Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
opener. Ivy League University graduates may have required elaboration on an attempted ass
fucking, but those of us from the State U did not. Susan had already agreed on the phone
to share gas expense three ways. And surely I'd counted to three the moment I got in, after
agreeing to share. “Besides, gasoline expense wouldn't begin to cover wear and tear. Tires. Oil
change. Grease. Lube. Battery. U-joints. Points. Plugs. Condenser . . . windshield wipers . . .”
The guy already sounded like a candidate.
“Sharing is cool,” I said.
“Great. Okay, we were planning on LA, but we have to get back. But we do want to see
Taos. So we can take you that far if you share the gas. Okay?”
Susan shrugged, wondering instantly if this would play out as us against them. They
seemed unusual to say the least, removed from the spirit of the day. I said, “Sure. We can use
my credit card. In fact, I'd just as soon use it for all the gas and you can pay me back.” Six eye-
brows rose. So I pulled the credit card all the way out of my shirt pocket. The shotgun dude
said, “You want to put the gas on your credit card, and we pay you in cash?”
“Yeah. Why not? My fucked up, downed out father pays the tab. So why not?” A person-
ality defect had come to the surface; I'd matched their division by three with a sleight of hand
and pre-empted follow-up with another great offer. “Tell you what: you guys just pay me a
fourth. What the fuck. Dad's a rich fucker. Know what I mean?” Oh, they knew, so they went
along, shifting in their seats, seeking comfort on the advantage just gained. Was it the fair ad-
vantage they chronically anticipated? Susan looked me in the eyes, making me feel immoral,
until she cracked a fractional smile.
The crux for some was revolutionary behavior short of crime that could result in convic-
tion. I felt beyond, pondering flight from the country.
We camped that night in the full flavor of the times—in a clearing of the secondary road
to Taos, around a campfire with sandwiches, chips and sodas. It was peace now, right on,
fuck the pigs and down with the establishment at the expense of a combo gas station/grocery
store. Everything went on the card, gas, groceries, some stretchy seat covers, a couple quarts
of oil, some windshield juice and fuck it, throw in some that fruit juice too, and a deluxe snow
scraper, because you never know—oh, and some new wipers while we were at it. Why not?
I assured the Volvo boys that the crusty old fucker wouldn't feel it anymore than a princess
might feel a dildo under her mattress. They didn't get it but chuckled on cue and agreed that a
seventy-five percent discount didn't come along every day.
Giddy with victory, the
Hahvahd
boys scanned for what else might be granted as the at-
tendant walked around back to write the license number on the voucher. I thought the jig was
up. But the boys chortled, like the car was hot or they'd actually graduated from Beantown JC
with a major in drama. Or maybe Dad was so connected that credit card fraud would be a
trifle. They talked of tires, an oil change and a battery.
