Short Story I had to chew out for Senior Seminar. Hunter Thompson meeting Jack Kerouac during a short ride to Heaven.
I was in the car, pathetically lacking in drugs, but feeling OK, so I figured I was dead.
Ah, well. Empires fall. Children die. No fault of mine.
I looked around the car, seeing if I grabbed anyone for the ride, but there was no one else. I was alone, and in the car, hurtling to God knows where. I could see the sun above me, hanging in the sky and not showing an ounce of decency, but I couldnt feel a single degree on my bald head. I wondered if I landed in hell and decided to take the long way. Thats ok, I said out loud, long as I keep moving I cant be doing that bad.
The road was in front, straight as a republican, and the dessert all around. I was also driving the Great Red Shark, that damn car I drove during the trip. I traded it in for pearl-white slice of heaven, but I guess that ol boys taken a different path.
I took the road straight with my windows down and the hood pulled back for what felt like an hour. I knew I was driving like a bastard, I always do, but there was no wind to punch through. No desert sand getting whipped up and stinging my eyes.
There was no sound at all. In every dessert Ive ever driven through, and mind you Ive walk the dessert the miles, you could always hear noise. You could always hear bike mufflers rolling through the mountains in huge belches, or the crack of clay plates on the range. No, nobody wanted the desert for business, and the place was always full of noise.
Somewhere down this road, to my distinct alarm, I saw a fellow standing on the side of the road. He stood still as stone, with his hand stretching past his shirt. He was too far for me to swoop by without him seeing me coming. I didnt want to hurt him, just rattle his teeth a little. Give him the clarity to understand that men with rollups and metal canteens had no place on the scorched earth. Poor fellow probably has someone standing at some window wondering when in the devils time is he gonna come home praying for mercy.
Maybe he needed to go somewhere I thought. Maybe Im his ride. Shit…do you pick up people on a ride like this?
I came onto the curb, pulling past him but with expert skill anyway, and he took his time getting his bags. He was silent and seemed like a mess, and was covered in dust. Dust off before you get in my car, I saidto him. He laughed a little and had a crazed grey look in his eyes. He started to slap himself wildly, getting all sorts of brown off his clothes. Hows that, he said, laughing a little along the way.I eyed this fellow up and down, seeing if I can catch a glint of a weapon in his pocket or pressing through his pants. You know, they build knives the size of quarters, and it would take less to spill me open.
I remembered that I was probably dead, and that he was probably homeless. Yeah, get in, I said to him. He threw his bags into the backseat, and I was lucky that I packed lightly for this trip. He got in the front, a bold move for a man in the dessert. He didnt seemed all that surprised that he was catching a lift, and was quite confident, as though he has gotten in the right car.
I pulled back onto the road, my tires roaring but no dust was being kicked. It was making me mad as hell, wherever I was. It was like I was driving through a Bosch painting on pause, with all sorts of wonkey movements out in the vista, but nothing going on around me.
Hitchhiker grabbed my rearview and was checking his eyeballs. No point in bothering him, I figured. Hewas saggy all over, and looked like he had been on the road as long as I had. Dont worry, youre fine, I said to him, hoping that itll put a polish on his mood. His vibrations reminded of some strange animal who had dodged a whole shower of .30 carbine shells. He didnt look at me, but started to watch himself closer and closer and closer, pulling his eyelids down and his eyeballs up. It looked like he was finding the right joint thatll pop those eyeballs out with minimal effort. He played with his eyes for a while longer, and sat back into the chair.
Thanks for the lift,man, he said, finally looking at me. I went to grab my black Dunhill mouthpiece, but it wasnt in my mouth. Oh, bastard politics! I yelled, cursing God or Devil, or whoever took my mouthpiece. They didnt let me keep anything! The hitchhiker was laughing inside and staring straight ahead again, the way I saw it.
Couple of moments went by, and the silence was brutal. More brutal than Nixons oil foreign policy. If I had somehow brought Zeta, oh boy wouldnt that have been a trip, eh? The ultimate trip, by my calculations. I can see the publishers sending me new cars, houses, and all sorts of exotic birds to get me to sign the deal. Probably would be the only worthwhile place to make another trip, what with it being hell and all. Where is that Samoan bastard anyway?
The hitchhiker started fumbling through his pockets and pulled out two hand-rolled cigarettes. He stretch his arm out slightly. His hands were filthy, but the cigarette was clean as cotton. You want one?he asked. Of course I said yes and snatched one off him. It was lit when he handed it to me, and the smell was pure as democracy.
Whats your name, I asked him. His hands were squirreling around in his pockets, but he looked at me right in the eyes, dead as a statue. Jack, he said. His cigarette was burning bright and smoke went straight up into the air as we drove.
Holy Creeping God! I thought to myself. Had I walked into some strange update on Dr. Faustus? My nerves were like rods under my skin, and I could feel them bristle whenever I twitched or put my hand up to smoke. Jack was still looking at me, he eyeballs searching, his hands searching, hell, probably someone out in the distance searching. Whats your name, fella? he asks
I knew I had to play it straight. Act like the guy bores me, or pretend that I somehow know exactly what Im doing, and that at no point in this trip should I ever ben inclined to walk down a road with him, no sir not today thank you kindly.
Hunter, I said. I grabbed the cigarette from my mouth and looked out the rearview window. Jack was still playing around in his jacket, but I felt his eyes move to the floor. I was wondering if my vibe was as good as a silent alarm to him. Last thing I wanted to do was make this guy think theres no room in the car for one person.
You write books? he asked. Did I saw that out loud? Did I really think it would be time for writing?
. He’s probably one of the BEST voices I’ve ever heard in fiction, even more so given how he looks. When i picked up a copy of the “Perdido Street Station” and read the first paragraph, Author Bio and author praise, I wrote the guy off as a total asshole. I can say this because I thought he was just some brawny fantasy guy.
