Postcards

The car was sweating in the moonshine when Vegas lit itself in the valley. Sammy pushed it to eighty and chickened out, dropped a dozen quarters in the slots while Rick followed the girl in the red leather to the twenty-one table. Then they went out to watch the sun rise over the neon. Gassed up, they drove to Beverly Hills, chewed on grass, took a swim and choked on the air a little.

Rick wanted to sleep. Sammy gave him the backseat, turned the radio on low and wrote a letter to a guy he met in Chicago. It was a funny letter but he did not have the guy's address. He stuffed the letter in the cooler in the trunk. A wet loaf of bread had green measles. One can of apple juice still bobbed in the melting ice.

The old man lived in Chicago, in the neighborhood where the sutdents lived and the cats played soccer with old pears in the gutter. The movie house in the old man's neighborhood reeked of butter. He warned them not to go out after dark but Sammy was an idiot. No one hurt them. They did not even hear footsteps.

They drove to the top of the canyon when Rick woke up. He still looked sleepy, rings under his mustache and all. Sammy drove up the wire past the glittering mailboxes until the road leveled out and a new valley peered up at them. Wow, said Sammy. Rick took pictures to send back to his girlfriend in Missouri. Wow, said Sammy. The sun set.

Rick did not have a girlfriend in Missouri but he said he did if anyone asked. Sammy was the only person to ask. He knew that Bea was not Rick's girlfriend. It was a joke they had between them. They hated each other for it.

The valley fascinated Sammy. The lights stretched to a ring of mountains that disappeared in the twilight. Antennas. On the boulevard, red taillights winked at him. Sammy took off his shades and looked at the stars. White headlights blinked at him. He leaned against the car, drumming his fingers on the hood.

The hood popped up in Iowa and Rick missed a telephone pole by the page of a Gutenberg bible. Sammy sat up. Everything was fine, but the Dodge was in a ditch. A patrol car came by and pulled them back to the road. You have any controlled substances, any firearms? No, said Rick. You're no fun, said the patrolman, climbing into his car and leading the way through the corn fields.

Rick finished taking pictures He did not take any of Sammy. He had pictures of Sammy in the car, steering. Sammy always looked away from the road when Rick photographed him. He smiled. Rick said something bawdy and Sammy tried not to laugh but the camera got him anyway.

They looked for a place to sleep but they were not tired. They cruised down the strip until they were hungry, nudging the Dodge into empty parking lots. The lights along Sunset never faded. When they were lost, they turned the car up into the hills where many murderers worked. Rick looked pale in the carlight. He turned on the radio and sang along.

Palm tree shadows bent across the canyon road. Sammy stopped at a gate and got out of the car. Rick shivered inside. A spotlight swung through the night and Sammy grinned. This is Beverly Hills, he thought. If he listened hard he could hear the party.

The party in Denver was small, just Sammy and Rick and Julie and Dina. Deena, said Dina. They went to a drive-in. This is my first time, said Sammy, and he almost dropped the speaker out the window. None of them liked beer so they brought wine. When the movie ended, Rick was asleep in Julie's lap in the back seat. Sammy liked the movie. They went to Julie's house and watched TV but they had finished the wine and the wine had finished Rick and no one wanted to sleep more than Julia so Sammy and Dina carried Rick back to the backseat and went off on a walk.

The clear air kept Sammy awake for hours and Dina lit the matches and showed Sammy midnight flowers. Wow, said Sammy. He lay down in the dewy grass near the flowers and pulled Dina onto the grass next to him. I like to keep moving, he told her. How long have you been traveling, she asked. Three days, he said. She nodded. The sun rose.

Sammy woke Rick and they began again. Snow sat at the top of the mountains and Sammy and Rick imagined they were skiing instead of driving. They coasted down one mountain and crawled up the next until they were both hungry and the car wanted gas.

Behind the corrugated grocery store, three horses mosied against a wire fence. Straw wisps floated from a bale mountain stacked against the slatted outhouse. Sammy reached over the wire and stroked the palamino's muzzle. Get some hay, he called to Rick and Rick stooped to gather a handful of hay. Feed him, said Sammy with one eye on Rick and the other on the horse. You do it, Rick whined. Sammy held the hay to the horse's smile while it lapped his palm. The other horses whinnied and crowded closer before Sammy and Rick headed across the dirt road to the cafe.

Goodbye Luke, called Myrtle from the steps of the cafe to a man climbing into a truck. The air felt cooler inside. Rick watched the flies play hopscotch on the checkerboard cloths. I'm Myrtle, said Myrtle. What can I get you? Sammy ordered iced coffee. Rick ordered coffee ice cream. What is coffee ice cream? asked Myrtle.

Becky sat in the corner chewing her nails. If Tom takes the car, why don't you ride to the dentist tomorrow? asked Myrtle. It's fifteen miles, said Becky. Don't bend the spoons! Myrtle told her harshly. Eagle Star can take you thirty miles, easy, she said. Becky straightened the spoon. How far to Vegas, asked Rick. A ways, said Myrtle. Becky laughed.

They drove down to the beach where a bonfire sent shadows gliding across the sand. I don't like shadows, said Rick. Sammy said nothing. Somebody called out from the bonfire. Sammy couldn't hear so he moved closer. Want some wine? came the voice again. They moved down closer. No wine for me, said Rick. They stepped across the sand until the fire warmed their faces. So this is California, Rick smiled. Don't spoil it, snapped Sammy.

Rick didn't want to sleep on the beach. The sharks come out at night, he joked. They ambled back to the car. Let's go to the party! cried Sammy. They drove back along the cliffs, turning in finally until they arrived back among the canyons. They parked behind a Porsche and changed clothes. Sammy put on his shades in the night. Rick wore a windbreaker and cutoffs.

Want some coke? asked a man at the door. The music pounded loudly out by the pool. Inside, a different record played soft rock. They sat on a fat leather couch across from a blonde woman who drank her champagne in gulps. What do we do now? asked Rick. We mingle, replied Sammy.

Sammy stood and talked to a dark-haired woman in a paper jumpsuit. He told jokes. You tear me up, said Ronnie. I see where you're coming from.

They came from New York.

Sammy did not think about the city. Rick had his pictures but did not develop them. Streets melted into highways, and palm trees gasped in the night air. Sammy put down his drink. Let's go, he said to Rick.

In Sausalito they slept on a creaky fishing boat, waking at dawn. Is that why they call it golden? wondered Rick, staring off through a misty prism at the bridge. Two eggs and bacon, said Sammy to the waitress. They drove away from the high-way, on a wispy road through craggy moors. The road ascended, then dropped to beach level. Sammy felt sick. Is this it? he wondered, staring out the car window into the fog. Rick stopped the Dodge and they shuffled across the sand. All these beaches, muttered Rick. Sammy watched the ocean caress his feet, walking until the water washed his knees. He took off his shades. What is profound? he called out Rick laughed. Rick found Sammy funny. Sammy did not mean to be funny.

You have to laugh a lot, said the guitarist as he picked at his C. Rick wished he would stop plucking. The house in Malibu needed paint and new walls. Tomorrow we'll go to Venice, said Sammy. That will make you laugh, said the guitarist. His string broke. I can't play the guitar anyway, he laughed.

The belly dancer at Venice yelled something to Rick. Don't I know you from somewhere? she asked. Sammy giggled. Rick talked to her about dancing. Rick did not dance. You have to try, said the dancer. You have to try everything. Sammy and Rick looked at each other. They looked down the boardwalk, past the electric skateboards, past the nude roller skaters and the Swede who juggled machetes. God, thought Sammy. He felt hungry so they bought cotton candy, chocolate chip cookies and papaya juice. On the beach, a bearded vendor offered a backrub to anyone who bought his bagels. I would like to try tightrope walking, said Rick as they watched the great whoever tiptoe through the air. But I would not like to try everything. Sammy contemplated the weight lifters in their pen. He eyed the girls, their tiny bathing suits disappearing in his squint. Another sunset, he thought.

Only moose roamed the Badlands when they turned into windy cliffs under a full moon. Look at the moonbow, said Sammy, counting the colors. I wish we had a tape recorder, said Rick, shivering in the silence. Grotesque elephant rocks lumbered into view. Sammy looked at the road, the dotted center line, but the shadows crept across the windshield. I don't want to sleep, said Rick. Tough, said Sammy. They fought.

They stopped fighting for four minutes in Yosemite. Look, a deer, whispered Rick. Don't take a picture, whispered Sammy. Look, a baby deer, whispered Rick. No pictures, whispered Sammy. I'm thirsty, whispered Rick.

They drank cokes and played pinball in Hollywood, treading on the bronze stars, looking for glamor in a hot dog. Why'd we come here? asked Sammy, putting on his shades. It was you idea, replied Rick.

Sammy stuffed his clothes into his duffle. I don't want to go back, said Rick. They watched the sun set beyond the ocean, beyond Malibu. Tomorrow, said Sammy.

Sammy peered at the odometer. Ten thousand, he told Rick. Rick looked back and smiled. The Dodge coughed. Rick turned on the radio and they slid home.