Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
slogging through the process and said, “Hey. Are you worried that I won't want to see this guy
burn? It's not a problem. Okay?”
“But you said you were a conscientious objector. I mean, that's why I . . .”
“Vietnam is not WWII. I'm not a conscientious objector, and even if I was, this ain't that.”
They had the guy fingered, picked up and in a line-up in no time. The victim and I scanned
all the guys in the line-up a few times and separately identified the same guy. But I got to the
courtroom to learn that the rapee had changed her mind; she couldn't be sure; she'd been so
surely flummoxed by the defense. The case was dismissed and the guy walked away.
She knew he was the guy but got stuck on the death penalty. She got stuck on many people
insisting on absolute certainty, because a guy was going to die, and it would be on her. They
broke her down. I saw it coming and wasn't surprised.
I had a job in North Miami pumping gas and waxed a few cars on the side at fifteen bucks
a pop. Shit, six cars a month would cover rent, and the cars lined up for gas and the asking.
How perfect could it get? With free fruit and avos and squids at forty-five cents a pound, life
wasn't so bad for the short term.
The cops came back around to ask if I might have a chat with the victim. Why not? It was
brief. I told her I had no doubt on the defendant—he was the guy. I pointed out a few details:
the dark, greasy complexion, a single spit curl up front, one dimple, except that it wasn't a
dimple but a scar with a small star tattooed in the crater, evil eyes under bushy, sloping brows.
But if she didn't want to see him die, then she could let him off.
Between a shit and a sweat herself, she hung her head to ask softly if it would be terrible if
he walked and then raped again?
I said yes, it would be terrible, and we were done.
It seemed like a waste of time and pathetic. She got raped twice. I sensed something in the
making and fed a blank page around the platen to begin. That was tough, waiting and watch-
ing, like the words would appear as they had on New Year's Eve, 1969. They did not appear.
Instead America came on the radio to preempt my narrative on social irony with a lyric of
greater sadness on a more personal irony. We had loved the road, yet it led us to a dead end,
to a place where spirits went away. The key line in Easy Rider was, “We blew it.” And there we
were, outsiders in a world growing more practical, idealistic with no prospects at twenty-two,
gazing at nothing but arid desert and heat ripples
on a horse with no name.
America captured
every facet of the revolutionary years, even the end song.
Which just goes to show how quickly an era can end, can fold over into what comes
next—how quickly a brain can throw a rod. With comforts met and a reasonably tolerant girl-
friend who did not begrudge me every few days, I despaired. Cheap rent, warm weather, free
citrus and avocados and semi-regular leg would not last, and I knew it as surely as a fresh page
would yellow. Maybe a rapist walking free triggered my personal depression. What seemed
more likely was a mutual failure with a wrongful society.
