"What’ll it be, folks?" "I want two poached eggs on toast, ham, hash browns, and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice." "Large or small?" "Large." "White, whole wheat, or rye?" "Whole wheat." "You, sir?" "He’ll have the same. And coffee. Bring us some coffee!" The waitress departed. "I hope you don’t mind me ordering for you. Is that all right? And please don’t worry about paying; this is on me. After all, if it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what I would have done. Do you believe it(?); we’re actually going to eat? I’m famished! You should have seen the dirt that came off me in the john. Incredible! I nearly took a bath in their pint-size sink. Look; my nails are a disaster area. No, don’t look. What I really want to do is shampoo my hair. There wasn’t time; it got too crowded. See that woman over there? She walked in just as I was pulling back on my bra. You should have seen the look she gave me. Anyway, I feel a whole lot better." The waitress returned. "Hallelujah; coffee!" Brandy took a loud, appreciative "slurp." "I swear I must be addicted to this brain-buzzing stuff. So, you like to play with the half-&-half, too? Isn’t it fun—the way it sinks then mushrooms up when you stir it in? My father taught me how to drink coffee. ‘Never add more than one lump of sugar, cream it to tan not white, and always drink it hot—piping hot; Daddy hated what he called ‘Joe to turned tepid.’ I was real little then, but I still remember. Except I’m fond of it white. And I like two sugars. Have you ever noticed how getting those proportions just right always cues the waitress to come and freshen your cup? Raw sugar’s better than this bleached stuff—though I think sugar is bad period, don’t you? Ever put whipped cream in coffee? It’s heavenly… How about some music? Rock, country, jazz; what do you like? I like all kinds. Wait; I’ll see what’s available on the juke." Simon watched as Brandy crossed the room, feeling a surge of affection, a twinge of despair; they’d been through so much during the past twenty-four hours, yet here she was behaving like a mere acquaintance. Or was she simply nervous? Or embarrassed to be seen in public with a mute (as she tried to fill in his silences with her non-stop chatter)? Sad, he thought, as he noticed her passage cause every man at the counter to swivel her way. ‘I sound like a goddamn bimbo; what’s gotten into me? Every time an intelligent man pretends at least to like me, I start driveling on and on like the village idiot. I can hear myself doing it. If I’m not stupid, I might as well be. Not that his total lack of speech helps mine sound any wittier. I wonder if he’s aware of what an advantage muteness is; it’s so unrevealing. Silence is golden, they say; but it’s also unfair. Well, all I’ve really done is ramble on a bit; I’ll stop. Besides, he’ll like me for who I am or like me not at all… Now, let’s see; music: F2, H3, N8.’ Her selections made, Brandy hastened back. Breakfast, in her absence, had been served. "Food! Have you ever been this glad to see ham and eggs?… Mm, tastes divine!" Simon had forgotten about his appetite—a reflex-action whenever he confronted a major change. This had happened often, sometimes with alarming severity. When first he took to the open road, for example, three full days went by before he realized he had swallowed not a bite. By then he was weak, dehydrated, and starting to hallucinate. It usually took being presented with food to relieve him from these fasts. Then, for a time, his interest in nourishment reemerged… only to disappear if his transition proved incomplete. "Simon, do you have any specific plans for when we get to Tucson?" He shook his head. "You’re not meeting anyone: friends, family?" Same response. "Well, you’ll be needing a place to stay, won’t you?" He wrote on a napkin with his fork: SALVATION ARMY. "Oh… Well… Listen; I’ve been thinking. I don’t know anybody in Tucson. I think I might have a friend living outside of town somewhere, but nobody inside. So, when I get there, I thought I’d maybe stay at a motel. You know, until I can find an apartment? That’s what I did when I first moved out to LA—except, there, I had a roommate. I’ve never gone to live in an unfamiliar city all by myself. And I really don’t know Tucson from Timbuktu. So, I was thinking, maybe you wouldn’t mind staying with me for a while? I’ll have to pay for a room anyway, so it won’t cost you anything. And I’d feel a whole lot safer having somebody else close by. Somebody I can trust. What do you say? Interested?" Her offer took him somewhat by surprise (in light of how inauspicious he considered their ‘cultural’ re-entry; Simon’s slant on the greasy-spoon’s environment was anything but positive). Brandy, he concluded (perhaps too rashly?), was back in her element. Yet, despite his tacit censure, he surprised himself by answering with a nod. "Great! It'll be fun. You can help me go and look for my brand new digs. Then, after I move in, how’s about I have you over for dinner?" Though Simon’s acceptance pleased her, Brandy was careful to implant that the arrangement would be ‘temporary.’ "More coffee, Miss?" "Yes, please… Hey, I put a quarter in your juke box and haven't heard a peep." "Out of order." "Oh. Well, can I have my money back?" "Sure, Sweetie; I’ll take it off your bill. Coffee, sir?" The waitress wore a yellow uniform with thick black stripes at the waist and hem, her hips widespread, her huge breasts pendulous, her bleached-blond hair as stiff as a dime-store wig. She had been pleasant about the refund. She poured more coffee for Simon, then labored off to other customers, tipping her pot over upturned cups like an adipose bumble bee. Four men from the next booth got up and filed past—s l o w l y—each one taking a calculated glance at Brandy’s physique. Simon noted her discomfort. Pulchritude, he thought, might very well be a curse. To be looked at, not seen into, was to have ones genuine beauty all but ignored. He considered a lot of women renowned for their good looks to be downright ugly, pathetic in their need to incite desire. "Jeezus, Simon, you’re staring. You do that a lot, you know. It’s bad enough getting ogled by the local yokels." She gestured toward the foursome; he gestured an apology. "Though I must admit your stares are more polite. Most men positively drool when they check out a woman's body. Guess they think it’s flattering. But, boy, I’ll tell ya, it really gets on my nerves. Any woman enjoys flirtation; it’s visual rape that makes us feel like whores. And you know men are just as prone to being embarrassed as we are? I mean when the tables are turned? I used to spin around and march right back to guys who ‘gawked’ my clothes off, look them up and down then straight in the eye. You should have seen them squirm. They’d try to save face with a smirk or a wink at their buddies, but, basically, they got the message; they felt exactly how it feels to be sized up like meat. Since the age of twelve, I’ve been sort of big—you know, up top. I can remember praying, actually praying, I’d be able to walk from home to school without hearing wolf-whistles. It never happened. I’m not bitter—though Heaven knows I could tell you lots of sordid tales. It’s just that I’ve had to teach myself that most men act like jerks—present company excepted, of course. You ready?" While Simon stocked up on peppermint-flavored toothpicks, Brandy paid the bill, leaving a five-dollar tip blotting up water-rings on their vacated table. Simon ‘could’ have paid. Three days before meeting Brandy, a Baptist minister had dropped him off in downtown Las Vegas. "Welcome to Sodom," he’d said, then drove off in his Lincoln Continental, leaving Simon at a bus-stop with a rain-soaked newspaper and seventy-seven cents. In the paper he found a coupon good for one free breakfast and some slot machine tokens. He went to the advertised casino, ate a meal (as soggy as the coupon), and, in a dispirited mood, fed the gratuitous tokens to a one-armed bandit… winning! On his third pull an avalanche of quarters spilled out and overflowed the tray. He stuffed his pockets, then went ‘gambling.’ Within the next six hours he had amassed what (by road-denizen standards) was a veritable fortune. As Brandy and he now climbed into the car, Simon had two hundred dollars in his shirt’s left-side pocket, another six hundred stuffed haphazardly inside his pack. But money, somehow, had ceased to mean what it once did. Eight hundred dollars, when he had first set out, would have been an enormous comfort. In fact, while thumbing around in those early months, he had carried a sizable stash; to have little or zero money (being a novice) struck him as unthinkable. Then, about half a year into his wanderings, he had gotten an over-night ride from this cheerful sort who insisted on buying him dinner. The following morning, in a gesture of grateful reciprocation, Simon paid for breakfast—with funds he had safely hidden inside his pack. Fifteen miles outside of El Paso, Texas, this cheerful sort’s baseball cap ‘accidentally’ blew off and out the window. He stopped. His obliging passenger clambered out to fetch it… and the cheerful sort drove off with everything Simon owned. That lesson had been a hard but invaluable one. It was as if the final vestiges of his past had been, in an instant, whisked away. After the initial shock of panic and frustration, Simon found himself happier, calmer, and far more relaxed. For the first time in his life he breathed the rarefied air of freedom. In having nothing, he had everything. From then on, money or no, he somehow got by. When there were no rides, he walked. When there was no food, he went hungry for a while. He came across things: a coat, a pair of shoes, a can opener, a comb… things. Things were always available. He would lose them, find others. Money came and went just like the things. He never recovered his stolen pack. He likewise never recovered his former point of view. Thus Simon regarded his present affluence with relative apathy. The opportunity to spend his wealth, or lose it, would no doubt come to pass. Meanwhile, Brandy was practicing a relaxation exercise learned during dance training. The image she used was of a spiral staircase, winding, top to bottom, the length of her spine. First she concentrated on her diaphragm, breathing in and out at a steady, pulse-synchronizing pace. Then, imagining herself at the stairwell’s top, she spiraled down, releasing tension in each successive vertebra as she went… resulting in her impression that a channel had been opened… through which thought and sensation could freely travel… making her aware, now, of the car’s vibration… and of Simon sitting quietly in the seat beside… until a truck horn blared, its BLAST undoing her calm state of mind. A semi driver was trying to get her attention. He edged up alongside. Simon leaned over into view; the truck sped past. "Don’t pay any attention; it happens all the time. Listen, I just got an idea. See that blue book on the back seat? That’s my journal. I’ve kept one for as long as I could write. Why don’t you pen a letter or something; I mean to me. I haven’t had time to jot down stuff about yesterday. You know, about our meeting and everything? If you were to make an entry, it would jog my memory later. Whatever you like, okay? I’ll keep quiet… Really; anything at all will do just fine." Simon had once been a prolific correspondent. But not anymore. There was no one now with whom he wished to be in touch. And even if there were, his roving from place to place made pen pals impractical. Suzi had been the last human being to whom he had written. He winced—the pencil in his hand like a mended bone.
Brandy glanced over. She had, indeed, kept quiet; not once had she interrupted him. "Finished?" He leafed back through the pages to where he had begun, wanting to tear them up. If Brandy read what he had divulged, she would know his silence was a sham. And she would no doubt misconstrue his reason for maintaining it—which had nothing to do with penance, he believed, or with his past. The past was a dead issue (literally and figuratively). Silence, on the other hand, was a key to future doors. "Don’t re-read it; you’ll only be tempted to change things. Whatever comes straight from the heart is always best as is; it’s more honest. Here." Brandy took the book from his hands and tossed it onto the back seat. "You were at that a long time; look." The sign they approached, then passed, read TUCSON 86 MILES. Again, she glanced sideways. "Don’t worry; nobody reads that journal other then me." Her intuiting his uneasiness made Simon wonder… What else had she gleaned while her passenger "reminisced"? A horn sounded. Another trucker pulled alongside, leering at Brandy. He spotted her companion, then barreled ahead. Horns had been honking (come to think of it) off and on the entire time he sat writing. Brandy answered his subtext. "What can I do? It takes all kinds. * * |
