Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I could not imagine anyone so inured to common sense—what we at the State U called
stupid. With a tinge of guilt I wanted to suggest a good story for when the credit card company
came calling for payment. But the campfire blazed with future prospects. The gifted young
men fairly crooned over career potential and political contacts. Names dropped with the dew
as I yawned my way to horizontal. Susan stretched out beside me. At some point she nestled
in for warmth. We woke at dawn, startled in our snuggle. I assured her it was cool. She sat up,
perhaps prodded to do so. She ignored me admirably and softly suggested that, in her opin-
ion, we would be better off hitchhiking rather than traveling with the Volvo boys. I asked what
she thought was wrong with them. She looked me in the eyes again. She shrugged.
Two hours later we rolled into Taos and another service station. I told the boys that Susan
and I would say goodbye, because we'd decided to stay in Taos for a while. They nodded and
turned away, then turned back to ask if the credit card might be for sale. Karmic consequence
seemed balanced, and one of them flashed two twenties—they wanted to rack up a road trip
on my father's credit card in exchange for forty dollars. Their worldly way made the answer
easy. “Why the fuck not?” I felt like a courier getting paid. Old Dad died ten years earlier,
which somehow seemed right.
We watched them head out, flush with greater potential, highballing into a dazzling future.
Susan and I hoofed a mile or two the other way toward a village. Hiking down that solitary
road, I asked if she felt better. She said, “Yes.” The bond between us was silent and tangible. In
a minute she said, “I'm around those guys all year. I didn't come this far for more of the same.
Besides . . .”
In another while I asked, “Besides what?”
Togetherness sometimes happened. Sometimes it flowed. Susan was easy, deferential on
some things, taking charge on others. She knew where to make camp, what to buy and who to
trust, applying her smarts to the road like a veteran.
We hiked to the truck stop in the village where the word was that “we” were camping by
the springs another two miles out, and so we went and sure enough. Another blessing of the
road was discovering “us” in another homecoming of brothers and sisters. One of us at the
springs was extra dirty and tough, with his hair pulled back and woven into pigtails bound
by a headband with two feathers out the top in back. His hair wasn't simply naturally dirty; it
looked like he'd poured dirt on it. Some beads and dangles off his leather vest in front did not
make him look like Willie Nelson.
Mental and dark; assessment took a fraction of the usual moment required. Snake Who
Runs drove a new Buick Electra 225 convertible with the top down. Some of us were familiar
with the Electra deuce 'n a quarter because of establishment-based parents, or we had friends
with affluent parents. This guy seemed way outside that realm, but he seemed sincere in say-
ing, “Hey, come on. Throw your stuff in back. I need help with the groceries.” He spoke direc-
