“I’m Wayne. This is Terry, my daughter, and her boyfriend, Juan.” Dad makes the rounds through the backseat. “And this is Dawn, my oldest daughter.”
“Hi,” I say shyly. I feel a little awkward at his stare, and uncomfortable at having to sit between him and my dad.
Marty looks at my dad as if he is lying and then sits up in his seat, winks at me, and smiles. “Right on.”
Ewwww, I think and flash my sister in the back a long look that says, Don’t say a word.
“So, we’d, uh, smoke a doobie with ya, but we ran out back in Oklahoma, man,” Dad says, fishing to see if we were right about this guy.
Marty’s head shoots up. “I got some!” he offers enthusiastically.
It is music to my father’s ears. You can see the excitement rise in Dad’s body; his legs begin to bounce. “Right on, man. Right on.”
Like a pro, Marty rolls a joint on his lap and lights up. “Man, I wasn’t sure it would be cool, uh, with your daughters in the car, you know.”
“Aww, no, no, man, it’s cool,” Dad assures him, trying to act laid-back and casual when Marty hands him the joint.
Hours have passed, and I am stoned and uncomfortable. Marty’s head keeps falling onto my shoulder as he struggles to stay awake. It is getting dark, and Dad wants to stop. The road signs tell us we are almost to California, and we decide we will sleep at the border on the Colorado River.
Marty stretches his legs. “So, where are you going, exactly?”
“California. Somewhere.” Dad lets out a short laugh.
“No. Really, man. I mean, where in California?”
“Not really sure. We’re kinda looking for a place to, you know, get on our feet. I’ve just had this operation, uh, on my face. Cancer. They took the whole nose a couple weeks ago,” he explains, a bit shy about his appearance, “and I was in the middle of a divorce from Dawn and Terry’s mother, when, uh, it all came down.”
“Bad scene, man.” Marty shakes his head. Nobody speaks, and the air is uncomfortable. Then, as if he has struck gold, Marty calls out, “Hey, maybe you can ask this chick I’m gonna stay with if you can crash there for a few days.”
“Aww, naw, man… Really? Do you think that would be cool?” Dad perks up. He was hoping Marty might be able to help us. What luck.
“Yeah, we’re together now and then, you know, man. Nothing serious, but she’d like it to be.” He raises his eyebrows, and they start laughing together as if it’s a private joke.
“I know what you mean, man. I know what you mean.” Dad snickers.
“Her name is Harriet—she’s kind of a Jewish princess. She lives in Glendale.”
“Where’s that?” I ask, wary of his story and this place: Glendale.
“It’s a suburb of LA.”
“Right on, man,” Dad says. “Just point the way. We ‘preciate that, man. ‘Preciate that,” he mumbles. Turning up the tunes, he is feeling pretty good. I, on the other hand, am feeling sick inside. I have been hoping Dad knows what he’s doing for us. I mean, he is the one who always talked about a “plan.” But now it is clear we will have to rely on luck… and a woman named Harriet.
“Right on, man.” Marty reaches into his leather bag and lights up another doobie in celebration.
We make camp that night on the California side of the Colorado River. We are here! California! Too tired to get really excited, we focus on eating dinner. We are right in the middle of the Mojave Desert; the wind blows viciously on our small campsite, flinging sand everywhere, making it hard to even breathe.
We call it an early night, and Marty, Terry, and Juan lay out sleeping bags at the side of the car, which serves to block the sand and wind. Dad and I sleep in the car, he in the front seat and I in the back.
What a luxury, I think, happy to be out of the blowing sand. As I settle down for the night, the wind howls mournfully. I toss and turn, covering my head with my pillow, trying to drown out the eerie noise.
Something lets the wind and sand blast into the car. Marty is trying to climb into the backseat with me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, shocked that he would try to lie down with me.
“Shhh, it’s okay. Let me in,” he insists.
“No! Get out of here!” My voice is getting louder. “I’ll wake my dad, and I mean it!”
His eyes turn angry and glare at me.
I think about the weather outside and feel a twinge of guilt, but I don’t want him sleeping draped over me, even if that’s all he wanted.
“Okay! Whatever, man,” he hisses and backs out of the car.
I stay awake for most of the night listening to the sounds of the sad howl of the wind and worrying that Marty might creep in on me again. For the first time since we left Florida, reality strikes and the sad pangs of the permanence of the separation from my mother and brother sink in. They were always there, somewhere near me, for all of the fifteen years of my life. Now the safety of their constant nearness is gone, and I miss them. Aware of the distance and weary from traveling, I suddenly feel very lost in this vast California desert. Holding myself tightly to block out the wind and the loneliness, I finally fall asleep.
The hot desert morning sun shines down on my face, waking me. I realize I have slept in. Ugh, I think. Everything’s so dried out. I need something to drink.
Everyone is already up and milling about, so I forage through the backpacks for some water. We take our routine turns at the bathroom and pack the car quickly before it gets too hot. Marty avoids my gaze, and that is just fine with me. I don’t want to mess up our chance for a place to stay in California, so I let the whole thing slide.
Dad kind of picks up on the awkwardness between Marty and me. He’s obviously suspicious but doesn’t say a word.
In no time, we are back on Highway 40 heading west again, driving straight through Needles and lots more desert. I hope this isn’t what LA is like, I think as we connect to Interstate 15 in Barstow. Then it is one long road after another as we approach Glendale.
“Are there always this many highways?” I am curious.
“They’re called freeways in California,” Marty informs me dryly.
“Oh.” I take in this new word and spend the rest of the drive absorbing the sights, making note of the differences between the East and the West.
“This is the famous Ventura Freeway,” Marty announces to us on our final leg of the trip. “More people travel this freeway than any other in the US.”
Wow! I think. That’s a lot of cars.
We enter Glendale at dusk, as the colors in the sky begin to fade. It gets cold here at night, I notice uncomfortably, even in summer.
We turn onto Acacia Avenue from Adams and park the car in front of two rows of pale aqua cottages separated by a small, tree-lined courtyard. In the center of the courtyard is a row of baby trees and bushes that run the length of the cottages back to the garages. The front left cottage is 1010-A East Acacia, and the lights are on.
Marty jumps out of the car first. “Cool, she’s home!” He sounds enthused. “Park over there so the manager doesn’t ask you to move,” he instructs, making sure we don’t block anyone. “Let me go in first and tell her I have company. Don’t worry. She’s cool, man. It’ll be cool.” He throws his leather pouch over the shoulder of his patched jacket and bounds across the street.