Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 42

Soon’s we get out of Kansas, two things happen. One, we start getting into nice little hills, not mountains, not even hilly as the Morvan, but it isn’t just one great, checkered tablecloth anymore. The second thing is everything turns green and humid.

When we stop for gas and I step out of the car, the air’s so thick, hot and heavy I can’t breathe. I climb right back into the joy of canned air. Out there looks just fine through cool air and tinted glass. This luxury tank makes sense now.

We drive along across Missouri toward St Louis. I’m at the wheel. Dad pulls out a notebook and starts scribbling. I figure he’s toting up how much we’ve spent so far with gas, motels and eating. Boy, is he in for a surprise; it’d’ve been cheaper going first class in an airplane.

We’ve gone maybe thirty miles when Dad clears his throat.

‘Listen to this, Bill; tell me what you think. It’s called “God’s Joke”:

‘Adam lived alone on the old ranch Eden

Just playin’, thinkin’, sleepin’, and feedin’.

He was pickin’ flowers in his garden one day’n’

God came down to teach Adam about prayin’.

Adam didn’t know God was making up sin

And wasn’t quite sure just how to begin.

“Pray hard,” God said, “Pray with your life,

Pray for money, or power. Pray for a wife.”

“What’s that, God?” says Adam, scratchin’ his head,

“Some new kinda fruit, somethin’ soft for my bed?”

“That’s right,” God said, smilin’ and grinnin’,

’Cause now he knew how to start Adam sinnin’.

Adam woke next mornin’ with a stitch in his side

And a cute little critter sayin’ she was his bride.

This critter, named Eve, had two bumps and a hole

And knew just how to steal a man’s soul.

Adam fenced off the ranch and took up the hoe,

Planted taters ’n’ cotton and corn in a row.

Eve raised Cain, then Cain slayed Abel,

And God laughed his ass off all the way to the stable.’

We start laughing. He’s proud of this crazy song; he’s going over it, making corrections, improving it; laughing to himself. Maybe all that shit with Grandma and Granddad was too much. I might be delivering a basket case to Mom.

We start seeing big advertisements for caves along the road. One’s called Meramec, the other Onondaga. Dad wants to visit one, only he isn’t sure which. It’s a good fifty miles out of the way, however we go.

It seems, fifteen years ago, my parents drove cross-country and visited a cave. All these years, he’s carried in his mind the idea I was too young to appreciate it then but he’s convinced I’ll like it now.

When he gets an idea like this, there’s no stopping him; it’s only a question of which cave; Bryce and Zion all over again. Somehow he decides it’s Onondaga. I’m sure it’ll be the wrong cave. But it doesn’t matter. We’re in for a cave.

We drive through rolling green countryside; he’s manning the maps. We go along small roads, then come down on a place fixed up like one of the national parks.

They’ve got rocks squared off and cemented together, with rough-cut signs hanging on chains. These have burned-out letters like brandings. Everything very woodsy. All these signs have arrows pointing toward Onondaga Cave.

But it turns out this isn’t a national park at all. This is a bit of free enterprise. Somebody bought these caves and developed a tourist attraction. They figured people are going stark raving mad driving cross-country with only Stuckey’s peanut brittle to break the monotony, so they’ll come in to see anything.

There’s a gigantic parking lot three-quarters full and seething with Americana in Dacron colors, checkered shorts and kids in Keds.

We’ve hardly gotten the car stopped and the motor turned off when an old guy, in what looks like an ice-cream-salesman costume, comes over and collects fifty cents for parking. Before we can move, he’s whipped out a sticker with an Indian arrowhead on it and stuck this thing on the back window. I dash to scrape it off but it’s practically vulcanized by the heat. That Mafia stud in Philadelphia will want some reason for an arrowhead named Onondaga; imagine explaining to the mob. He’ll probably cover it with a decal of crossed American flags.

This place is notorious for two things. Jesse James and his band are supposed to have hidden gold somewhere in the cave. That’s got to be good for at least an extra thousand admissions per year. The other thing, Mark Twain is said to have used this cave as a model for the one where Tom Sawyer and Becky get lost.

Can you believe it, three bucks to walk into a hole? But Dad’s a follow-through type so he plunks out the money.

A six-foot-tall Boy Scout herds us into the cave, passing out gems like how to tell a stalagmite from a stalactite. Would you believe it? A stalagmite might reach the ceiling, a stalactite holds tight to the ceiling; so much for geology.

First there’s the James brothers’ hideout. This is competition for the Knott’s Berry Farm Award of the Year. Even Disneyland is better than this. There’s one part with gigantic ‘gold nuggets’ sticking conveniently out of the ground. They also have a section with fluorescent rock and black light beamed on them, probably gathered those rocks from all over America.

But the cave is damned impressive in itself, as a cave. I see what Dad’s excited about. We’re down hundreds of feet in the ground. There are parts bigger than a whole wing of Versailles. It’s dripping with calcite in an enormous range of subtle colors. And it’s cool. It’s almost worth six dollars just to get cool. It’s a constant fifty-seven degrees, winter and summer; I can feel the cold sinking into me. I want my bones to get cold so I can hold on till we get back in the car.

But things are so hoked up. There are colored lights shining on every interesting rock so you can’t tell what color anything really is. Then, they have names for each geologic formation. One is called The Golden Horn. This is a stalagmite bathed in gold light to make it look like a huge golden horn sticking out of the ground. Everybody is shuffling past in the dark hanging on to ropes. There’s a hush over the crowd as if we’re going through Notre Dame.

Another place is called The Organ of the Giants. Some stalagmites and stalactites have run together so it looks a bit like a giant pipe organ. There are constantly changing colored lights playing on this. It’s something like old-time vaudeville or a funky light show. Come to think of it, what a great place this could be for a rock concert; call it the Underground Rock.

We finish in a huge natural amphitheater, bigger than any movie theater, with wooden seats all around. Our guide leads us in and we sit there till the place is about filled. Then they turn off all the lights.

A voice comes out of the dark from at least ten speakers; we’re surrounded by this voice. He talks about the primal dark and how it’s been dark in these caves for thousands of centuries. An organ begins playing and colored lights come up slowly on a beautiful display of arches, water-washed caves, stalagmites and stalactites. Well, that’s the way it’s been all along so I settle back.

But then comes the kicker. A projector behind us flashes the American flag onto the stalactites. They wiggle the projector so it looks as if the flag is blowing in a breeze. Worse yet, fat Kate Smith, one of Grandma’s all-time favorites, comes on singing ‘God Bless America’!

I stand up to leave. Everybody stands with me. They think it’s the national anthem. They’re standing, staring at that monster jiggling flag. I walk along the bench to the aisle, up and out.

Going outside into the wet heat again is miserable but it’s better than staying inside. I’m an American and all, but it doesn’t have anything to do with that kind of commercialized bullshit.

Dad comes out with the others. We don’t say anything as we work our way two hundred yards through air sludge to the car. He turns it over and the air conditioner starts pushing blessed cool air around. It’s just getting bearable when we pull past the last little stone pyramid with an arrowhead sign on it. Dad turns toward me.

‘Well, Bill, I think we’re both about ready for Paris.’

We start laughing. We go over it all and we’re getting at least six dollars’ worth in laughs.

We’re laughing along when suddenly we get two coughs; that big boat of a car gives up. We barely get it to the side of the road. The gas gauge registers almost empty. We meant to buy gas at the station outside the caves but, in our hurry getting away, forgot.

Still, I can’t believe we’re actually out of gas. The needle definitely lifts when we turn on the ignition; that should mean something. But Dad’s convinced it’s gas. We latch up that gigantic hood and there are four of the biggest Stromberg carburetors I’ve ever seen in my life. Just pushing down on the accelerator is like flushing a toilet with gasoline.

Dad digs the gas can out of the trunk and insists on walking back. He’s so sure we’re out of gas he doesn’t even want to check. I think we’re both afraid of fooling around with this monster.

It’s got to be two miles or more back to the caves but he says he’ll hitch. There’s a fair amount of traffic and with the gas can he shouldn’t have any trouble. I say I’ll go but he insists he needs the exercise. He crosses to the other side and starts slogging along. He’s going to be dripping wet with sweat before he gets there.

Just out of curiosity, I begin playing with the carburetors. There’s not much you can do with that kind of equipment when all you have is a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. At least, I can find out if fuel is getting to the carbs. It could be the fuel pump.

I pull off the gas lead lines and turn it over. Gas comes from somewhere; those lines pump gas like cut arteries. I look back for Dad but he’s gone; he must’ve gotten a lift right off.

I’m afraid to fool around with the jets so I hook everything up again.

Then, when I turn her over, she fires up like downtown; probably only a vapor lock from all the heat. I think of tearing off after Dad but I’m afraid we’ll miss each other. He’ll get a ride back from the gas station easy, Americans are great that way.

I figure now’s a chance to top up my suntan; I stretch out on the grass verge.

I must’ve fallen asleep; the next thing, Dad’s there. He has a can full of gas and looks fresh as a shrimp. He says he got a lift almost right away to the caves and a lady at the pump took him back. He’s pouring gas into the tank. He’s so pleased with himself, I don’t have the heart to tell him the car’s already working.

Also, at the gas station, he bought two pairs of sunglasses. We’ve been driving into the morning sun every day and our eyes are almost burnt out. We both have light blue eyes and can’t take glare. But these are some sunglasses he buys.

Of course, the car turns right over. We’re both smiling like lunatics. These sunglasses have mirror lenses, and are curved so they wrap around the face. With our beards and these glasses on, we look like monster insects from The Lost World, or gangsters or hip drug addicts.

But they do keep the sun out, they practically keep air out; be great for motorcycle riding. He must’ve paid a fortune for them. That’s the way he is, tight as a witch’s cunt; then bango, big-shot spender.

The rest of that day we beat our way across Missouri. Late afternoon, we reach St Louis. We manage to get ourselves lost in a complex series of overpasses, underpasses and cross-over exits.

We’re going round and round as if we’re on a roller coaster and getting nowhere. Looming over all is the most godawful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s some kind of steel rainbow. It curves up in the air hundreds of feet, but doesn’t go anywhere. It looks as if the people in St Louis decided to build their own Washington Monument and got confused; or the damned thing melted in the heat so it bent over and the top stuck into the ground. The Disney approach has totally invaded American thinking.

After we go through the loop-the-loops at least six times, we give up. We cruise off our roller coaster in the shadow of that towering steel rainbow and into one of the most desolate black ghettos I’ve ever seen. There’s nothing but boarded-up brick buildings, cracked streets and thousands of people hanging loose on corners. Here’s this monstrosity looming over them, costing millions of dollars, and these people live in filth.

We stop at a gas station and ask how we get on the main route east. After half an hour twisting through St Louis, we’re on the open road again. America is clots of people, joined by gigantic straight highways. Most of this country is practically empty.

We start looking for a motel when we’re fifty miles into Illinois on the other side of St Louis. We stop at twenty different places but they’re all filled. We move on another thirty miles, going off at each little dink of a town, drifting up and down tiny streets in our Batmobile, looking for lit motel signs.

Finally, we pull over on the roadside at a picnic place to camp out. I have Tom’s tent and a blanket. It’s so hot we won’t need the blanket; this air’s stiff with humidity.

I’d half hoped we’d leave humidity in Missouri but it goes all the way to the Atlantic. I don’t know how people stand it. Sure I do. They run from air-conditioned houses to air-conditioned cars, drive to air-conditioned movies, shopping malls, restaurants. They move between air-conditioning machines like people living on the moon or a hostile planet where the air’s unfit for humans. It just about is.

It’s dark when we unpack the tent. It’s tangled and still has dirt from Topanga Canyon wrapped in it, our own forty acres here in Illinois. There are some tough knots to untangle. I just pulled up and rolled it when I packed. Dad isn’t saying anything, only struggling in the dark with the knots.

We aren’t there five minutes when the mosquitoes hit. They must come out of the grass. At first it’s only a few, along with some lightning bugs, but then there are swarms.

I wrap myself in the blanket to fend them off. Dad slaps once in a while, but keeps at those knots.

The tent is a simple pup tent with a floor. We’ll be crowded but it’s better than sleeping in the car or driving through the night.

At last we struggle ourselves inside the tent with the mosquito netting pulled across. We beat down twenty or so of the beasts we’ve closed in with us. I hear thousands outside trying to chew their way through. I’m slippery with blood from the ones I’ve squashed, my blood.

We stretch out side by side. I never realized what a thick, broadshouldered old dog Dad is. I’ve slept in pup tents with other guys and there was plenty of room. I peek to see if he’s got extra room but he’s pushing against his side, too.

And now we begin hearing the trucks. I’m sure they’ve been going by all the time but we didn’t notice. One passes about every two minutes; there’s hardly any time between. One roars off east and we start hearing another, west. Just our luck, we’re on a slight grade. All the eastbound trucks are shifting down to make the hill while the westbounds are double shifting up a gear.

We lie out like that for an hour, neither of us saying anything, hoping the other guy is asleep but knowing he isn’t.

Then the wind starts. It quickly blows up into a real Mid-west thunder-and-lightning storm. We didn’t exactly do a merit-badge job putting up our tent, either. What with knots, dark and mosquitoes, it’s sagging in every direction, mostly front to back, like a sway-back horse.

Bam! Crash! Flash! Thumble! Rumble! Crack! Flash! The lightning and thunder are almost simultaneous. It goes on and on. At least now we can’t hear the trucks. And some rain! Some wind! The tent slowly begins collapsing against us. Anyplace we touch, the rain leaks through. What do mosquitoes do in a rainstorm? Drown? Swim? Dig holes? They can’t fly, that’s for sure.

We begin edging toward each other. Then we roll up on our sides and tuck spoon-style away from the tent. The whole wild world is doing its damnedest out there. Dad reaches over my shoulder.

‘Here, take this, Bill. Otherwise, we’ll never sleep.’

In a flash of lightning I see it’s a ‘reddy’, Seconal. Where in hell did my father get a thing like that? And what’s he doing carrying it in his shirt pocket?

I have a hard time swallowing any pill even with water. But I slug it down with some apple juice in a bottle at the head of the tent. Dad pops his like a true pill freak.

Imagine, him popping reds; shows what you don’t know.