Travel Reference
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was tragic and comic, a random group of blue-collar grunts and white-collar wannabe road
warriors riding into the wilderness with liquor, reefer, bad behavior and pussy jokes in delu-
sional pursuit. Old stories were told and retold for the benefit of newcomers. Stories involving
road dogs of the female variety were a source of validation, as if we were unique among men,
and these very miles were like history in the making.
In the year of Whoredog, two elderly women wended through a crowded bar to sit near
us. They'd read the odds and picked the winners. One of us engaged one of them and made
her laugh. She loved his jokes. In no time it was the wee hours and he asked would she please
suck on his weewee. She declined. He begged,
come on, you gotta help me out with this thing
.
She declined more firmly, “No way in hell I'm gonna suck your dick, motherfucker. Now back
off!” She demurred, however, that a girl might change her mind for four bills. That would be
four hundred dollars, U.S.
The story emerged a few hours later that our guy got a hand job for twenty-five bucks on
a compelling case based on the exchange rate—Canadian dollars were so worthless—and the
sorry nature of a handjob compared to a blowjob. He asked for sympathy. And understand-
ing.
She scoffed, but she did get the stuff out like a jackhammer on a sewer main. Hell, she
could have killed him on a blowjob, unless she took her dentures out. Ha! The story died on
the toughest question: “Was it daylight yet?” The dour breakfast crowd moaned.
Yes, sunrise illuminated a desperate man and a practical woman with a madly pulled peck-
er between them. Haggard faces, beer bellies and slurs framed the romance.
Pathetic, yet it paled next to the second guy, a fellow short on stature who could barely
reach the pedals, who rode a rented Harley- Davidson with no motorcycle experience or so-
cial conditioning, dangerous in curves, in the passing lane and in public. Full throttle on
straightaways showed his skill. The swarthy little fellow was somebody's guest, because of po-
tential sales contacts or something.
he second woman fell in with the little guy. They chatted. He moved close to her. They
made out—tongue thrusters. Harry Woo scooted back, leaned forward and puked between
his legs. Coming up flush he said it wasn't them; he'd smoked a cigarette, his first cigarette
ever; it had seemed so right.
The scene was off, as in off-kilter, a distortion that fit the misadventure, the extreme heat
and cold, a road fund facilitating drunkenness in a weft and warp on nature and culture. By
morning the little guy strolled the parking lot hand in hand with his date. She'd given him a
terrific discount, and he wasn't even from Canada. After farewells and promises to do it again,
some time, he swaggered triumphantly into the dining room to announce, “I got my road
name.” Nobody looked up from his eggs. “I'm gonna be Sparky.”
“No. We got a Sparky. You're Whoredog.” The dour breakfast crowd laughed.
