Honest Addict, Chapter Nine

9

The Jag started rough. It not been driven for several days and the temperature was quite cold. It was a funny old car: it needed constant attention and was always breaking down with great attendant expense: that part at least was expected. But it was also temperamental when left to rest for a few days, like an elderly person who has slept too long and too deeply. Peter always thought that a little break should be good for an automobile, but this was simply not the case with his. He would have gotten rid of the car years ago were it not for the fact that he loved her so: the long, aerodynamic hood that contained the V12 engine, the simple luxury of the leather and wood trim interior and most importantly the fact that she was over twenty years old and completely anachronistic in form, especially in the context of his erstwhile workplace, where the she had been surrounded in the parking lot by the latest model Porsche and Mercedes.

Once he was through Sparks and on the open road she started to purr and he knew that there would be no problems in the immediate future. Beyond the town of Lockwood he passed through the scenery of the Hafed and Clark Bluff Canyons and into the town of Mustang, from where the famed whorehouse took its name. Continuing down Highway 80 through Patrick and Wadsworth, he turned onto Highway 95 near Fernley and began heading southeast. Along this stretch he witnessed a long cargo train bearing yellow and black Union Pacific cars; a living fossil, he thought, still viable in the digital age, a sturgeon of the desert plains, a horseshoe crab, a crocodile.

Before Ragtown Highway 95 morphed into Highway 50 and Peter knew he had reached the first significant milestone in his new journey: the aptly-named “loneliest road in America,” which, after the town of Fallon, opened long, wide and empty into the great and mysterious Nevada wilderness.

At the town of Cold Springs he noticed that the car was running a little low on gas, so he pulled into the first filling station he saw, which, he regretted, was a full thirty cents more expensive than several he had passed only half an hour earlier. It struck him as odd that he would consider losing twenty-five hundred dollars gambling over a period of a few days a bargain, but would shudder at an additional five dollar expense in gasoline. Nevertheless, this was how he felt.

The pump was a virtual antique and the gas came slow, a tenth of a gallon every few seconds. As it was quite obvious that filling the large capacity tank was going to take some time, Peter proceeded into the attached store to buy a soda.

Behind the counter was a middle aged man sporting a worn baseball hat and a burning cigarette between his cracked lips. Smoke curled directly into his right eye, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He stared at Peter with a look that was part confusion and part apathy. He wore a bushy moustache that was completely grey under his nose, but gradually became a yellowish brown over his upper lip. Peter wondered whether this was a natural pattern or if perhaps years of smoking had discolored the bottom portion. From his knowledge of used ashtrays and nicotine stains, he was inclined to think the latter.

Peter pretended to peruse the soda selection carefully, but really he just wanted to break the silence that brooded over the room. It seemed fortunate when the stranger spoke first.

“Ain’t often that we see them kind of cars around here.”
“No, I guess that’s true.”
“What year is it?”
“Eighty-five.”
“Nope, we don’t see many of them, that’s right. California plates, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Peter was becoming a little unnerved from the tone of the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so off balance in a dialogue.
“What in the world brings a fella like you around here, headed into the big nothin’.”
“The big nothing?”
“I saw which direction you came in from. You’re headed east.”
“That’s right.”
“Nothin’ out there.”
“There’s plenty out there.”
“Like what?”
“That’s my business, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess so. Just curious.”
Peter sighed. It was better to not be defensive. “I’m just driving. And it’s not the first time I’ve covered this country. Call it a vacation, if you want.”
“Seems a little odd to me, a grown man just drivin’ for the sake of drivin’ – vacation or not.”
“It’s not so odd, really,” he replied with attempted enthusiasm. “Actually, if you think about it, it’s about as American an activity as you’ll ever encounter. Though it’s perhaps becoming more rare, with the price of gas nowadays.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, just think about the great books on the subject, for instance: Kerouac’s On the Road, Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, even Nabokov’s Lolita are all perfect examples of the road trip narrative in American literature.” The moment he spoke the words, Peter became embarrassed, knowing that his thoughts had been wasted and came off as haughty.

The stranger snorted and looked in another direction. It was obvious he considered the discussion finished. Peter decided against the drink but still had to pay for the gas. He approached his unnecessary nemesis with a strange trepidation.

“Tank full yet?” he inquired.
“Yup. Fifty-eight eighty five.

Peter threw three twenty dollar bills on the counter and turned immediately. “Keep the change,” he said over his shoulder as he left. The man said something contradictory in reply but it was too late. His customer had made a very hasty exit.

***

The last half joint was burning fast between his fingers due to a good wind, and was about to expire after only a few hits. He tossed it to the ground, neither happy nor sad to have finally done away with the remainder of the pot, but aware that he was unlikely to come across any more in his current location. His head felt right, for the moment anyway, as he stared blankly at the dramatic white-capped peaks of the Toiyabe mountain range, which rose from the floor of the landscape like a jagged saw tooth.

It was not exactly silent. There was the wind, which was the source of a satisfying background noise that reminded him of the now distant ocean. From somewhere within the Jaguar came small pops, creaks and pings as the engine cooled in the brisk air. Once every ten minutes or so a car passed in either direction and sped off into the distance, a fleeting companion. The sun was high in the clear light blue sky, casting a filtered winter light on the ground. It was peaceful here on the side of the road, he thought; everything seemed to be in its proper place.

Peter got back into the Jag, fired her up once again and flew down Highway 50 at an eventual speed of ninety-five miles an hour. He only had to slow down for the towns: still Austin went by in a flash. On the road he felt whole and satisfied, a man at harmony with his life. At times thoughts and memories drifted into his mind and were completely processed, enjoyed or resolved as circumstances dictated. Alone with his conscience, memories and emotions, he would burst into laughter one instance and his eyes would well with tears the next. Other moments were filled with an absolute absence of thought – a profound emptiness, a lack of consciousness even of his own being which could only be achieved behind the wheel of a hurtling automobile, a state of mind as close to Zen as he could ever get.

It was with his psyche thus vacillating between these several states of mind that he continued his journey, passing through Eureka without even really noticing it. And when he saw the sign that indicated he had arrived at his final destination for the day he was almost disappointed and considered driving on into the dusk. But the town of Ely was too special a place to pass up and he was getting hungry. He pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall, parked and got out of the car. It was quiet, the air was very chill and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. The town of nine thousand souls felt like it contained more like nine hundred. In the contiguous United States there is no settlement of similar size more isolated than where Peter stood. This thought gave him great satisfaction.