9 – Old friends meet
"What
are we stopping for?" Dan groaned from the rear of the van, accompanied by
a string of waking coughs. He sounded on death's door step.
"Gas," Lance said, struggling to
downshift. The gears stuck.
Something
done to it during Dan's mad adventure on the mountain back in Denver.
He swung the van wide around the curving ramp,
the veil of trees giving way to signs of civilization: a series of low brown buildings
designed to fit in with the surroundings. Gas station. Big Boy restaurant.
Bathroom facilities.
"Gas?" Dan said, pushing his
pillow-wrinkled face through the paisley printed curtain which separated the
front seat from the back. His bloated eyes studied the rest area and the
near-full parking lot. His expression said he'd slept badly. Nightmares of Denver
most likely. "How far did we get?"
"We're just short of Trinidad,"
Sarah said, pointing to the map spread out on her lap. She'd played navigator
for miles, marking their progress with her finger.
"Trinidad?" Dan howled. "This
is redneck country. Can't we make it into New Mexico?"
"No," Lance said, indicating the
gauge and the needle hugging the empty line.
"What about the reserve tank?"
"It's full. But I don't want to tackle
the pass with only that."
Dan took a deep breath, then coughed again,
slowly shaking his head. Raton Pass was not the Rockies, but no easy matter
either.
The
van had struggled with it coming north and wouldn't find it easy going back.
Lance had noticed smoke during the up and down hills of route 25.
"I see your point," Dan mumbled and
rubbed his stubbly chin with the palm of his hand. "Give me a cigarette
will you, I'm out."
Lance tossed him a pack of Marlboros from the
dashboard. Dan flipped one out and lit it, his hands still shaking. Meanwhile
the van rolled into the parking lot, pickup trucks, campers and tourists
cruisers filling most of the spaces. Tour buses cluttered the curb nearest the
buildings, dark uniformed drivers leaning against their sides looking bored.
"Gas
or food first?" Lance asked.
Dan blew out a stream of smoke and stared out
at the buildings as the van putted closer. "I wouldn't wise for us to
parade in there. Send Sarah in while we get gas."
"Why me?" Sarah asked.
"Because out of the three of us, you look
straightest," Dan said.
"But
don't dawdle. Hamburgers and fries'll do."
Sarah looked indignant. But Lance refused to
indulge her temper.
Of
course, she perceived it as an insult, part of the L.A. attitude about being
cool. Lance shoved cash into her hands, stopped the van at the end of a row,
and propelled her out. "We'll be over at the gas pumps," he said.
She stood for a moment staring at them through
the window.
"Go!" Dan said, shooing her with his
hands. She went, weaving through the parked cars and finally up the stairs into
the building.
Lance
turned, shifted again, but slammed on the brakes as someone leaped in front of
the van, waving his arms.
"What the...?"
"Hey man," the hippie said, poking
his nose through the driver side window, smelling of roadside dust, his hair
dirty and matted, despite the ponytail.
It made his face taunt, emphasizing the high cheek bones and deep-set
eyes. Obviously Indian. Though not completely. The eyes sparkled blue under the
dome light. "It's damn
good
to see you people here, man. Like I thought we were going to have to sit here forever
or walk south. You are going anywhere near New Mexico by any...?"
"Mike Day?" Dan said, a note of
disbelief in his voice. He leaned over the back of the seat, squinting to see
the freak's face better. "Is that really you?"
The freak's diatribe ended abruptly, his flat
face instantly wary, his hands dropping away from the window towards his belt.
"Don't!" Dan shouted, waving his own
hands as if to dispel the sudden paranoia. "We're not narcs. It's me. Dan
Newhaul. Remember? From New York?"
The freak shook his head, apparently confused,
eyeing the van again, and the more distant traffic moving on and off the ramp from
the highway.
"Newhaul?" he muttered. "I
don't remember..." he wiped a loose strand of hair from his face, then
brightened. "Dan? From New York?"
He
squinted in at Dan's face, still frowning. Dan removed the hat.
"I didn't have as much hair then," Dan
said. "But even you couldn't forget this ugly mug."
Recognition seemed to grow in Mike's eyes,
slowly, doubtfully, then more certainly. "Well, I'll be..."
Drunken laughter from the front door of the
restaurant interrupted him as several rednecks staggered out. Six or seven loud
men pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs.
"Get in, quick," Dan said, swinging
open the door Sarah had just vacated.
"One minute," Mike said and waved
for someone in the shadow. A redheaded girl appeared. Stumbling forward with
one broken heal, her young face smudged, giving her a helpless expression. Mike
shoved her into the van. She grinned at Lance, then looked around at the
hackneyed interior, obviously amused. Rug tiles pasted to the walls and ceiling
in an effort to provide insolation. Many had already peeled off with the
moisture and cold. Rock Posters had been pinned up in their place, giving the
whole structure and unstable appearance, as if the van itself would crumble to
pieces with the first good bump.
"Are you real hippies?" she asked.
"For God's sake, Marie," Mike
mumbled, his face flushed as he closed the door. His nervousness had not
vanished completely. He studied Dan's face and finally shook his head with
amazement. "I was hoping for an ordinary miracle. Not you."
"You're stuck with me, pal," Dan
said. "It's been ages."
"Which makes me wonder all the more what
you're doing in these parts."
"It's a long story," Dan said.
"But in general, I'm here by
accident.
And you?"
"Bad luck," Mike said, fist tapping
the dashboard, half
consciously.
Dan coughed and sucked his cigarette again,
drawing a sharp glance from Mike.
"You've still got that thing?"
"Only a little."
"Didn't Arizona help?"
"Drove me crazy. Little Susie hit me hard
for the alimony. So, I took off for L.A."
"This isn't L.A.," Mike noted.
"You noticed that, too, eh?" Dan
said with a quick look at Lance. "That's part of the long story. But at
least I'm not hitching. I thought you were smarter than trying to hitch in
Colorado?"
Mike fished through his pockets and produced a
joint. He lit it with deliberation, his dilated eyes studying the flame for a
while before taking a deep puff.
“I'm
on thin ice, Dan," he mumbled. He offered the joint to Lance who shook his
head.
Outside, the rednecks seemed to notice them,
pointing towards the van, still laughing and jostling, but in a way that seemed
hostile to Lance.
"I don't think it's safe to sit here like
this," Lance said.
Dan looked up. The crowd had increased as more
and more men stumbled out of the restaurant, hunting hats and baseball caps,
and mine-working hard hats floating at the core of them.
"Maybe we should hit the road," Mike
suggested. "I don't imagine they think the red, white and blue colors of
this van as patriotic."
"Can't," Dan said. "Lance's old
lady's inside getting food."
"And we need gas," Lance pointed
out.
"To hell with the gas," Dan said,
agitated. "We'll fill up
somewhere
else."
"Then you drive," Lance said.
"I'll get Sarah."
Dan started to object, but Lance slipped out
of the van quickly, moving around its body to keep from being seen. He could
hear the talk, jostling dark humor of less than sensitive men, grunt-talk with
hints of castration and lynching. He ducked behind the bodies of the cars and
weaved down through the maze towards the building.
He
figured if he could catch Sarah inside, they could slip out another door.
He worried about Dan's leaving without her. A
likely scenario considering the man's general panic. This way, if the man made
a run for it with the van, Lance still had Sarah-- and maybe a stay here in the
mountains. He could cut his hair and play the role of redneck for a while. He'd
seen their kind in Nam, heard their curses and their prayers.
Meanwhile, Dan slipped into the driver's seat
and ground the gears shifting it into reverse.
It sparked the men near the door, stopping
their laughter and when they descended, determination on their faces, the
serious sense of violation the van's arrival here had caused. They didn't run
but fanned out through the cars looking to encircle the van. Lance barely
avoided being noticed by ducking under one of the cars as the boots stomped
passed him.
When he climbed to his feet again, the van had
moved, huffing and puffing towards the far perimeter of the parking lot where
it made the long circle back around the sea of cars towards the building again.
The door was clear. Dan obviously expected Lance and Sarah to meet him there at
the curb.
Lance scurried up and ran through the maze of
cars. He didn't see the grey-suited man until he bumped into him, the face half
hidden behind unnecessary sunglasses. Mouth grim.
"Excuse me," Lance said, as the
laughter of the rednecks rose from behind him, all part of the cat-and-mouse
game. Van putting around the perimeter of the lot as the cowboy's yelled. The
man grabbed Lance's arm.
"You tell Newhaul we want him," he
said. The other man stood a few feet away with hands in his pockets, and
equally grim.
"Newhaul?" Lance said, scratching
his head. "I don't think I know anyone by that name."
"You tell him," the man said, then
let go of Lance's arm.
Lance darted to one side and headed for the
stairs, the men moving behind him like ghosts, the glint of their pistols
showing in the parking lot lights as they prepared for the van's arrival.
Lance shouted at the van and waved both his
arms, trying to hint of danger. But the van sped up. Perhaps believing Lance
ready or in trouble of his own. The rednecks had largely given up their hooting,
though some had actually given chase, huffing and puffing at the far row of
cars as the van came around.
From the front door of the restaurant came
Sarah, a bag of food in each arm.
"No!" Lance screamed. "Get back
inside." He leaped up the stairs.
But
the van putted down the straight-away at them. The two grey men waiting.
Sarah looked confused. "What's the
matter?"
"Men from Denver, I think," Lance
said, glancing around, gaze catching on an orange and brown trash can. He
grabbed it up and threw it at the men, missing, hitting the hood to a pickup
truck instead. Trash spilled out across the hood and to the feet of the men. It
distracted them. Jerking their heads around just as the van pulled up.
Lance shoved Sarah down the stairs and into
the open side door.
"Gun it!" he shouted.
Something popped. A hole appeared in the metal
side and exited with a large hole out the other side.
"Damn it! Gun it!" Lance screamed.
Dan was. But the tangle of gears made the van
hesitate. Another bullet struck the back end, forming a neat round hole in the
rear window. But the van had garnered speed, and Dan weaved it back out the
ribbon road to the highway, the thick stand of trees blocking their view.
Dan's face showed pale and drawn in the rear-view
mirror as he muttered something about doom.
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