Dad. William Wharton
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that crap. And now, after a year, I don’t want it. Sometimes I don’t even understand, myself.
But, Jesus, if he could only have seen that place. It was a giant baby-sitting operation. I mean, Santa Cruz is an old people’s home for kids.
I about vomited when I arrived on my motorcycle, after ten days on the road. I’m caked with dirt from head to toe; everything I own’s in my saddlebags. I couldn’t believe it. There were trucks and cars pulling in with stereo sets, wall-to-wall sound systems, rugs, teddy bears, ten-speed bicycles, tennis rackets, golf clubs, fencing costumes, huge suitcases full of clothes. God, you wouldn’t believe all the junk these people were dragging along. It looked like a junior-high-school garage sale.
Then, there was my crazy roommate, Flash. My mother, my own mother, picked him for me. She filled out a form with what she thought I’d like for a roommate. Would you believe it, Santa Cruz even has a form for that. Mom said how I’d like somebody with a good stereo set who’s interested in electricity, motorcycles and running. I actually hunted up this form in the Registrar’s Office to find out how it happened to me.
I get a guy with a terrific stereo set all right; in fact, he’s an electrical genius. He’s also crazy. For one thing he has a bicycle hanging on pulleys from the ceiling of our room with a monster lock on it. He designed and built the lock himself. There’s a sign on this bike. It says:
IF YOU STEAL THIS BICYCLE, YOU WILL BE STEALING THE BEST BICYCLE IN THE WORLD PROTECTED BY THE BEST LOCK IN THE WORLD AND YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE THE BEST DETECTIVE IN THE WORLD CHASING YOU TO THE ENDS OF THE WORLD.
Now, you know this is an out-and-out challenge. We wind up constantly locking our door. Nobody in Santa Cruz is locking doors except us, nobody even closes doors!
Flash wears black clothes; he wears black T-shirts, black jeans, black socks, black jockey shorts, black shoes, black pajamas. He has long black hair combed straight down on all sides, even across his face, and a brush cut on top so you can see the white skin on his skull; it’s the only white you can see. He looks like something out of Mad magazine.
Except for examinations, I don’t remember Flash ever going to class. He only left the room to ride that bike or get something to eat. That’s the way it is at Santa Cruz; nobody’s watching you. It’s a place where nobody gives a damn what you do. At the same time, you wind up with a guilty feeling all the time that you’re not doing enough. They use a pass-no-record system, meaning either you pass or else it didn’t happen; you can’t fail. Still, in some twisted way it’s a superman nursery school; the place is like a hothouse for sequoia trees. To be honest, I actually felt more on my own at that crummy American high school in Paris; at least you could fail.
The dorms at Santa Cruz were weird. Living in a Paris apartment is like living alone in a cave on the side of a mountain compared to living in a dorm at Santa Cruz. Everybody’s into everybody else’s room, and after the third week it was musical-bed time. The lights were lit all the time; there wasn’t one dim corner, let alone dark. I used to close my eyes sometimes, trying to remember what the dark was like. I’ve gone out at three in the morning and looked back. The whole building vibrated with noise and light, electricity being burned by the kiloton. And, the next day in class, these same people would talk about ecology and conservation.
Just to get away, I practically live in the library. I even work a job there; helps me hold on to a corner of my mind. Those people have no moments alone. They write their term papers surrounded with junk, noise and smells. And God, the smells would knock anybody over. The floors in all the rooms are covered with paper, food, dirty socks, clothes, books. Everybody tramps over these piles. People walk around half dressed; it’s a zoo, nothing private.
Dad hasn’t really gotten into why I don’t want to go back. He’s strange that way; he doesn’t talk about things. He can talk to people; I mean, conversation; he’s a great story-teller, and shit, painting’s communication; but he doesn’t talk where something’s important. He tends to ignore anything he doesn’t want to hear. Mom’s the same.
But we’ve got to talk this out sooner or later, only I’m not going to bring it up.
What I want to do is write. Writing’s something I enjoy doing. That’s the way he got into painting. I know I bullshit better than most people; that should help. First, I’ll try a novel or maybe a screenplay; it doesn’t matter. I only want my cabin and some quiet. I’ll bear down and get something done for a change. Christ, my days go by and I’ve nothing to show.
Maybe Debby will come. She’d groove on my cabin. She’s shit tired of Berkeley and it’d be fine having a good woman around.
The trouble is I don’t know how I can make money. I can’t get a carte de travail. With the common market, there’s no way for an American to work in France, legally. Maybe I’ll hire myself out picking sugar beets. I hear you can work up a thousand bucks a month that way. I could live easy on a couple thousand a year. Debby’s old man will chip in something, too.
‘Hey, Dad, let’s stop someplace for breakfast. I’m starved.’
He nods his head. He’s off spinning somewhere. We’ll be crossing from Utah into Colorado soon. The Rockies are somewhere in front but out of sight.
When I pushed across on my Yamasaki, I was so much closer to things. I knew every hill, every bump. I sucked in each goddamned mile and spit it out, a mouthful at a time. I was holding down those handlebars, rattling teeth, jiggling kidneys. At nights, I was a wreck. Twice I peed blood. Also, sleeping out with gnats and mosquitoes was hell. I’d packed a tent but no mosquito net. I swear I’m allergic to mosquitoes; every morning I’d be swollen up like a balloon. Just grabbing the handle and shifting gears with thick sausage fingers was hell.
‘Dad, how about if we roll down a window; OK? This canned cold air gets to me.’
‘Good idea. We’re through the desert now.’
He pushes buttons and both windows start rolling down; the bionic man. Wind blows through and around us.
‘Ah, this is more like it, Bill. I get inside a box like this and lose track where I am.’
Half an hour later we stop for doughnuts and coffee. Jesus, it’s impossible! Just the two of us, nothing else, the bill pushes two-fifty.
The world’s sure a shitload. You work your ass off just staying alive. Most any job you get only pays enough to rent a roof, feed your face and buy clothes, even secondhand junk. And there’s no way to live without working; we’re all locked in. Look at Gary and Marty; they’ve thrown the key away.
It’s a bummer all right.
Next day, after we come back from the hospital, I begin working on my Honda. First, I spread some newspapers to catch any grease or crud. I blow out the carb jets, then pull the plugs, scrape and set them. It’s been sitting so long there’s mold on both plugs. I push the bike back and forth in gear to see if the motor’s frozen but it’s OK, the pistons are moving.
I clean the points and adjust the timing as best I can without proper tools. Even though I’m a crappy mechanic, I like fooling around with a small simple machine like this; it’s a thing my mind can handle and I’m needing something in that category just now.
Dad comes out and watches me. He’s always been such a tremendous mechanic he makes me nervous. It’s the joke of our family how I’m rotten with machines. For years I was called ‘Hatch’ because I hatcheted things requiring skill. I was away from home five years before I realized my mechanical talents were only low in comparison to Joan’s and Dad’s.
Dad stands over me. I point out what a fine piece of machinery a motorcycle is; nothing extra, just a motor mounted on wheels; the ideal solution for overland travel, the next best thing to wings. I know Dad thinks it’s dangerous and undignified for