I stopped for gas at dusk. The broad sky had turned a cold medium-blue with one star burning, a lone pinprick of soft, bright white. A car pulled up on the other side of the pumps. The windows were down and I could hear a man and woman speaking to each other.
The man removed the car’s gas cap and knocked the nozzle into the opening of his tank as though it required force to get it to fit correctly. Then he waggled it in and out of the tank in a lewd manner. His back was to me. I watched him as I waited for my tank to fill. When I was finished, the woman was getting out of the car. She looked in my direction but seemed not to register me.
“You made your choice,” she said. “And I’ll make mine. Creep.”
Something about the light, its dimness and the deepening blue above us, the commencement of twilight insects, made their voices close, intimate.
“You call me a creep after what you asked me to do? And now it’s nothing? I’m a creep?”
The man pulled the nozzle from the gas tank and jerked it at the woman. Gasoline sloshed on her bare legs. He resumed filling his tank. When he was done, instead of putting the nozzle back on its resting place on the side of the pump, he dropped it on the ground like it was a garden hose he was finished using. He retrieved a book of matches from his pocket and began lighting them and flicking them at the woman. Each lit match arced through the dim light and went out before reaching her. Gas was dribbling down her legs. He lit matches one after another and flicked them at her, little sparks — threats, or promises — that died out limply.
“Would you quit it?” she said, blotting her legs with the blue paper towels from a dispenser by the pumps.
The angled sodium lights above us clicked on, buzzing to life. A truck passed on the highway, throwing on its air brakes.
“Hey,” he said. He grabbed a lock of her hair.
She smiled at him like they were about to rob a bank together.
* * *
Night fell in an instant here. I rode on, as darkness changed the desert. It was more porous and vast now, even as my vision was limited to one tractor beam fanning thinly on the road in front of me. The enormity of dark was cut rarely and by a weak fluorescence, one or two gas stations. I thought about the man trying to light the woman on fire. He wasn’t trying to light her on fire. Certain acts, even as they are real, are also merely gestures. He was saying, “What if I did?” And she was saying, “Go ahead.”
The air turned cold as I climbed in elevation to a higher layer of the desert’s warm-to-cool parfait. The wind leaked into my leathers wherever it could. I hadn’t anticipated such cold. My fingers were almost too frozen to work the brake by the time I reached my destination, a small town with big casinos on the Utah border, Diamond Jim lettering glowing gold against the night. Only a killjoy would claim neon wasn’t beautiful. It jumped and danced, chasing its own afterimage. But from one end of the main drag to the other was NO VACANCY in brazier orange. I stopped at one of the full motels, its parking lot crowded with trucks towing race cars, hoping they might take pity on me. I struggled to get my gloves off, and once they were off, could barely unbuckle the strap on my helmet. My hands had reduced themselves to two functions, throttle and brake. I tried to lift money and my license from my billfold, but my still-numb fingers refused to perform this basic action. I worked and worked to regain mobility. Finally I got my helmet off and went into the office. A woman said they were booked. A man came out from the back, about my age. “I’ll handle it, Laura.” He said he was the owner’s son, and I felt a small surge of hope. I explained that I’d ridden all the way from Reno and really needed someplace to sleep, that I was planning to run at the salt flats.
“Maybe we can work something out,” he said.
“Really?” I asked.
“I can’t promise anything, but why don’t we go have a drink up the street at the casino and talk about it?”
“Talk about it?”
“There might be something we can do. I’ll at least buy you a drink.”
It was always the son of power, the daughter of power, who was most eager to abuse it.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Where’s your father?”
“In a rest home.” He turned to walk away. “Okay, final offer, just one drink.”
I said no and left. Outside the motel office another man addressed me.
“Hey,” he said. “He’s a twerp. That was bullshit.”
His name was Stretch. He was the maintenance man and lived in one of the rooms. He was tan as a summer construction worker but didn’t quite emanate a sense of work. He wore jeans and a denim shirt of the same faded blue, and he had a greaser’s hairstyle like it was 1956, not 1976. He reminded me of the young drifter in the Jacques Demy film Model Shop, who kills time before turning up for the draft, wandering, tailing a beauty in a white convertible through the flats and into the hills of Hollywood.
“Listen, I have to stay out all night guarding the twerp’s race car,” Stretch said. “I won’t be using my room. And you need a place to sleep. Why don’t you sleep there? I promise not to bother you. There’s a TV. There’s beer in the fridge. It’s basic, but it’s better than having to share a bed with him. I’ll knock on the door in the morning to come in and shower but that’s it, I swear. I hate it when he tries to get over on someone. It makes me sick.”
He was extending actual charity, the kind you don’t question. I trusted it. Partly because he reminded me of that character. I’d seen Model Shop with Sandro just after we met, a year earlier. The tagline became a joke between us, “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Maybe.” It begins with oil derricks jerking up and down beyond the window of a young couple’s Venice love shack, the drifter and a girlfriend he doesn’t care about. The beginning was Sandro’s favorite scene and the reason he loved the film, oil derricks right outside the window, up and down, up and down, as the girl and boy lazed in bed, had an argument, puttered around their bungalow, decrepit and overshadowed by industry. After that we both used the word bungalow a lot. “Are you coming up to my bungalow this evening?” Sandro would ask. Though in fact it was a glass and cast-iron building, four thousand square feet on each floor.
Stretch showed me his room. It was tidy and a little heartbreaking. The owner’s son had his collection of vintage cruiser bicycles crowding out half the space, as well as stacks of wooden milk crates filled with wrenches and bicycle parts. Stretch said he was used to it. On one side of the washbasin was a hot plate and on the other, a shaving kit and Brylcreem. It was like a movie set for a film about a drifter named Stretch who lives in a small gambling town on the Nevada border.
At a Mexican restaurant across the road from the motel, I ordered fish, which came whole. I picked around, not sure of the appropriate method, and finally decided to cut off the head. It sat on my plate like a shorn airplane fuselage. In its cavern, instead of menthol-smelling pilots, the dark muck of its former fish mind. I had to turn away, and watched two men who sat in a booth across the room, probably also here to run vehicles on the salt flats. Big mustaches, faces barbecued by sun and wind, suspenders framing regal paunches. The waitress brought them two enchilada plates, vast lakes of hot cheese and beans. As she set the plates down, the men stopped talking and each took a private moment to look at his food, really look at it. Everyone did this in restaurants, paused to inspect the food, but I never noticed it unless I was alone.