Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
loan apps could show comprehension of requirements. Fifty grand was a hefty construction
loan in those days and got things well underway on a house that would go one-forty. Well,
they all go over budget, and Canna Screws did call for extra artistry.
Something had to give, since a mortgage could not remain unpaid, and a man of no means
was not king of the road. In that time of anxiety, bicycle riding felt meditative, a distraction of
physical exertion, in which thoughts might sort out. One day I passed a twenty-two wheel cab
and trailer in pearl burgundy with a chrome grill and red oval plaque:
Peterbilt
.
Native Americans and veterans of the 60s shared a weakness for beads and trinkets and
color coming on in waves. The big rig sat in front of a house near a sign: FOR SALE. I leaned
my bicycle on a bush and knocked on the door.
A hobbled man came out. Was the house for sale, or the rig? He said it'd come time to live
in the house, and his rig had some miles but they didn't show because of the rubdown she got
every night, the grease in her joints and fresh oil in her system and all manner of things that
keep a rig young. “Why, she cost you pert' near fifty thousand dollars new. She worked good
for me though, so all's I need is eleven. Eleven thousand dollars.”
I didn't have eleven thousand dollars but felt I could get it and then pay it back fairly
soon, what with my youth and vigor allowing extra hours on longer hauls. Endless highway
stretched into the future—the road future. I knew that place. “I think I might . . .”
The seller squinted, “Nah! You don't want to be a long hauler. Why, you got your whole life
ahead of you. What are you, twenty-three? Twenty-four maybe?”
“Thirty-four. I need to do something.”
He looked every bit of seventy-five. “I'm sixty-two. I can't hardly find interest in life
without a couple bennies and a quart o' joe. This rig'll break you, and you'll never get out of it
till you're done for. Go on. Try something else. Not trucking. If it don't work, never you mind.
Try something else again.”
It felt like a kid getting chastised. I rode home to the new house I could cover for two more
mortgage payments.
A visit to Hawaii seemed insupportable at the time, but it wasn't for warm weather, ocean
frolic and scantily clad women. Kenny B had also survived our prolonged youth with recre-
ational values intact. He too had grappled with practicality traction and urged the visit, to see
if two nickels might rub together for twelve cents.
The truth was that the tiger would soon eat us if we didn't grab its tail. And over extended
dreamy cocktails we agreed that the most gainful pursuit should include a yacht and a
decent income. By chance, Kenny's friend Drug—make that Doug—was driving a charter
boat loaded with tourists every day, each one representing a fifty dollar bill and a fair number
of them representing the old, adventurous spirit as well. So we fed the delusion of greatness,
this time in the tropics. Back at the bank—not the same bank but a new bank, new tax returns
backed a new loan app for a sailing yacht just like the one we'd imagined ourselves owning. A
