David's Inferno by David Blistein Page A

the blitzkrieg would expose both the rats
and
the small treasures that were hidden in the bombed buildings. That’s what cataclysm does. Hope he’s right. About the treasures, that is.
    March 19, 2006: Roswell, New Mexico to Lordsburg, New Mexico. 317 Miles
. On the way out of Roswell, a friend calls and tells me thatTeddy Roosevelt line about the Black Care. I laugh and tell him that the Black Care seems to be having a pretty easy time outrunning a VW Camper.
    I’ve tried to avoid any blatantly New Age perspectives, but sometimes it seems that everything is a manifestation of my inner state. Just after I hang up, I see an arch of dark clouds with the sun shining through in the center. Like I’m about to enter heaven. I’m not about to enter Heaven. I’m about to enter Las Cruces, New Mexico. But I do manage to find a decent lunch and latte there, although only after many quizzical looks and finger pointing from people who’d never met a dysphoric manic from Vermont. By later in the day, the cognitive dissonance returns with a vengeance and, for reasons I still don’t understand, I check into a motel in Lordsburg, New Mexico—a town that’s only one “u,” one “e,” and one half-decent restaurant away from being my salvation.
    I’m staying here based on the twisted rationale of the road rather than common sense. I’m not due in Phoenix until tomorrow. And I don’t have another 600+ mile day in me. Even restless agitation has limits.
    So here I am, stranded at a Best Western in a dry, cold, windy, lifeless-on-Sunday town in southern New Mexico. After checking in, I go for a jog. I hate jogging, but think it might get the agitation out of my throat. It doesn’t. So I come back to the motel, take a cold shower, and do a few muffled screams—keeping it down so I won’t scare the family in the room next door.
    I just had a shot of whiskey, a Valium, turned on the TV, and am now doing my best imitation of a post-modern existentialist. Who knew that Teddy Roosevelt was depressed?
    March 20, 2006: Lordsburg, New Mexico to Phoenix, Arizona. 305 Miles
. There are very few things from those two years that I really regret. Sure, some of the things I did were maniacally stupid. And I did cast a pall over certain events that deserved better.
    But I do have some regrets from my visit to my godfather in the somewhat depressing Phoenix suburb of Sun City.
    Larry was a youthful 94-years-old at the time, a well-respected,old-school labor organizer who was still flying around giving rabble-rousing speeches at Steelworker conventions. Faced with intolerance, insensitivity, and/or idiocy (usually real, but occasionally perceived), he would get a guided-missile look in his eyes and start verbally eviscerating the offender.
    Still, he was among the most lovable and loving people I know. I’m sure he didn’t approve of my long hair in college, many of my subsequent life choices, or even how I used a chain saw, but those eyes just couldn’t quite maintain that penetrating glare with me, and his heart couldn’t ever manage to get fully behind the criticism. Being his godson forgave more sins than I care to remember.
    During my visit, he told me his stories about organizing textile workers in the 1930s, steelworkers throughout the 1940s into the 1970s, and even the ferry workers at Martha’s Vineyard. This was a guy who, as soon as he retired and moved to Arizona, started organizing retired union members, appalled by their inexorable political drift to the right.
    I’d heard most of these stories before; many were full of braggadocio and exaggeration; a few of his perspectives on people I knew—including my father—were a little skewed; and, of course, I could barely get a word in edge- or other-wise … which was a relief under the circumstances. But, hey, that’s the whole point of hanging out with people who’ve been around