when he should go slow, and occasionally steers with his knee while he texts on a vintage Blackberry.  The blind curves of the winding road are seen as an opportunity to challenge slower traffic as well as the fortitude of his human cargo.  Maybe he suspects that I find his driving skills to be less than professional, because I see him looking at me in the rear view mirror with disdain.  Perhaps it is some motive that I cannot divine, but whatever has drawn his ire, I try to deflect it, hoping that he will concentrate more closely on the road ahead.  The view from the window is enchanting, as we cross through various climate zones and the culture of the coast, with it’s striving hustle, gives way to the mountain peoples measured calm.  As I fight the nausea and the urge to expel this morning’s modest breakfast, I keep being drawn into vistas that pass, as elusive as butterflies.  From the dense forests of the foothills, to the foggy peaks of the Andes, I want to shout at the driver to stop and indulge my desire to walk this land at a pace it’s grandeur demands.  The hillsides, thick with foliage, and lakes that mirror the sky above, inspire vivid daydreaming of wild adventures and exploration.   

Having spent much of my life in Central Arkansas, with it’s low hills and meandering waterways, I am always awed by geologically volatile places.  The Andes are young, and like youth everywhere, they tend to be loud and audacious.  Every so often, one of the volcanoes that run down the rugged spine of the Ecuadorean high country spews red hot magma into the atmosphere and the old gods of the earth demand their tribute.  In return they allow us to see the inner workings of a planet that is daily taken for granted as we look ever inward and the small miracles that are offered to us go unobserved.  I wonder if the other passengers in the van think of this country in the way that I do, or if it is just the space that separates two places; a daily or weekly commute to be endured.  With a glance at faces lit by tiny screens, I know the answer, but I deny it the light of day so as not to spoil my fantasies.  Fortunately my wife, who is accompanying me, has not seen enough of the mountains to be immune to their charms, even though this is her native country. 

By early afternoon, we make it to the suburbs of Cuenca, with it’s new constructions and curious abstract architecture.  Even the homicidal driver has not dampened my mood although he has very nearly killed several children and hunchbacked elderly women.  As the streets narrow towards the center of town, he seems to speed up and pedestrians, accustomed to the mania, move at the precise moment necessary to avoid being casualties.  When we arrive at the terminal, our chauffeur is the first to exit as if fleeing the scene of a crime.  We extract our gear and stretch compacted limbs as a cold, hard rain begins to fall.  By the time we hail a taxi, to make the final leg of our journey, we are soaked to the bone.  

We drop our backpacks off at the hotel, a converted colonial residence with rooms that open onto the courtyard, and hit the cobblestone.  One of the first things that you will notice about Cuenca is the abundance of bakeries, each and every one beckoning you to stop and have a bite to eat, and wash it down with the ubiquitous Nescafe.  We gave in to our cravings and grabbed a croissant as we began our tour of the city, heading over to the flower market in front of the San Marino Cathedral.  Naturally, it is a good place to take a few pictures and marvel at the variety of colorful blooms on display.  To our surprise, there was a street fair to showcase the skill of the local pâtissier’s that rivaled the palette of the floral vendors.  We indulged ourselves, yet again, and set out to see as much of Cuenca as we could, all the while keeping in mind we had only 48 hours to pack it in. 

Salinas

On the eleventh floor, the wind moans.  It is a deep, full sound that waxes and wanes.  You can imagine yourself high in the rigging of a sailing ship that rocks with the waves.  I watch the glowing ember of a cigarette float from a nearby balcony, sailing over the beach and fading away when it reaches open water.   It is quiet, and past midnight as the transit police truck passes the Barcelo Casino flashing red and blue lights.  It slowly proceeds down the one way street and turns back on a never-ending circuit.  Besides the occasional taxi, there is no other traffic on the fresh asphalt that crisscrosses town.  My wife and children sleep soundly inside the apartment.  Besides the man in the lobby, and a few other night owls, the city of Salinas is dreaming.  I can see down the boardwalk to the West, all the way to the white sands of Chipipe, and further still, the hilltop lit with cell towers.  Beyond the hill, there is the Pacific, the lights of ships in the distance, and the ghosts of their companions, lost to the sea.  Salinas is not the best beach town in Ecuador, and it verges on madness during holidays, but if you can catch it when the crowds thin and the streets are empty, it seems like heaven...(excerpt)

The White City

As my wife and I stood by and waited for a man with a machete to open our coconuts so that we could drink the sweet milk from inside, I was overwhelmed with joy.  The love of life and the simple pleasures of a coconut in the graveyard hung a toothy grin on my face that could be seen from the moon.  Tinny voices echoed off of the marble and granite, a rapid fire accounting of a football match the groundskeepers were following.  Majestic palms towered over me and stretched towards the grey sky above.  I knew that we were lucky to be given this chance to walk in the warm light of the sun, and feel the thick, humid air of the tropical morning.  It was good to be among the living, inside the walls of the the White City, a city of the dead.

It seems that if you go anywhere in Guayaquil, Ecuador, you pass the Cementerio General, or the White City, as it is also known due to the color of the gravestones that jut out from patches of vibrant green grass.  It's omnipresence is a reminder that, for all of us, that there is an end to our terrestrial wandering.  Of the many times I have visited Guayaquil, home to my wife's sprawling Latin family, the cemetery tempted me, but we had never gone.  I'm not sure I can account for why we hadn't, but we always seemed to have something else to do, and then there were the warnings that it was a dangerous place where bandits hid out amongst the tombs waiting to rob you or take you on a ride in the trunk of an economy sized sedan until your loved ones forked over the customary ransom.  As luck would have it, we didn't encounter any danger, save for the steep slopes of the Cerro del Carmen, the hill that dominates the surrounding landscape of the banks of the Rio Guayas.

We arrived by taxi having come from the suburban sprawl of Samborondon, passing through the tunnel that cuts under the neighborhood of Las Peñas, where multicolored shanties cling to the hillside.  We paid our fare and walked past the women selling flowers and other religious trinkets that we had no good use for and politely declined.  A guard took our names and looked over our passports, just in case we disappeared in the vast crypts I supposed, or maybe there was some truth to all of the wild rumors we had heard.  Nevertheless, I felt it was worth the risk.  

The area closest to the entrance is pristinely maintained and there are wide avenues where the ghosts of the families of means are free to congregate much as they would in the private clubs and gated neighborhoods they inhabit in life.  The magnificent sculptures portray faces with such detail that you can imagine the figures stepping down off their pedestals and out into the street.  As we carried on, we read the epitaphs and the dates marking the borders of a persons existence, imagining what they were like and the many things they had seen and done and how they came to meet their fate.  

There are also mausoleums and shrines that hint at the varying tastes of the eras in which they were constructed from the early nineteenth century when the cemetery was founded onwards.  There are politicians, and generals, as well as their rivals, all tossed in together, their battles fought, their swords gone to rust.  Men of letters, whose lives are confined to the space of a paragraph by the limits of the real estate they are allotted are there too, and lovers whose bodies are rendered in cold hard stone unable to give solace to the heartbroken.  A sea of bones lies under this ground, the history of the city and the nation outside, and one of many on this earth that we have filled with them.

There is a separate area in the cemetery, where Jews are interred as necessitated by social norms in this overwhelmingly Catholic country.  Their burials are marked with the Star of David and stones in lieu of flowers; their grave sites simpler without the grand ceremony of the Christian dead.  It was in this section where my wife and I first paused and gazed out on the crowded neighborhoods and skyscrapers that advanced outside the walls of the White City.  There was a breeze and we drank it in.  I left Mariella with a kiss as I proceeded up the steep slopes toward the ridge for a better view.  I stopped to take a few pictures and occasionally to pay respects to those who had passed on.  With each step, the burials became more erratic until they seemed to be stacked one on top of the other and the grounds were left untended.  Where there was neglect, the earth itself had begun to take over and the gnarled roots of short, hearty trees cracked stone.  I felt my heartbeat quicken with the altitude and the stifling view.  My heart was heavy and my mind burdened with the thought that those overlooked in life are also left unremembered in death.  I stopped in front of a small stone cross that bore crude lettering that indicated that two children were buried here, ages 6 and 9, names unknown.  I stood there alone and let tears well up in my eyes and stream down my face and whispered a prayer of rest for their souls and turned to slowly descend back towards where my wife was waiting.

After I found her and we had our break, I finished up my roll of film and we found where Mariella's family plot was located, conveniently close to the exit.  We visited her great grandmother and talked about how nice it would be to sleep amongst such good company.  We had always considered ourselves the kind to be cremated, our ashes tossed into the wind, but now I'm not so sure.  Walking through a graveyard is a good thing, no matter where you happen to be.  It's quiet, and a good place to think about things that tend to be put off when we're sitting at our desks, or in line at the grocery store, or staring at the tail end of the car in front of us in traffic.  I won't tell you any of those things that people like to throw in your face like, "live every day like it's your last", or "dance like nobody's watching", and all the other nonsense that sells books and diet plans these days.  I'm not qualified to do that, and besides, I'm not sure if that's always the best advice.  I can say one thing for certain though, it's good to eat coconuts in a graveyard.