Roads From the Ashes Read online

  With only a week to go, we needed a miracle. We needed a bank that would loan us $56,250 because they liked our smiles, one that would believe we meant it when we signed a piece of paper saying we’d pay it all back.

  Eighteen hours before we were due in Irvine to assume possession of the Phoenix One, water turned into wine. The last bank, represented by a woman with a lovely smile, funded our loan. The next day, we drove to Irvine, signed a bunch of papers and kicked the tires one last time.

  The Phoenix was ours! Mark climbed into the cab, turned on the engine, and pointed it toward Pasadena. I followed in the car. I tailed him along Irvine Boulevard as we headed for the freeway. Outside the rarefied atmosphere of the Revcon factory, the Phoenix stood out like Santa Claus in July. It stopped traffic. “My god,” I thought, “We’ve bought an eyesore.” A sharp pang of buyer’s remorse struck me in the gullet. “I’m a conspicuous consumer. I’m a frivolous spendthrift. Those other three banks were right. We really are insane.”

  The Phoenix paused at a traffic light, then turned onto a freeway ramp. I followed. I had 26 miles to think about what we’d done. It only took two for me to recover from my momentary lapse. What did I care if the Phoenix drew attention? We’d picked it out because it was different. The ordinary possibilities hadn’t appealed to us. They hadn’t suited our new lease on life.

  As we headed north, my mood rose like a hot air balloon. The truck rolling smoothly along the highway ahead of me meant everything we’d planned was suddenly real. We had our wheels! There was nothing stopping us! We were ready to roll! We were free!

  We drove to Mark’s parents’ house. They came out. “It’s beautiful,” they said. My sister and brother-in-law came over to take a look. “It’s obscene,” they said. But everybody looked inside and outside. They climbed underneath and up on the roof. They sat at the table and lay on the bed and turned on the faucet and opened the cupboards. Before the afternoon was out, the Phoenix had attracted twenty gawkers, and it was parked on a secluded cul-de-sac.

  I can’t tell you who was right. Maybe the Phoenix was beautiful, and maybe it was obscene. I’d wondered myself whether it was good or bad, pleasing or offensive, right or wrong. But that night, as Mark and I lay down for the first time in our new bed, we fell asleep knowing that only one thing really mattered. The Phoenix was ours.

  Four Cats in Santa Cruz

  Wait a minute. Did I really say, “I was free” back there? I may have felt that lovely lighter-than-air ebullience as I drove back to Pasadena behind our new set of wheels, but it was fleeting. We’d just gained a car payment as big as a mortgage. Freedom? Maybe it really is a word for nothing left to lose. Maybe it’s only a tantalizing abstraction to sing about on the Fourth of July, or to enjoy for a moment when all your worldly goods are gone, and you haven’t had a chance to fill the vacuum.

  The Phoenix filled a good chunk of the vacuum, and gradually, we were acquiring its contents. New stuff. Different stuff. Stuff I never knew existed.

  Insurance companies are organized to make sure you replace all your old stuff with stuff that’s as similar as possible.

  If you had a couch, you pick out a new one. You work your way down your list, putting everything back. As long as you stick to the footprint of the stuff you lost, everyone is happy. Pretty soon, you can start forgetting that the fire ever happened. It fades like a bad dream at daybreak.

  If, on the other hand, you decide that the fire wasn’t so much a disaster as a chance to reinvent yourself, you’re on your own. If you decide that in place of a couch, you would like a black box that will make a cellular telephone work with a modem, don’t expect an insurance agent to understand. It won’t make sense to anyone but you.

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but as I look back, most of our decisions about stuff revolved around keeping in touch. We could live happily without a dishwasher, but we couldn’t leave town without a modem. We had no yen for a dining room table, but we couldn’t depart without a computer, a printer, a telephone, and a fax machine.

  Nearly half of the living space in the Phoenix One was dedicated to communication. The entire “back room,” space which in most motor homes is filled with a bed and wardrobes, was an office, complete with desk, filing cabinet, slide-out shelf for the fax machine, and storage for computer equipment. One cabinet was reserved to hold all our clothes. Our bed was a bunk over the cab.

  Now that the Phoenix really existed in three dimensions, our plans for departure began to solidify, but we still didn’t know exactly when we’d actually climb into the cab and drive away. It’s a funny thing when you plan to set forth on a journey of your own making. You can plan and plan and never quite get around to leaving. You need a deadline, or you can keep planning forever.

  A deadline appeared at precisely the right moment. Mark’s brother in Santa Cruz called. “We’re going to Hawaii at the end of March,” he said. “We need someone to house sit for us and feed the cats.” Suddenly there was no more time for dreaming. The Phoenix One had a mission, a focus, a drop-dead date. Four hungry cats were counting on us to hit the road.

  Meeting the Roadman

  While we were in the midst of preparing for our departure, we received an invitation to attend an Indian meeting. The meeting was to be held at a friend’s house in the mountains just north of the San Fernando Valley.

  “It lasts all night,” explained Catherine. “You should bring pillows, and Megan has to wear a dress. Also, bring food to share with the group.”

  An Indian meeting. My only knowledge of such things came from Carlos Castaneda, and lots of people said he made things up. “But why not?” said Mark. “It seems like a perfect way to start an adventure.”

  We arrived at the house around five-thirty and parked in front. A pick-up truck was parked in the driveway, and two men were sharpening a yucca stalk to a point in the front yard. A handful of other people were sitting on the porch. Catherine was in the kitchen, “just bring whatever you brought on in,” she said. “Things will be starting pretty soon.”

  Two men were moving furniture out of the living room. A serious man in a leather jacket seemed to be in charge. He said, “Let’s build the altar now,” and a thin teen-ager wearing combat boots and chains carried in four two-by-fours and dumped them on the floor.

  “What are we supposed to do?” I whispered to Mark as seemingly random activity continued around us. Another man entered with a bag of sand over his shoulder. He dumped it on the floor. Another man arrived with a load of firewood. “I have no idea,” said Mark. “I guess we just watch and see what happens.”

  The man in charge walked into the room. “What are all these pillows doing in here?” he demanded. “Get them out of here.” He was pointing at our pillows, the ones Catherine had told us to bring. We stuffed them back into a corner, and shrank back on top of them.

  A blonde woman in blue jeans arranged the four two-by-fours into a rectangle. The man who’d brought the sand arrived with another bagful and dumped it inside, right onto the floor. He added the other bag, and the rectangle was full. The woman used a flat stick to smooth and flatten the sand.

  More people arrived carrying food. Catherine came to tell us that one of the women was the organizer of the meeting. “She’s the one who called it,” she said. “She’s the one who will tell the Roadman why we’re here.”

  The Roadman. The man in the leather jacket. I’ll be very curious to find out why we’re here, I thought. And why we’re staying all night. It’s going to be a long one.

  What looked like chaos continued to swirl around us, but out of the seemingly random activity, an altar took shape in the middle of the room, a fire was laid in the fireplace, the women changed into dresses, and people arranged themselves in a circle, kneeling or sitting cross-legged on the floor. We were about thirty in all, a large group for a small living room. The roadman took his place directly across from us. The room was sl
owly filling with smoke.

  The ritual unfolded before us, and much of it revolved around smoke and fire. The roadman had a beaded leather bag full of tobacco and cedar. He laid talismans on the altar. He filled a pipe, and we all smoked in turn. He talked to the woman who had called the meeting.

  Our knees were already hurting, unaccustomed as we were to sitting immobile on the floor. We had at least twelve hours to go, maybe more.

  “I’ll pass the medicine,” the Roadman was saying. “I want each of you to take four spoons.” Catherine had told us about the medicine. “It’s a peyote tea,” she’d said. “And yes, it can make you sick. There are containers to throw up into, if you need them.” Near us was a plastic gallon-sized milk jug with a hole cut in it, just big enough to hold a face. “It tastes horrible,” Catherine had warned us. “In fact, I think it’s the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

  The bowl arrived. I downed my four spoons quickly, before I could change my mind. It’s not so bad, I thought. It was bitter and herbal and odd, but down it went. I eyed the milk jug, but nothing happened. Piece of cake.

  The room was smokier now, and darker. The only light came from the fireplace, where a young man with black, waist- length hair was tending the fire.

  The ceremonies continued. There was chanting and praying and drumming. I saw demons in the embers. The Roadman across the room had a devil’s face. A woman in a black dress had snakes in her hair. I watched and watched. I must have slept.

  Three times during the night the Roadman passed the medicine. The rituals continued, the praying, the chanting. A bucket of water was passed around, and we drank in turn from a tin cup.

  Dawn peeked in around the edges of the curtains, and the ceremony seemed to trail off. We found ourselves again surrounded by aimless activity. Some people lay on the floor. Others walked outside. The fire went out.

  Somewhat dazed, we decided to put our belongings into our car. “Maybe we should just leave,” whispered Mark. “Not a bad idea,” I whispered back. It was already mid-morning, and there was no way of telling how long people might stay. A small group was chatting with the roadman at the other end of the living room. Catherine seemed to have disappeared. “No one will ever miss us,” I added.

  We picked up our pillows and walked outside. Before we reached the car, a voice called, “Wait!” We turned, and the Roadman was standing on the porch. He walked down the steps. “You aren’t leaving, are you?” he asked. “You must come and eat.”

  How had he known we were leaving? He’d been ensconced in conversation twenty feet away when we slipped out. How had he crossed the room so fast? We went back inside the house.

  Suddenly, we were part of the group. The Roadman, it turned out, was a Navajo from Phoenix. Other Native Americans had come even farther distances. Many participants were Caucasians who attended meetings of the Native American Church regularly. One woman had built a sweat lodge in her backyard. One man, a Hopi who lived in North Hollywood, had lost his apartment in the earthquake. “But I still have my truck,” he said. “And my grandfather told me to come to this meeting.” His grandfather had died three years before.

  We feasted on the food everyone had brought, and finally the real time to leave arrived. Feeling much better than we had a few hours before, we climbed into our car and headed east, the opposite direction from which we had come.

  Just why we drove off in the wrong direction is unclear to me now. Maybe it was difficult to turn around, and we thought we could “go around the block.” Maybe it was the peyote. In any event, we found ourselves driving over the mountains in a dense fog. When visibility returned, we couldn’t have been more surprised to find ourselves at Buttonwillow, a traveler’s oasis on Interstate 5 about two hundred miles from any place we wanted to be. “We better not ever tell anybody about this,” said Mark. We decided to rent a motel room and sleep.

  Our rumps were still numb. The motel had a whirlpool, but even a half-hour soak failed to bring them back to life. They stayed numb for three days. By the time sensation returned, we’d begun to fear we’d never feel anything in our hind quarters again.

  As we drove back to Pasadena the next morning, we agreed that the Indian meeting had been a transforming experience. “I have no idea in what way I was transformed,” I said, “But something definitely happened.”

  “I still can’t figure out how that Roadman knew we were leaving,” said Mark. “Or how he got out onto the front porch so fast.”

  “I don’t see how he did it, either,” I agreed, “But then, I don’t understand most of what happened there. Like how does a grandfather who’s been dead for three years tell you to go on a road trip?”

  But then again, maybe I do understand. It may be my imagination, it may be only a demon in a fireplace, but I swear there are times I hear my own grandfathers speak. I hear the voices of those who crossed the plains in wagons, and the older ones who crossed the Atlantic in sailing ships. It’s not my own idea to hit the road. It’s in my blood.

  Chapter 4

  Already Gone

  The Most Wonderful Road in the World

  On March 27, 1994, a group made up of family and friends gathered in the backyard of Mark’s parents’ house. It was the same place where, four years earlier, we’d held our wedding reception, the same vantage point from which we’d watched the wildfire rage five months before.

  We tied blue and white helium balloons from every available hook and handle on the Phoenix One’s surface, and I wrapped a bottle of champagne in cheesecloth. With forty well- wishers standing by, I smashed it on the winch. Everyone cheered, and the Phoenix One was officially christened.

  All afternoon, everyone inspected every corner of the Phoenix, flipping switches, flushing the toilet, turning on the television. Everyone wished us well, and some said they wished they were going with us. “There’s one extra bed,” we said. “Why not?”

  When everyone left, Mark and I sat at the galley table. “I guess we’re really going to do it,” I said.

  “Why is it so dark in here?” said Mark. He flipped a light switch. Nothing happened. “The batteries are dead,” he said as he pushed the test switch. We had lot to learn about life on wheels, but that night, as we crawled into our cozy bunk, I’m sure the smile I fell asleep with lasted all night. The most wonderful nights in the world are the ones before long-awaited trips. The road lies ahead. Everything is possible. Anything can happen. The moment just before a dream comes true is the best moment of all.

  Tuesday, March 29, 1994, was chilly and clear. We buckled Marvin into his new seatbelt harness, kissed our families goodbye, and climbed into the cab. We had to be in Santa Cruz by nightfall. Dan, his wife Lynette, and their three children had already left for Hawaii. The cats were waiting.

  We drove west to join Interstate 5. The Phoenix struggled up Tejon Pass, and Mark, who’d had visions of roaring up the hill, was forced to join the line of eighteen-wheelers crawling along in the slow lane. “This won’t do, this just won’t do,” I heard him grumble. It was fine with me, though. I was in no rush, and even the taste of diesel fumes couldn’t dampen my mood. “We’ll get there,” I said, but I knew I wasn’t talking to a rational being. I was talking to a man in a truck, and men in trucks brake at performance shops. I sighed. I was looking at a lot of hours in garages. We inched our way to the summit and descended into the San Joaquin Valley at Grapevine. Mark cheered up on the downhill slope.

  Interstate 5 has been called the most boring highway in the world. It runs for miles through flat, dry fields, punctuated only by man-made installations of fast-food restaurants, motels and gas stations, each one competing for the tallest sign.

  The first one we came to was none other than Buttonwillow, the same place we’d found ourselves when we got lost in the fog after the Indian meeting in the mountains. We’d left our new goose down pillows in a motel room there. We stopped at the office to se
e if we might retrieve them.

  “Oh, yes,” said the desk clerk. “I know exactly the ones. He disappeared and returned, holding the two pillows at arm’s length. “Here you are,” he said, suppressing a grimace. I took them, and immediately understood why. They reeked of stale smoke and incense.

  “Maybe they’ll air out,” I said as we walked back to the Phoenix. “I don’t know,” said Mark. “Maybe we should drop them off at a toxic waste dump.” But we stuffed them in the back. They finally lost their aroma, but even now, if I press my face deep into one, I can breathe in a faint reminder of our night with the Roadman.

  We continued our run north, and the day was California perfect, which is another reason people think 1-5 is boring. Oh, it might rain, and sometimes a dense fog will reduce visibility to zero, but you won’t be met by a tornado, and the snow stays up on the mountains and passes. 1-5 is straight, predictable, and fast, especially after the speed limit was raised to 65 miles an hour. Most people drive 70 or 80.

  The flat road was perfect for finding out what the Phoenix could do when it wasn’t trying to overcome a steep grade. Mark had driven it around Los Angeles, and we’d taken it on one overnight shakedown cruise to a beach near San Diego, but this was the first time we’d had the thing on a highway that stretched to the horizon. He floored it. “Vroom,” said the Phoenix, and the speedometer needle jumped to the right. Mark smiled, and passed a big rig full of cows. I turned on the CD player. “I’m already gone,” sang the Eagles. Suddenly, Interstate 5 was the most wonderful road in the world.

  There are no words in the English language that speak to a man’s soul louder than “four-wheel drive.” The Phoenix had six wheels, four that drove and two that followed on a tag axle. Mark had yet to test his new four-wheel power except in a parking lot. I wasn’t surprised, as we headed north on the arrow-straight pavement, when he said, “Let’s cut over to the coast on a road that offers some challenge. Look at the map. What are the possibilities?”