Somewhere between Flagstaff and San Diego, we stopped for Snickers and gas, and I walked around a neglected weed field, kicked rocks, and asked myself when was the last time, I just fell into the moment without that incessant poke of reality; unpublished stories, bills, missing folders, clutter, grocery lists, mail, websites, photo sharing, John’s lunch, John’s phone calls, the news of the world.
“I feel better Rudy, I haven’t cried all day.”
“It’s still early, he chuckled. I have an idea. Let’s take the off roads.”
“How off we talking?”
“Check your map, see if Interstate 8 runs into 10?”
I reached for the Droid, and fussed with the tricky touch pad.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So why bother with maps.”
“I know — we’ll take 78, through the countryside. It will be pretty. Look, see the sheep?”
The pasture was yellow as corn, hay stacked with sheep, hundreds of them.
“Let’s stop.” I said.
“Even sheep make money. LouLou, there has to be a way for you to capitalize on your writing, and not wait for some jackass to hire you. There has to be. Even I know people pay to click on website ads.”
“You said you had 165 clicks the other day.”
“That was once! Mostly between 10-50 a day.”
“So! It adds up.”
I was grazing on unhurried thoughts, just ripples of ideas and dreams.
“Did you see that?” Rudy blurted out.
“That guy! I just saw a guy walking alongside a weary looking burro dragging a miniature red covered wagon. I gotta turn around.”
“Hi folks, how you doing?” He extended a hoof like hand, weathered as paws, “I’m Howard West.” Howard was outdoor fit; sunglasses, hat, boots, and evenly tanned skin.
“Hi, I’m Rudy, and that’s LouLou.”
“Hi LouLou,” he shook like a city man with hardened hard-labor hands.
"This is some way of traveling. What are you doing?”
“I’m on a book tour, The Quicksilver Key Book Tour.
I caught my laughter when I noticed his educated aura; that veil of disguise we think fools everyone.
“It’s about the history, the lost history — the West in particular and how the government accrues the investment of the rancher, and the universe. If you read my books you’ll see….”
I was petting the dog, a friendly furry mixed breed, and Howard was now blending Rudy in his claw, with this rockabilly wisdom that I didn’t understand.
“How far are you going today Howard?” Rudy asked.
“I do about 10 or 12 miles a day. Whenever I feel like stopping, I just pull over. You been down to the Dunes yet?”
“Where’s that?” Rudy was keenly addressing the wagon, it’s wheels, and accessories, but only I knew that.
“Down the road. Now, those kids have money. They ride dune buggies that sell for anywhere from $5,000 to $75,000! They took me on a ride.”
“Wow! Hey do you have any power source?”
“Sure do. See this — jets up the whole works, laptop,
lights, even my stove. Let me show you.”
I tinkered with the bell around the donkey, I came to find out was named Blue Pegasus, and watched Howard lead Rudy to the watering hold.
" … and the government rules consciousness … by defining the distinct differentiation of the classes…”
I was about to interrupt when another car passed by, and Howard was distracted by the prospect of a purchase.
“Howard, you’re the coolest! I love what your doing, man. I wish I could do it.” Rudy shook his hand.
“Everyone has a book.”
We drove past the sand dunes, and all that bleached rolling sand smooth as pressed sheets, jolted my mind like a wrench.