6 - On the road again
They
made Colorado Springs by dawn, the dark splotch of mountain growing into a
blue-black wall to their right. Historically, it had always been the great
black hand holding back pioneers from their great mistake, warning of dessert
and death in the open lands beyond its western reach. But gold proved a greater
lust, and the graves lined the traditional trails all the way to California.
Lance leaned against the passenger side glass,
staring at the carpet of green aspen and blue spruce along the roadside, aching
to wander into them and not come back. Not see another city or clump of
civilization. Lose himself in the primitive mind set of survival. Like a wolf.
Or Coyote. Their need to kill, he could understand. It was the human blood lust
which confused him.
Two men had died in Dan's mountainside
confrontation. An echo of Vietnam. Lance wondered if those men had cried for
their mothers when falling the way the men he'd seen had, moaning for God and salvation
amid the flames.
The flap of Dan's hat hid the man's hard face.
Was he thinking of their death, too? Or did they mean nothing in this callous
era where the news broadcast names like Mitchell, Torres, Medina and Calley. My
Lai drawing up anger in L.A. as did the bombing of Cambodia.
It made no sense. Nazis murdered women and
children, not American boys. The black hat didn't fit well on his head. And
while he detested violence, he'd volunteered for Vietnam, believing it his duty.
He came back a different person. The boy before `Nam' would
never
have robbed a safe or hid from the police.
He blamed it on culture shock; America had
deserted him during his tour of duty, changing its standard of heroism. His
kind was no longer acceptable. One didn't merely go off silently, one protested
in the streets.
Yet, he and the uncle he had robbed back east,
had that much in common. Neither could fully accept the change, despite their
verbal battles. Both loved solid things beneath their feet: a house, a job, a
mountain. Both found themselves confused by the generation of free love into
which they'd been thrust. His uncle as part of the establishment. Lance as a
participant.
It seemed reckless. And though he still
admired some of its message for peace and love, the rock-throwing craziness of
Chicago still left a bad taste in his mouth. Revolution had replaced flowers
and it scared him. All he wanted now was a job and a place to live.
Sarah touched his shoulder, and he looked up.
"Don't look so sad," she said in a
soft voice meant to be kind. "You're not missing as much as you think.
There's nothing in those mountains but stone and sheep."
"There might be a job."
Dan snorted and coughed, then reached into his
shirt pocket for a cigarette. "Not many of those in these parts unless
you're a redneck working for the government. The whole state's a bloody war machine.
Half the mountains are hollowed out with some secret base or another."
"There must be something," Lance
mumbled, staring up at the white topped mountains.
"You'd have to cut your hair," Dan
said. "They don't like
hippies."
Lance's reflection in the side mirror startled
him. The long-tangled hair, contradiction with the way he saw himself, though
he recognized the familiar high cheek bones and stern eyes-- a near duplicate
of his uncle's.
"Besides they roll up the sidewalks
around here at night. Who could live like that?"
"I could," Lance said.
"Not me. Give me L.A. with its 24-hour a
day life."
"Me, too," added Sarah.
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