Read Online Brain Food by J. Joseph Wright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Joseph Wright
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first served him with the papers approached, hat in hand.
“Listen, Mister Cox,” he looked over his shoulder. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but my son is a big fan of your book,” he paused, struggling for words. “The credit agency’s sending a truck over right now to impound your Vette. Sorry, man.”
Then they got in their cruisers and drove away.
“Hell with that!” Stan shouted loud enough for all Serrano Valley to hear. He found himself on Pacific Coast Highway within five minutes. Two hours later, he arrived at the Mexican border.
3.
His plan was he had no plan. Just drive, through the checkpoint, past the grubby hillside barrios of Tijuana, hugging the coast south to the port town of Ensenada. The highway up to that point was much like the roads in America, aside from the occasional rough patch and constant sightings of burnt-out cars—stripped, rusting hulks, scattered in the ditches.
Beyond Ensenada, the road changed. Big time. The wide, four-lane freeway gave way to a narrow, pocked, winding ribbon of what was supposed to pass for asphalt. Now, he figured, he was seeing the real Mexico.
He drove through an earthen, flat landscape for an hour or so. Then hills began to roll. The soil lost its color and the geology changed from sand and dirt to giant, rounded boulders. It looked like the surface of the moon. Highway One started on the Pacific coast, then veered inland through the moonscape, through a vast forest of sorrel cacti, and across to the Sea of Cortez. He tried not to think about his car getting beaten up by the rock-strewn, highly-questionable road. What did it matter, anyway? As soon as he got back, they’d take it from him.
He went for hours and hours, stopping twice to piss. Had to gas up at a Pemex in some nameless little pueblo. Kept driving until his ass felt on fire and his eyes became so bleary he couldn’t see the highway.
Desperate for a place to crash, alone in the middle of desolate Baja, he pleaded for the next town. Miles and miles went by and nothing. Finally, after forty-five more hemorrhoid-flaring minutes, he spotted a sign. A lifeline! It pointed east, with the words, Bahia de Los Angeles–68.
“Sixty eight!” he screamed out the open top. He was sweating from every pore, stunk like a dog, and his ass cheeks were raw as a teenager’s palm. And he had to drive another 68 miles? Then he remembered Mexico was on the metric system. It was 68 kilometers , about 42 miles. He’d make it.
He rolled into town just before dusk, a low sun casting long shadows against the small, modest oceanside village. A gentle, rocky slope, scattered with tiny dwellings, flowed to a crescent-shaped beach where rows and rows of small fishing boats lined the shore. He passed a cantina, then headed for what looked like the only motel in town. His room was tiny, with a dead cockroach next to the toilet, but it had a bed. All he wanted was a bed.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Head buried in a pillow, he barely recognized the sound.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Señor. It’s checkout time. Do you want the room for another night?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. One more night.”
When he finally felt like he’d slept enough, it was 8 am on Thursday. He checked and double-checked his watch. He’d slept for over thirty-six hours. Must’ve needed it. A splash of cold water on his face and he’d be off to the motel restaurant for a bite, then back to the Corvette for a push further south. Maybe he’d meet a little Señorita and she’d become his muse, breaking him from his creative doldrums, inspiring him to write again.
On the bathroom floor, the dead cockroach was now in pieces. A swarm of ants had already carted off its legs, one of its wings, and was working on the torso. His stomach turned, but more from starvation than anything else.
As he left his cabana, walking through the dirt
“Listen, Mister Cox,” he looked over his shoulder. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but my son is a big fan of your book,” he paused, struggling for words. “The credit agency’s sending a truck over right now to impound your Vette. Sorry, man.”
Then they got in their cruisers and drove away.
“Hell with that!” Stan shouted loud enough for all Serrano Valley to hear. He found himself on Pacific Coast Highway within five minutes. Two hours later, he arrived at the Mexican border.
3.
His plan was he had no plan. Just drive, through the checkpoint, past the grubby hillside barrios of Tijuana, hugging the coast south to the port town of Ensenada. The highway up to that point was much like the roads in America, aside from the occasional rough patch and constant sightings of burnt-out cars—stripped, rusting hulks, scattered in the ditches.
Beyond Ensenada, the road changed. Big time. The wide, four-lane freeway gave way to a narrow, pocked, winding ribbon of what was supposed to pass for asphalt. Now, he figured, he was seeing the real Mexico.
He drove through an earthen, flat landscape for an hour or so. Then hills began to roll. The soil lost its color and the geology changed from sand and dirt to giant, rounded boulders. It looked like the surface of the moon. Highway One started on the Pacific coast, then veered inland through the moonscape, through a vast forest of sorrel cacti, and across to the Sea of Cortez. He tried not to think about his car getting beaten up by the rock-strewn, highly-questionable road. What did it matter, anyway? As soon as he got back, they’d take it from him.
He went for hours and hours, stopping twice to piss. Had to gas up at a Pemex in some nameless little pueblo. Kept driving until his ass felt on fire and his eyes became so bleary he couldn’t see the highway.
Desperate for a place to crash, alone in the middle of desolate Baja, he pleaded for the next town. Miles and miles went by and nothing. Finally, after forty-five more hemorrhoid-flaring minutes, he spotted a sign. A lifeline! It pointed east, with the words, Bahia de Los Angeles–68.
“Sixty eight!” he screamed out the open top. He was sweating from every pore, stunk like a dog, and his ass cheeks were raw as a teenager’s palm. And he had to drive another 68 miles? Then he remembered Mexico was on the metric system. It was 68 kilometers , about 42 miles. He’d make it.
He rolled into town just before dusk, a low sun casting long shadows against the small, modest oceanside village. A gentle, rocky slope, scattered with tiny dwellings, flowed to a crescent-shaped beach where rows and rows of small fishing boats lined the shore. He passed a cantina, then headed for what looked like the only motel in town. His room was tiny, with a dead cockroach next to the toilet, but it had a bed. All he wanted was a bed.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Head buried in a pillow, he barely recognized the sound.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Señor. It’s checkout time. Do you want the room for another night?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. One more night.”
When he finally felt like he’d slept enough, it was 8 am on Thursday. He checked and double-checked his watch. He’d slept for over thirty-six hours. Must’ve needed it. A splash of cold water on his face and he’d be off to the motel restaurant for a bite, then back to the Corvette for a push further south. Maybe he’d meet a little Señorita and she’d become his muse, breaking him from his creative doldrums, inspiring him to write again.
On the bathroom floor, the dead cockroach was now in pieces. A swarm of ants had already carted off its legs, one of its wings, and was working on the torso. His stomach turned, but more from starvation than anything else.
As he left his cabana, walking through the dirt
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