Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
and senators. And the Snake man could have spiced up CSPAN with his diplomatic skills. He
seemed insane and well intentioned, so maybe it could have worked out.
I don't know how many of our women wanted to give themselves to Snake Who Runs that
night, but it was a few, till he grunted one last time and then snored. Susan had wisely biv-
ouacked on the periphery, away from the main fire. I found her there drying her hair, having
changed into clean shorts and a blue shirt with no bra, an enticement framed in personal com-
fort. Looking back it frames as opportunity lost. She saw me staring and said she didn't eat
meat. She unpacked an impressive little camp stove along with a mess kit and a bag of brown
rice. She cooked a cup of brown rice, and I had a square foot of sirloin to keep the peace. We
talked of where we'd been and what we'd seen. She said she didn't feel any too sure about that
snake guy. I told her everything was cool, but yeah, we'd best keep an eye out. She made no
bones about curling up next to me, though I slept sitting up till first light, when Boy Who
Leaves Early woke his travel companion who gathered her kit quick and quiet. We strolled up
to the main road to sling a thumb east, back toward the interstate.
Susan and I parted ways in LA after three days on the road camping one more night be-
hind another service station. Dirt and fatigue cancelled curiosities, and she said thanks, get-
ting into a cab to a friend's place just off the interstate. I suspected her friend was female and
felt slighted when she didn't invite me to stop in, clean up and relax, so I didn't ask for her
phone number or invite her down to my friend's place in Venice Beach. She wanted to check
out the University psychology department, which sounded chronic, but I didn't press. What
was to check out in a psychology department? I hitched on out to Venice thinking I could find
her later if I wanted to, and I went over to UCLA a few days later to look around, just for a
goof. I couldn't find her, no loss, except for the bang that likely wouldn't have happened any-
way. And then came the worry that maybe she expected me to invite her down to Venice, be-
cause Venice was hip elite, and she didn't want to seem pushy. That loss could have occurred
in any decade, yet a reunion with Susan would be more than friends remembering; the con-
text was so great.
Gary Cooper and I were pen pals by then. He'd sent three checks for fifty bucks each and
said he ought to have the rest by the time I got there. He didn't, but he had a Kawasaki 350
he was trying to sell for two bills, a fair deal that could pay me off and make me road flush.
Meanwhile, I could crash at his place and hang at the beach and check out the crazy scene
there or cruise on his Cow. I toured town one day, amazed that anyone would ever buy a two-
stroke scooter and a 350 at that, with the smoke screen and all that
wing a ding ding ding ding
. . . ding ding ding
. But it was great to have two wheels below and great to cruise some new
tundra, even urban tundra—it was Venice Beach in 1970 after all. I pulled in to gas up and a
guy working at the station said he'd been looking for a 350 to restore. Had I given any thought
to selling it?
Restore a Kawasaki 350? Why? Was I missing something?
