Chapter 12

XII.

Outlined against a California backdrop

The Mojave Desert lined each side of the car, as we raced down expanses of land chartered by wagon wheel operators to Charles Manson’s followers and now three hungover travelers. I’m adding about two or three hours to my trip by stopping in L.A. to drop Eric and Marisa off.

When my car first reached the California border, I had mixed emotions. I hadn’t pictured the desert view I was seeing; where were the palm trees? Now my trip was almost complete. I set out for California about two weeks previous, and now I was there. A new start, a new life. I didn’t want my past to be ending though. The future was so open-ended, it scared the shit out of me.

I got the two of them dropped off at their hotel and we said our goodbyes. I don’t know if I ever could thank them enough for the company that they provided on the way. Of all the people in the world to make such a long voyage with, I counted my blessing that I got to do it with two friends that were long overdue for a visit. Regardless of where we end up in this life, I don’t think the trip from Joliet to L.A. will ever be forgotten.

The Massachusetts license plate on my car allowed me to drive ignorantly around Anaheim until I found the freeway, Rt. 5, south to San Diego. I wondered what people around me were thinking when they saw the old Mass plates. Was this person coming out to be a star? Just visiting? What an asshole! Once I found a clear path going south, the butterflies hit me hard. I would be at my new home in less than two hours. I called Brian.

I met Brian Dean the first day we stepped onto campus at the eastern university we both attended. He was hard to miss the first day of orientation in our group of twenty or so incoming freshmen, about 6’3 wild blonde hair, with an ostentatious laugh constantly bellowing from his stomach.

My older brother was also currently a student at the same university a couple years ahead of me. I had the convenience of already knowing a few people from coming up to visit him in the previous couple years, so I was coming into school with an outward brazenness of being a big man on campus, but with an inner sense of fear, knowing I had gone into high school the same way, finding it hard to make friends my own age.

From the onset, it seemed like Brian had already made a number of friends, all consumed with something I was yet to know about. When getting to know everyone in the group, he was always the loudest and most outgoing person. When bragging of my television show I hosted in high school, he was the first to respond. When we finally got a chance to talk one on one, I think we both realized we were going to be fast friends. We engaged in a conversation about college football, something I was passionate about, and something I would find out later is just one of the things he is as enthusiastic about as I am.

We stayed friends throughout college. I guess I can’t even say “friend” because it really wouldn’t do justice to how close we were. We lived next door, across the hall, or in the same apartment all four years of college. We shared the same interests, same work ethic, and same ideals. If one of us wanted to skip class, go out to the bars downtown, or some combination of things that would not exactly benefit our academic integrity, we found it pretty easy to convince the other to do the same. At the same time, we were both dedicated and intelligent enough to be amongst those with the highest GPA’s in our apartment, so we got along, too, by knowing we were the smarter ones of the group. At least that’s how we saw it.

When graduation came in the spring of 2004, it was hard to say goodbye to people that I had grown so close to. Mostly everyone else would be sticking around the east coast, a close enough drive for me to visit with friends. Brian was the only one was going far away, back home to San Diego. We had talked about visits, and jokingly about moving out there to be roommates again.

Eventually I conceded.

The weather and the prospect of the world’s prettiest women provided most of the allure towards southern California. Brian did a good job of sensationalizing his hometown throughout college, and the simple idea of living in an area ripe with palm trees was enough for me to grow an ignorant fascination about San Diego. One of my lifelong rules is that a person can only complain about one type of weather. In New England, or any of the other northern cold states, I would surmise, there are people who complain regardless if the weather is too cold or too hot. I feel this way of living is wrong. Pick the type of weather you like the least and complain about that. If you’re a winter person, then you should have to sign through city hall your weather affiliation. Just like you register with your political party, you must identify with a certain season. For me, I’d be a summer person. Though it gets outrageously humid and unbearable at times in Massachusetts during the summer months, I try my best to follow the rule. In the winter time, however, I have all the right in the world to express my disgust for the falling snow and temperatures, just as I have the right to denounce anything the Democratic Party says. Moving to San Diego, where the average temperature for the year is in the mid-70’s, would be a perfect solution to my winter-hating ways, though I’d still have to tolerate the California liberals.

Pulling into the driveway of Brian’s apartment complex was overwhelming. The rush of emotion was overpowering. In fact, the place was so much like I had imagined it to be that I felt as if I had been there before. The entrance was surrounded by palm trees, which in turn branched off to circle the pool and Jacuzzi area. About 50 yards in, there Brian stood, to the left, standing on his back porch, a place where we would spend countless hours laughing, joking, cussing, and smoking. He hopped over the fence towards my car. My friend with whom I had embraced good bye and good luck to on the other side of the country almost two weeks ago was standing in front of me, outlined against a California backdrop.

Reality had set in. I had been living out of my car, and relief came when I realized I could unpack for good. This wasn’t a vacation. This wasn’t a temporary stay. By arriving on Shoreline Drive in University Town Center, my move to the west coast was complete. Brian showed me around my new home, including the place I was to sleep, which was a pullout couch, but I cared very little about where I was to spend my nights. There were people to meet, and places to see, but switching the arrangement of the verbs in that statement would do it more justice.

#

When my stuff was unloaded, we hopped in Brian’s car to go have a couple of brews. By Brian’s explanation, I deserved one, and I didn’t disagree with him. We smoked a joint and headed off to a bar where we’d eventually spend incalculable happy hours. My recollection of the night is foggy, not because we were too intoxicated, but because I began ascending the crest of a memorable wave in my life that night. My adventures in California would involve unique serendipity and stress, happy hours and heartache.

Chapter 11

XI.

“Split them.”

We found ourselves awake pretty early on the next morning, a Friday, and we relocated down the strip a mile or so to Treasure Island. We tied up some loose ends as far as essentials – smokes, a new map because ours flew out the window on the trip down Rt. 15, some deodorant – at a local CVS. We intended to spend our day by the pool at Treasure Island, then heading off to dinner at Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville restaurant for some “boat drinks” to get the night started.

We did much of the tourist stuff early in the evening. We went to the wax museum and pondered whether or not we could convince people that Marisa actually met Ben Affleck, or more unbelievably Eric and I had met Britney Spears. The three of us squeezed as much activity into one day, including seeing a press conference for the weekend’s boxing match at Caesar’s Palace and getting kicked out of the Tiger cage at the Mirage for smoking cigarettes.

We followed the same strict rules for the second night as we did the first. We did as little gambling as we could unless we were drinking. In Vegas, a gambler can try his luck at the most elementary, but uncontrollable game of “war.” There is no strategy involved besides hoping your six can beat the dealers’ card. It, to me, seemed like a waste of $15 a hand. Regardless, I played.

Again playing blackjack, again playing $25 a hand, Eric and I sat down while Marisa ventured off to recreate the previous nights brilliant plan at the slot machines by the bar.

Eric was a great sport this night because of my luck and his lack thereof. I cleaned house, for an amateur, while he took the brunt of the beating, retreating for his wallet on a few different occasions. I asked him why he’s staying. He’s just losing more every time he brings out another $100 bill.

“Because you’re winning,” he said. “If I leave, it’ll fuck up your luck.”

I was at the $25 a hand table, but my arrogance was getting the best of my winnings, and I upped each bet to $50 each. My best score of the night came when I drew two eights.

“You have to split them,” said the bald Asian guy sitting to my right.

“Yea?”

“Yes, split them.”

I split the eights, meaning I needed to throw another $50 into the fray. When the dealer came back around to hit both of my eights, she threw another eight, which I “should split” says the same guy, so I do. To make the cycle complete, on the next eight, I drew another one.

Now I’m sitting with four eights and $200 in chips in front of me, a crowd now amassing because of the cheers from the helpful and encouraging, yet astonished group at the table. Inhaling a cigarette, I waited for the action to unfold. While I can’t remember exactly what all four hand in front of me ended up being, I do remember that the dealer busted on each hand, putting me up $200 on just those hands alone. The whole table and the surrounding masses applauded, and patted me on the back, and I felt like I had just won the Super Bowl as I thanked each person at the table for talking me through a game I still wasn’t completely familiar with.

When the dealer left the table, I tipped and thanked her, and waited for the next sucker to approach the hot table. After he arrived, I realized the karma at the table changing, and decided to step off the table, a grand total of $375 ahead. I opted to quit gambling while I was up, and offered to buy rounds for the remainder of the night.

Eventually we settled in for the night, as we were scheduled to head out early in the morning for a drive to Los Angeles, where I would drop my friends off in Anaheim at Disney Land, and I would continue my trip down the California coast to San Diego.

#

People go west for a variety of reasons. In the 1800’s, the expansion of the country was in full-bloom, and was helped invariably by the prospect of gold and riches. The Mormons headed west in exile of their previous homes in Kansas and Illinois, eventually settling in Utah. By the early 1900’s, people were drawn to the west coast because of the potential for land, which, by all account was outrageously picturesque, and the overgrowth of the eastern part of the country was making living much more modern. The “wild west” was an aptly named epithet for an area where the land expanded almost endlessly, and ruthless gunmen ruled the street.

Eventually, people saw the glitz and glamour emerge from Los Angeles, a place, ironically, built based on strict religious principles. Movie stars started to shine brightly, talking of this mythical place where anything can happen, and anyone can be someone. It seemed like a lie, boundless opportunities for stardom, perfect weather year-round, and beautiful people everywhere you look. They started building on the hills and by the beach. You didn’t know what you were missing.

Nowadays, people have the same image of Los Angeles in their head, though people are bound to feel either one way or the other. You’re either turned on, or turned off by the big city, the prospect of bumping into celebrities seen only in movies on a regular basis, and the fast life that accompanies living the stereotype that personifies the City of Angels. In my time spent in southern California, I went to L.A. on a number of occasions. I was awestruck by the size of the city and the famous landmarks. Everyone seems to know one another – or pretends to. “Yea, I’ve seen Leonardo DiCaprio out a bunch of times. He’s friends with my friend.” Everyone is an actress, an agent, a model, a writer. When partying along the Sunset Strip, one tends to sit in the role of a Paris Hilton or other celebrities partying as hard as you can. The rounds of drink accumulate and you don’t mind spending like you’re a millionaire because partying in L.A. is almost taboo, like you’re doing something that only a select few CAN do. And everyone acts like that, which makes the environment the place to be.

In Los Angeles, the people on the big screen are not the only actors in the city. The actors can be the men and women at a bar, dressing up in suits and dresses and in makeup, telling each other lies about what they do for work, or what kind of car they drive, all to end up in one another’s bed, all because this guy is an executive somewhere, or knows an executive and can get you on the way to millions of dollars.

Californians, by nature or by definition, are contradictory people. Though viewed as entrepreneurial and brave, the travelers of the westward march adopted a selfish attitude, marching forward despite illness and death even in their own family; husbands, wives, even to their very young sons and daughters. Upon the death of one, the burial would be immediate so the group could keep west, keep moving on to a life under the golden sun ripe with riches undefined. Nothing like finding the best piece of property to replace a dead child.

Despite the capitalistic ventures, the farmland seen so prosperous and ingenious was built on land so arid that the rest of America, through way of paying their taxes were the ones who funded the “dreamers of the golden dream.” I found this similar to the way that movie stars now make their movies in California, yet they have 49 other states to help put money into their pockets. The travelers, so inexperienced, let taxpayers fund the railroads, the distribution of water to their deserts for irrigation, and their levees to prevent flooding in areas like the San Joaquin Valley and the Sacramento River. Their “hard work and fortitude” funded elsewhere, like the girl who “pays her own rent” living on her own with a check from dad every four weeks.

The underlying theme, though, to all of these things is that the city in itself is a pretentious place. Everyone came from somewhere else, to find stardom or to escape in some way, to start anew. I could be counted among those, I guess, who wanted to find something else out there in southern California, whether it was in L.A. or down “The 5” about two hours in San Diego.

We started out of Vegas around 9 a.m. The drive to Los Angeles was only going to take us about five hours, all desert, but I wanted more than anything else to hold on to those last few hours with my friends who I had spent so much time with in the past week. At least I knew what to expect with them. I had no idea what was ahead of me.

Chapter Ten

Ed's note: No pictures exist from this journey into the heart of the American Dream. It's a good thing, too. Here's chapter ten of Chasing Sunsets, my novel.

X.

Blissful ignorance almost always trumps over-thinking

“…For a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood not desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.” –F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Travel no more than two miles outside of the Las Vegas strip and you’ll believe you’re centuries away from the fun. North Las Vegas is run-down, low income homes, a liquor store on every corner, the dry desert heat smashing the pavement. The extremely poor living just a stones throw away from a place where billions are made every day. Few people see this part of Las Vegas because of the conveniently located airport a few miles from the strip, which doesn’t shuttle taxis past this part of town. The tourists would never know it existed. You won’t find directions to the Thai restaurant on East Washington Avenue on any map you buy on the strip.

We checked into New York, New York and brought our stuff up to the room. We would only be staying there one night, then we would move down the road to Treasure Island.

After sitting down for a relaxing dinner, we headed back into the room to shower and change, something the entire city of Las Vegas should have thanked us for. The air conditioner was used rarely on the drive during the day, so we essentially let the hot air into the car all day long. Combined with other stenches, we probably didn’t smell as good as we wished. While Marisa took her shower and did the essential “girl” stuff, Eric and I ventured down to the lobby for a drink.

The things people can get away with in Vegas blew my mind. The best words to describe the extent of the trouble a person can get into is that Las Vegas is a place where you can drink outside and smoke inside. A drink bought at one casino can be brought onto the street and into another. ID’s are checked as often as you see clocks, which is never. Flyers advertising “late-night visitors” to hotel rooms were passed out openly on the street, and I figured that the $49 an hour for “La-La” would probably end up with me getting way more than that in medical bills for an itchy dick. So, while the girl on the flyer looked like a tempting late night phone call, it’s best that we didn’t take any of these things too seriously.

After we all had cleaned up, we spent a good time wandering the streets and having drinks at each casino within a reasonable walking distance. Limos raced passed us, groups of girls – probably lawyers, teachers, and bankers in their other lives – screamed as they were hollered at by cars of guys trying their best to present themselves as high rollers. The real high rollers flaunt it very subtly.

Eric’s rule was that no gambling would go on unless we were suitably intoxicated. The idea, on the exterior, sounds like a terrible one. In essence, it suggests that you should risk winning or losing a large sum of money while unable to think logically or coherently. However, having a few drinks before sitting down at a table involves the logic of trusting your initial instincts. There would be very little second guessing. Trusting Eric based on his call to stop in Denver, we sat down at the MGM Mirage for a round of blackjack once we had sufficient drinks. Once we sat down, we would be getting free drinks anyway.

I’ve always been a recreational gambler. This started with my father bringing home “football cards” for me to play since I garnered the ability to read and understand football. Once those two things came into play, I was filling out cards, betting on spreads, and being all the more immersed in who was winning, who was losing, and by how much. The bets were never very big – maybe $5 to win $20 – but I won despite the fact my picks were based solely on the big name teams. When I started getting older and what I thought to be wiser, I started to up my bets, sometimes looking too deeply into the games and I began to lose more than I won. The truth of the matter is blissful ignorance almost always trumps over-thinking.

Now, I’ll bet on anything. Again, since I was very young I have been filling out an NCAA March Madness bracket. I’ve succeeded on numerous occasions in that arena, winning the entire pool a couple times in the past five years. I can make educated wagers on who’ll score first in the Super Bowl and who’ll win the French Open. I bet mostly on sports, but it is not entirely out of the question for me to bet on politics or whether or not it’s high tide or low tide. I’m beginning to think I have a minor problem.

So naturally, in Las Vegas, though I was inexperienced, I had to sit down at the table and pray for beginner’s luck.

We played at the $25 tables, starting with just $200. This way, we would either be out really early, or keep on for just the right amount of time. We’d play eight hands regardless. Eric and I had comparable luck, up and down, up and down for about an hour while Marisa wandered off to play slot machines. In a stroke of genius, she chose the machine closest to the bar so when the waitresses walked by, she could just pick up drinks right away. She disclosed this plan to us later when she stumbled upon our game smoking Marlboro menthols, a glassy look in her eyes.

Both Eric and I were up about $100, so I took my $200 and put it in my pocket. At least I could leave with what I started with. He was a little more liberal with his spending and let his winnings dwindle. I think he broke even that night. If not, he didn’t lose too much money.

Around 3:00 in the morning, Eric and Marisa were ready to hit the bed. We had been up for a good 20 straight hours. The drinks were starting to kick our asses, but I decided that I’d go for the gold with my remaining $50 or so. As they headed up for the hotel room (we were back at New York, New York at this point), I stopped in for a final couple hands of blackjack. My luck was running out, and I had lost the last few hands at the previous table, so I wanted to try my luck with another dealer.

I propped myself down for a duel with the dealer. There were about four or five other gamblers at the table. For those unaware, swearing at the tables in Vegas is strictly enforced. One strike gets you a warning, but depending on the dealer and the level of the offending word, they could boot someone off the table.

The pit boss was standing around the dealer just watching the action around. The first hand, I remember, I busted taking a chance on a 16 when the dealer had a 19. “Bullshit,” I mumbled to myself, but audibly enough that the pit boss gave me a discouraging “watch your language” look.

I placed my final $25 on the table for the next hand. Two queens, a 20, and a swipe of my hand to say “I’ll stay here, thank you” as the dealer moved around the table. I figured I had just won myself another hand, maybe even another Southern Comfort on the rocks, which I was drinking consistently since I landed a spot at the tables.

The dealer then drew himself a blackjack.

“No fucking way!” I screamed, motioning my hand in the direction of the dealer as if I was throwing a deck of cards directly at him. Realizing what I’d done, which was get myself thrown off the table, I threw my hands in the air as the pit boss politely walked in my direction and lifted his index finger, motioning my removal from the table.

“I’ll leave,” I said begrudgingly. Once I collected myself, I smiled at the pit boss and told him “sorry, I’m just a competitive person. I thought I had him beat.”

“Go to bed,” he responded.

This wasn’t the first time my language had gotten me thrown out of a place. My sophomore year in high school, my relay team was ranked number one of all the freshmen and sophomore teams in the state. Heading into the annual state freshmen-sophomore meet, our team was pretty cocky. Since the relay wasn’t the only event I was entered in, my first race was the 300 meter dash. I ran a pretty good race, in the lead heading into the final stretch in the preliminary heat. As the final ten yards approached, I hit a wall and was subsequently passed at the finish line. Again, the f-word got the best of me as I screamed, “Fuck!” upon crossing the line. I was thrown out of the meet for lack of sportsmanship, and, amazingly, my coach, much like the pit boss in Vegas, didn’t buy the “I’m a competitor” excuse as the relay team couldn’t compete due to lack of a full squad.

I got lost on my way back to the room, but I had two $100 chips in my pocket, which was a moral victory for me. Once I found my way back to the hotel room, Eric and Marisa were out cold. I put my chips on the nightstand, so that I could wake up to the sight of two black chips staring me in the face, reminding me that beginners luck wasn’t a bad thing after all.

Chapter Nine

IX.

From gray to reddish rust colored

People are liars. We’ve learned this through generations of time. People lie because repercussions of the truth can be far worse than attempting a lie and possibly getting away with it. In this case, the clerk at the desk told Eric, Marisa, and I an extremely brutal lie upon us leaving the hotel.

We woke up as planned around 9:00 am and lingered in to the lobby for some coffee and breakfast. The lobby was set up like a ski lodge with couches and stone fireplaces, which were lit. People were already awake, wrapped in winter clothes or three-piece suits, aiming, it looked, for either the slopes or a business meeting. The weary travelers, dressed down as comfortably as we could, stood out as the ones who clearly didn’t belong.

Our hotel nestled in a tiny hamlet in between two towering mountains. In the morning, the snow sprinkled the Denver air, just enough to force us to shield the roofs of our eyes to take in the spectacular view; the mountain tops carefully layered in an early autumn snow.

After breakfast, I weathered the light rain/snow mixture falling on Vail and brought my car up front. I told the busboy I was stopping just to get my bags, and I jogged back into the lobby, where Eric and Marisa were waiting for me. I returned my key and asked what I thought was a really simple question, which I wanted to be answered truthfully, no matter how much it may have stung my ears.

“I’m checking out,” I told the clerk, a woman about 45 years old, seemingly miserable from her early morning shift. “How far is it to Las Vegas?”

“Vegas huh?” She looked at me. “You have an easy day in front of you. Once you get out of here and onto the highway it is a straight shot.”

My optimism for the day became evident, as I told my two partners what she had said. They, too, had been restless during the previous day’s trip. The best thing for the three of us was that night’s rest. We had begun to find a level of annoyance with each other, which will happen to the best of friends stuck in such a small place for an extended period of time. We needed to regroup. With the four hours rest, and uplifting news that the worst driving was behind us, we were all ready to begin the trip. We, in the upcoming hours, learned that the information she gave me was true, that is, if by “easy” and “straight shot,” she meant “really hard, arduous, dangerous, and miserable.”

#

The skies blended perfectly with the colors of the highest peaks. We were ready for our day.

The goat sat on the side of the road, ignorant of the speeding traffic zooming past him. Still half-asleep, the sight of the gray goat perked the three of us up. The snow was still falling, and the black-gray rocks lined the highway, which winded on the Colorado River still about 500 feet below us. Whistles of trains blew, and highway cops lay lazily at the wheel looking for violators. Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fat City” lay all around us; I wondered just how many of the houses and condos we saw belonged to native Coloradoans, or to the real estate companies trying to make big bucks off the land.

The reality of how high in the air we were hit us when we kept descending still about an hour of our drive to Vegas. The farther south we got, the color of the rocks began to shift, from gray to reddish rust, as did the sky, which turned from a bluish-gray to sky-blue.

I began, during this trip, to record my thoughts each night. However, the stay in Colorado was the first time my notebook had gone blank. The toll of the trip began to weigh on me, I figured. Sometimes my journal entries would examine my thoughts on my thoughts, leading me to query on where in my life I had become so introspective, examining the metaphysical part of my existence in this world. Sometimes the entries would talk of the surroundings and the people I was with, putting into question where along the lines I became so involved with descriptions of people and places. Other times, the entry would just be one or two words, summing up my days with a minute detail, like when I wrote “Gatlinburg!” as my entry one night in Kentucky, as if I was anticipating some greatly epiphanic praise or prose that was yet to be constructed in my mind. The journal had become less of a hobby and more of an autobiography.

#

Colorado had definitely been the hardest part of the drive so far, though it seemed to disappear the quickest due to the level of alert we had to keep. We watched locomotives scream alongside us on the Colorado River, but the grey rocks, overcast sky, and chilly climate kept the mood morose.

We hit the Utah state border about two hours after we left the hotel. The cliffs rose magnificently, and shone brilliant displays of brownish red clay. We couldn’t help but bring up the irony that Colorado’s nickname was the “Colorful State” and that Utah, despite what we considered having more prevalent color was left, at least from the sign, nickname-less. The meeting to nickname states, we envisioned, surely went something like this.

Colorado state representative: “We’re going to nickname our state ‘The Colorful State’.”

Utah state representative: “That’s bullshit! We are way more colorful than Colorado. Fuck it, we don’t even want a nickname now.” Turns out Utah - and I’m sure it was begrudgingly – chose the Beehive State. I would have lobbied for “The More Colorful State – and fuck you Colorado.”

Our good mood and view of incredible red, brown, and sand-colored cliffs and roadsides carried us through the morning hours. We stopped for pictures of plateaus that seemed like only God could have created. The air was dry, but friendly, the hills of the highway brought on a different landscape to marvel at ten miles at a time.

What did this land look like 50 years ago? 100? These thoughts entered my mind as I envisioned wagons heading west across the barren landscape; they crossed my mind as I was crossing the Mississippi through the still desolate Midwest. What was now rich landscape for homes and businesses, cities and sports arenas was once a land inhabited by very few. Solace was granted by the very few country roads I chose to take, which would still create clouds of solid gray from kicking gravel behind my wheels.

To the credit of the area, one of the most remarkable feats of the American west is its ability to remain remarkably unblemished by humans. From the highway there is little to remind drivers of Capitalistic America; there are no chain malls, McDonald’s, or manufactured tourist attractions, just the sights of incredible plateaus of orange and brown skyrocketing on each side of the road. The roads aren’t crowded with wanderers which allows for ample opportunity to marvel at the natural beauty. The car remained silent for stretches of time save for an occasional “holy shit,” “look at that one,” or an audible gasp in amazement. Marisa sat silently snapping pictures out of open window in her perch in the backseat.

The sign for the exit read “No Name” with a disclaimer underneath informing us that there were “no services available” as if we assumed there would be in a town so inconsequential and remote that it didn’t even necessitate a name. There was no visible sign of life in the town of No Name, just an exit toward nothing. Road signs along the highways become increasingly bizarre the farther they go into desolate areas. There were signs that read No Name, signs that had just a number, and my personal favorite, “Eagles on the Road.”

“No way, not the fucking Eagles,” said Eric, referring to the classic rock band, we clearly were overtired. “I hate the Eagles.”

“Maybe they mean the Philadelphia Eagles,” I countered.

“I hope so,” he said. “If I see Don Henley I will get out of the car and fight him.”

Much to our chagrin – and luckily for the aforementioned band member - we never encountered any large birds, football players, or guitarists playing “Take it easy.”

Marcus Camry, what I named the Camry I bought in honor of the former UMass basketball player, glided easily over the faded gray pavement, worn from years of unyielding sun and wandering travelers. The three of us played as many “car games” as we could have, and the sight of endless desert and rising mountains became tired.

The sun still beat strong in the middle of the desert. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, we were about to gain another hour due to the time change, amazingly, it seemed, to Pacific Time. We would finally be on west coast standard time. Eric didn’t agree with Marisa and I that the change would give us another hour to enjoy our time in Vegas.

“The time change gives us another hour to gamble and drink,” I announced.

“What? No it doesn’t,” Eric argued, his deep voice raising a little. “We’d still be drinking the same amount of time.”

“No way,” Marisa chimed in. “Whereas it would have been four o’clock, it will only be three, so in essence, it gives us another hour.”

Eric vehemently disagreed for a good twenty minutes. With Vegas just over an hour away, we ended our long trip through Utah, hitting the Arizona border.

The drive was short, but the scenery was amazing. The highway winded through cliffs on both sides, rising heavenward. The road, though, is almost like a bridge where the sides fall off into an abyss of nothingness. If we were to crash and fall off the side of this stretch of land, no one would find our remains – if there were any – for a million years. Just another casualty of the desert. At least, I pointed out, the weather was sunny. Fortunately, we weren’t traveling this dangerous road at night, or in inclement weather, and if luck would have it, it’d be a sight we’d never see. Little did I know.

There is a strikingly similar sensation of having a full tank of gas and a full pack of cigarettes at your convenience. With both, the feeling of endless resource ensues, it feels as if you have miles to go before the needle hits the far left and the last match is lit. And so with both a full tank and full pack, Las Vegas, Nevada came up out of nowhere, sitting in between mountains and desert, screaming for attention like an overdressed woman in an otherwise casual bar setting. There couldn’t have been a prettier sight to see for the three travelers who had been surrounded by the same barren landscape for the past 24 hours. While the western part of the country had its shining moments of beauty, the time had come for rest and relaxation in the amusement park for adults.

Chapter eight

VIII.

If you haven’t called your parents lately…

“The plains ignore us,

But these mountains listen,

An audience of thousands holding its breath in each rock”

-Ted Kooser, “Visiting Mountains”

“I think we should go for it,” I announced, blowing the cigarette smoke out of my window. We argued for a few minutes, while I pulled off the road for the necessities to make a night of our driving.

It’s not like we didn’t have options for a place to stay. I had a cousin who was living in Colorado at the time, who would have gladly housed us for the evening. Regretfully, I never got around to making the phone call to let him know I’d be in the area. He probably would have implored us to stay with him, or at least warned us that we may not want to traverse the roads.

Truckers stopped and stared as we entered the truck stop. The time was fast approaching 10 o’clock, and even with the entrance into the Mountain Time zone, we seemed to be facing a daunting task. Both Marisa and I had dedicated ourselves to driving, so we loaded up on caffeine pills and a couple of large, strong coffees. Marisa took a seat behind the wheel with me sitting beside her in the passenger side. Eric sat in the back of my car, trying to position himself comfortably so he could get some rest. Marisa and I caught up on what was going on with each of us. She drove for about four hours before we stopped for gas and a snack. There definitely should have been a warning sign upon entering the highway, letting us know we were in for the worst few hours of the trip so far. If we weren’t too blind to consider the signs God was giving us – the winds, the flurry of falling snow, the altitude – regular roadside signs would have worked fine.

In the movie “Dumb and Dumber,” the two imbecile protagonists head westward to Colorado in order to return a lost suitcase to its’ beautiful owner. However, on the way there, one of the characters, played by funnyman Jim Carrey, accidentally veers in the wrong direction, leading the two into the plains of Middle America rather than their mountaintop destination.

Upon waking in the flat landscape of Kansas, Jeff Daniels’s character muses, “I expected the Rocky Mountains to be a little rockier than this.” To which Carrey replies, “That’s what I was thinking. That John Denver’s full of shit, man,” remarking on the late singers’ tune paying homage to the fabled mountain range.

Throughout the trip, even as we entered Colorado and started to roll up and down hills, we continued to make this joke. I think we may have angered the mountain gods.

After the rolling hills through the city of Denver, a lull of highway is laid out, giving a driver their final option to pull off. It’s kind of like a girlfriend taking a deep breath in an argument; you have just a moments notice for a reprieve before the real problems to begin. The skyline jetted upward in front of us despite the darkness.

My preconceived notion of what mountains were suddenly withered away compared to what I was looking at. The rolling hills of my youth were suddenly just memories, memories I had to shake for the moment as I buckled my seatbelt, repositioning myself upright as I ascended up the mountains.

I couldn’t even see the top, as the peaks of the Rockies were hidden by the most ominous looking clouds I had ever seen. Drivers well-traveled in the area sped by me, as I looked incredulously at the terrain. We navigated through tunnels, all the while driving straight towards the clouds. The rain began to fall, mixed with the already swirling flakes of snow. Around every corner was something new, but I looked in utter amazement as the signs displaying the altitude passed me on the right and on the left.

5,000 feet.

7,500 feet.

Finally reaching 10,663 feet at the Vail Pass Summit, where I almost felt like I should get out and take a few breaths of the cleanest air my lungs would ever taste – God knows I needed that - and knowing I may never be this high above sea level ever again.

When hikers reach the summit of Mt. Everest, the lack of oxygen at that altitude limits their mental capacity down to that of a ten-year old. Those successful enough to reach that point have stayed there for fewer than 15 minutes. Looking out upon the Himalayan Mountains, on top of the entire world, even the most articulate and intelligent adventurers are literally at a loss for words, rendering months of arduous climbing and adventure seem as climactic as meeting a rude celebrity. For the most part, they just desire to be back at base camp, safe from harm, and free to coherently collect their thoughts.

Jon Krakauer, a favorite writer of mine, and the author of two of my favorite books, Into the Wild and Into Thin Air, in the opening words of the latter novel, wrote about reaching the summit of the world,

I understood on some dim, detached level that the sweep of earth beneath my feet was a spectacular sight. I’d been fantasizing about this moment, and the release of emotion that would accompany it, for many months. But now that I was finally here, actually standing on the summit of Mount Everest, I just couldn’t summon the energy to care.

On a much smaller mental and physical scale, this is how we felt, yet we just sat in silence, the radio turned all the way down, not a cigarette was lit. Mentally strained from the voyage up the mountain, the descent should have been a coast for us. As we turned the corner atop Vail Summit, we realized that the voyage down was to be as onerous as the trip up, if not more so. The first sign we encountered asked drivers who might be doubtful to pull off and check their brakes. Soon after, we were warned of falling rocks, animals on the road, and slippery conditions. We mustered up jokes that the Colorado officials should have put up another sign at the peak, suggesting, “If you haven’t called your parents recently to tell them you love them, you should probably think about doing it now.”

The driving was slow down the mountain as snow and rain pummeled the windshield. I road the brakes the entire way as well-seasoned truck drivers sped past the tiny Camry inching its’ way forward. The three of us sat upright, our eyes attached to every detail of the road in case something went awry. I clenched the steering wheel tighter than ever before, my heart raced, and the only words out of my mouth were to inquire whether or not my passengers has their seatbelts fastened. Eventually, after almost an hour of driving, my brakes began to smoke and I could smell the burning brakes pads.

We hadn’t even reached the bottom of the mountain when we pulled off to a gas station. Once the air was clear enough to navigate, we exited I-70. The weather was violently cold for mid-September, and we decided to re-evaluate our decision to drive straight through to Vegas. Even Eric, who is never reluctant to take credit when he is right, was drained enough to remain mum on his assertion.

Once the fear had ceased and complete control of the senses was regained, Eric finally did speak up.

“You know who is definitely NOT full of shit?” He asked.

“John Denver,” the two of answered with a genuine laugh.

#

It was almost three in the morning, and being in the heart of the tourist communities would make it difficult to find a place to lodge for a few hours on our budget. I drove around in the snow, and we found a bed and breakfast with the lights on. We parked and readied ourselves to bunk for the evening, but no one was awake at that hour. We entertained the idea of crashing on the couch, but left, fearing the consequence of the owner awakening early and finding three complete strangers, who reeked of an 18-hour long car ride sound asleep on the couch.

Eventually, we found a Holiday Inn, where we swindled the female clerk down a few bucks, claiming I was a Toyota employee out on business, a fact I asserted by showing them my warranty card on my recently purchased family sedan. Since Toyota was one of their accounts, she gave me their cut rate. I’d be long gone before anyone from the company realized one of their “employees” used their discount.

The snow and the cold really started to hit us, as we crossed the courtyard for our room. It was 4:00 in the morning, and all we really wanted was a couple hours of shuteye. We turned on Sportscenter and stretched our legs out on our beds. Each of us smoked the day’s final cigarette and drifted very quickly to sleep.

Chapter Seven

VII.

The farthest west I had ever been

“I know what we call it

Most of the time.

But I have my own song for it,

And sometimes, even today,

I call it beauty.”

-James Wright “Beautiful Ohio”

The hustle and bustle of Chicago trailed off in the rearview mirror, as the terrain started to get a little flatter on Interstate 80 through western Illinois. Sweeps of infinite cornfield erased memories of strip malls and skyscrapers haunting the corners.

Marisa had decided to nap in the backseat, which was packed to the roof, leaving her just enough space for a seat behind the passenger. It also provided her with ample cushion to easily drift away. Her sleeping became a major theme for the first ten hours or so on this trip.

Eric and I had a lot of catching up to do. Only twice since Florida had we seen each other: one time when he and a friend drove to Massachusetts to surprise Concord, NH native Marisa, and another for his 23^rd birthday for a weekend of drunken behavior at my college.

#

The airport was still reeling with security six months after the terrorist attacks on New York City. Eric was arriving in Hartford to stay with me for the weekend, which I was sure would entail telling old and creating new stories. As I pulled into the short term parking lot, I was driving my girlfriend’s car. A stone faced soldier waved me towards him, and as I crept up to him, my good mood clearly shown.

He asked me to place my hands on the wheel, and interrogated me.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

“I’m picking my friend up in terminal B.” He scanned the contents of my vehicle, which were various papers and boxes containing research material for my girlfriend’s thesis paper.

“What’s all this stuff?” He asked. When I told him he shifted his attention to the concealed objects in my trunk. “What is in the trunk? Do you have any weapons in the car?”

With a swift flash of martial artistry, I swung my hands like a ninja, struck a karate-style pose and laughed, “Just my hands, officer.”

He didn’t laugh at my joke, nor was he amused when he motioned the gate to open to let me in. I had survived my first militaristic interrogation, barely, but I picked Eric up at his gate and brought him back onto campus.

A few of my friends from home came to visit that weekend and we filled my trunk with drunken expectations and a few 30-packs of Bud Light. We played drinking games, almost knocked over a statue on campus right in front of the President of the college, and narrowly avoided coming to blows with members of various athletic teams. We shut off circuit breakers in the dorms, and tried to push each other down the 30-foot hill on campus. The latter part of the first night we spent binge drinking and concocting plans for the subsequent evening, an evening in which we might become criminals.

Due to the outrageous success of the Playstation 2 game Grand Theft Auto, we decided that it must be relatively easy to steal a car. (Who says video games are harmless? Here we are, twenty something college students planning to steal a car. Of course, we meant no harm by it. We just wanted to joy ride and say that we did it.)

“Here’s the plan,” I said. “We call for a pizza, and when the delivery guy comes to give us our pizza, Eric, you go and steal the car. We’ll all jump in.”

The plan seemed foolproof until we botched our first attempt. Apparently the delivery guy caught on to our plan. When we ordered another pizza to the same address, the guy came again. When he saw us sitting behind bushes like a lion devising his attack, he took off toward his car. We chased after him to the car, which was idling in the driveway. He sped away and my friend Ted threw a full beer can at the disappearing taillights. The latter attempts yielded Dominos telling us that they were no longer delivering to our house.

Back in the car we had a good laugh about these incidents. We laughed at how ridiculously young we were then, and how our plans would definitely be more elaborate nowadays. By this, I think Eric and I were hinting that we would have succeeded at stealing that car given another chance. Maybe it is better we failed our first – and last - attempt at grand theft auto.

We continued west toward the signs that read “Des Moines.” With each mile west we traveled, we encountered land I had never seen. Each second, each inch of land was the farthest west I had ever been. Upon entering Iowa, we approached the Mississippi River. A longtime favorite book of mine, like many English aficionados, has been The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

The brown water seemed to stretch forever at this point in the river. Steamboats were still traveling up and down the river, and motorists sped around on jet skis. I felt myself looking back in time to when Huck and Jim crept away in the night, and all the real life slaves who made the escape on these very waters. Everyone, throughout time, has made escapes over, around, up, and down this river, whether the circumstance be the harsh condition of slave labor, or just looking west beyond the life we knew previously. I smiled as I passed the setting for some of the most remarkable literature, and made a mental note that as I sit down to write soon, I make note of how impressed I was by the natural phenomenon. Little did I know that a few of these things would be visited upon me on this day-long trek.

All I knew about Iowa could fit on a post-it note. I expected the cornfield and plains, but not the vastness of them. The rolling hills carrying miles of cornstalks elicited as much awe as any coastline, landmark, or mountain did; houses miles apart, embodying a combination of Don Quixote’s swaying windmills and the land I drew in my head while reading In Cold Blood in college. There is not an ocean for a thousand miles either way, nothing significant besides the utter lack of silence in the car. More than any mountain or ocean in the country, the stretches of land throughout middle America impressed me. The land rolls on forever, with nothing but fields of green for miles on every side of the car.

My maternal grandfather Earnest McKenzie lived and worked in Iowa for a time as an English professor at the University of Iowa teaching Geoffrey Chaucer. At my home in Methuen, I have a library full of his old books, classics like Dante’s Inferno, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, and Plato’s Republic, all first editions worn at the seams by years of reading and re-reading.

Upon learning of his life’s work, I quickly realized where my passions originated. I’ve spent hours looking over these books, examining the binding, smelling books over 50 years old trying to gather some understanding of what my grandfather was like. In 1952 soon before the birth of my mother, he committed suicide in the family driveway, a self-inflicted gun wound.

I’ve spent a good amount of time thinking about the entire situation. I’ll never know why he did what he did, why he chose, in my mind, to abandon four children and pull the trigger. Part of me wants to see him wandering the streets somewhere in the afterlife, where I can walk to him and punch him right in the jaw and implore him to give me reasons; ask him why he left before he got to see one of his youngest grandsons choose the same field he did, ask him if he regrets that scenario. Another part of me wants to thank him for giving me the critical thinking, writer’s mind that I inherited from him, sit down with a whiskey – his drink of choice – and talk about our favorite authors and stories. Faith leads me to believe I will one day have that very important decision to make. All I know is that it is frustrating to know that I could have had someone with the ability to read, criticize, and write with on perhaps his final legs, giving me advice from an old to a new author.

#

The smell wasn’t something as unfamiliar as it was unpleasant. And it came in spurts. Iowa had seemed like the longest state to drive through, and it didn’t help that Eric had to use the restroom as frequently as Dick Vitale compliments Duke’s basketball program. We stopped at every rest stop, including the world’s largest truck stop on Rt. 80. Looking at the map as the sun began to set in front of our eyes, we made the conclusion that Nebraska was just as big, maybe even a little bigger than Iowa.

We hit Omaha as the sun was setting before us.

The most unsettling thing about the Cornhusker state was not the size, but the smell. Marisa, who would be awake very scarcely on the trip, would awaken to add commentary to our banter.

“You guys are disgusting,” when we were talking about a difficult decision between family members, “Nice songs, you fag,” when a relatively feminine song came onto one of my mix CD’s, but the most timely of her observations came about midway through the state of Nebraska, a little ways past Lincoln, where the farmland stretched for days, and the streetlights were few and far between.

“What is that God awful smell?” she asked. Eric and I had smelled the scent of shit from the cattle for a little while now, as we were sure Marisa had been, but finally it became so chokingly awful that complaining couldn’t hurt our cause. We stopped for food, so we could take a breath and stretch our legs. It didn’t take us long to realize why the state we were in smelled so bad.

The sign said “Famous Sandwiches,” which was misleading. We did rationalize afterwards that the sign never explained what made the sandwiches famous. We guessed “making people go to the bathroom quite frequently.” Our meals delayed our trip due to frequent visits to the mens’ and ladies’ rooms. When we finally got on the road, we were an hour out of Colorado, where an important decision lay in front of the wanderers.

“What are we thinking?” I asked my passengers. The day had been long, we were growing irritable, and the car stunk of cigarettes, farts, and generally, three people crammed inside a small car.

“I think we should stop somewhere,” declared Eric. I got the distinct feeling that he had seen enough for one day. He felt that there was no way we were going to make it to Las Vegas before morning, or avoid a major crash involving three out-of-staters. Even if we were to finish the voyage to Sin City by noontime at the earliest, we’d still be two hours ahead of our check-in time, and all we’d really want to do is sleep.

We had instituted the “volleyball rotation” during our trip. One person drives, the person riding shotgun stays awake to keep the driver amused and alert, and the person in the backseat is welcome to sleep. Presently, I was still driving, which was no bother because it was my car.

“I really don’t care,” started Marisa, “but I would be okay with driving throughout the night.”

The final decision rested on me. The money situation was tight; could I really afford a night at a hotel? How long would tomorrow’s drive be? Studying the map we truly began to appreciate how big this country really is. Colorado was enormous compared to the two states we just traveled through. Ahead of us, as the altitude kept climbing, we could see the mountains lingering in the distance, illuminated once or twice by flashing lightning.