know—they just don’t
talk
about it. My grandfather was an Irish Catholic plumber who died of cirrhosis. He used to sit in his chair while the news was on the radio and fold his newspaper into squares. Then he’d unfold it and roll it into a tube, a tight tube the width of a black snake. He’d whack it against the arm of the chair in four-four time, while the announcer kept going and my skinny grandmother grated cabbage in the kitchen by the plates.” He checked the mirror and pulled out around a cattle truck. “They knew plenty, sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart, and I didn’t say they weren’t perceptive or frustrated. I said their isolation was real, not an illusion. They stayed in one place and sank with whatever they had. But us—look at us. Roads. Sensation, floating, maps into more of the same. It’s a blur, a pattern, a view from an airplane.”
“You’re a real philosopher, aren’t you? What do you want?You want to sink, righteous and returned to your roots? Is that it?”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Sink. I don’t know how.”
“Oh, Christ. Will you shut up and light that joint before we pull into Dallas?”
I took the joint out of his cigarette pack and looked for matches.
“Here,” he said, and threw them at me. “No wonder you live alone and sleep on floors. You’re ponderous and depressed. Nothing is any worse than it’s ever been.”
“No,” I said, “only more detached.”
“Detachment is an ageless virtue. Try a little Zen.”
“I am,” I said, and lit the joint. “I’m living in Zen, highway Zen, the wave of the future.”
He didn’t laugh. We pulled into Dallas and Thurman finished the joint at a roadside park in sight of three Taco Bells, a McDonald’s, and a Sleepytime Motel. He squinted behind the smoke, drawing in. “What does your dad do?” he asked.
“Retired.”
“OK. What
did
he do?”
“Roads. He built roads.”
“Highways?”
“No. Two-lane roads, in West Virginia. Hairpin turns.”
The joint glowed in his fingers. Dusk had fallen, a gray shade. The air was heavy and hot, full of random horns and exhaust. I could see the grit on Thurman’s skin and feel the same sweaty pallor on my face.
“What is your father like?” I asked him.
He exhaled, his eyes distanced. “My father is seventy-one. Lately he’s gone a little flaky.”
We sat in silence until the dope was gone. Thurman turned on the ignition. “You’ll have your own bedroom at my parents’ house,” he said, “and I sure hope your sheets aren’t too heavy.”
• • •
The house was a big old-fashioned saltbox on an acre of lawn, incongruous among the split-levels, badly in need of paint. Drainpipes hung at angles from the roof and the grass was cut in strange swaths, grown tall as field weeds in patches. An old Chevy station wagon sat on blocks in front of the garage. Thurman and I sat in the driveway, in the cab of the Datsun, looking.
“They’ve gotten worse, or he has. I’ve hired kids to cut the grass for him and he won’t let them on the property.”
“Did they know we were coming?”
“Yes.”
The front door opened and Thurman’s mother appeared. She was small and thin, her arms folded across her chest, and it was obvious from the way she peered into middle distance that she couldn’t really see us.
“You go first,” I said, “she’ll want to see you alone.”
He got out of the truck and approached her almost carefully, then lifted her off the ground in an embrace. She didn’t seem big enough to ever have been his mother, but a few minutes later, as she looked searchingly into my face, her handshake was surprisingly firm.
The inside rooms smelled of faded potpourri and trapped air despite the air-conditioner. Only the smallest downstairs rooms seemed lived in: the kitchen, a breakfast nook, a small den with a television and fold-out couch made up as a bed. The large
talk
about it. My grandfather was an Irish Catholic plumber who died of cirrhosis. He used to sit in his chair while the news was on the radio and fold his newspaper into squares. Then he’d unfold it and roll it into a tube, a tight tube the width of a black snake. He’d whack it against the arm of the chair in four-four time, while the announcer kept going and my skinny grandmother grated cabbage in the kitchen by the plates.” He checked the mirror and pulled out around a cattle truck. “They knew plenty, sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart, and I didn’t say they weren’t perceptive or frustrated. I said their isolation was real, not an illusion. They stayed in one place and sank with whatever they had. But us—look at us. Roads. Sensation, floating, maps into more of the same. It’s a blur, a pattern, a view from an airplane.”
“You’re a real philosopher, aren’t you? What do you want?You want to sink, righteous and returned to your roots? Is that it?”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Sink. I don’t know how.”
“Oh, Christ. Will you shut up and light that joint before we pull into Dallas?”
I took the joint out of his cigarette pack and looked for matches.
“Here,” he said, and threw them at me. “No wonder you live alone and sleep on floors. You’re ponderous and depressed. Nothing is any worse than it’s ever been.”
“No,” I said, “only more detached.”
“Detachment is an ageless virtue. Try a little Zen.”
“I am,” I said, and lit the joint. “I’m living in Zen, highway Zen, the wave of the future.”
He didn’t laugh. We pulled into Dallas and Thurman finished the joint at a roadside park in sight of three Taco Bells, a McDonald’s, and a Sleepytime Motel. He squinted behind the smoke, drawing in. “What does your dad do?” he asked.
“Retired.”
“OK. What
did
he do?”
“Roads. He built roads.”
“Highways?”
“No. Two-lane roads, in West Virginia. Hairpin turns.”
The joint glowed in his fingers. Dusk had fallen, a gray shade. The air was heavy and hot, full of random horns and exhaust. I could see the grit on Thurman’s skin and feel the same sweaty pallor on my face.
“What is your father like?” I asked him.
He exhaled, his eyes distanced. “My father is seventy-one. Lately he’s gone a little flaky.”
We sat in silence until the dope was gone. Thurman turned on the ignition. “You’ll have your own bedroom at my parents’ house,” he said, “and I sure hope your sheets aren’t too heavy.”
• • •
The house was a big old-fashioned saltbox on an acre of lawn, incongruous among the split-levels, badly in need of paint. Drainpipes hung at angles from the roof and the grass was cut in strange swaths, grown tall as field weeds in patches. An old Chevy station wagon sat on blocks in front of the garage. Thurman and I sat in the driveway, in the cab of the Datsun, looking.
“They’ve gotten worse, or he has. I’ve hired kids to cut the grass for him and he won’t let them on the property.”
“Did they know we were coming?”
“Yes.”
The front door opened and Thurman’s mother appeared. She was small and thin, her arms folded across her chest, and it was obvious from the way she peered into middle distance that she couldn’t really see us.
“You go first,” I said, “she’ll want to see you alone.”
He got out of the truck and approached her almost carefully, then lifted her off the ground in an embrace. She didn’t seem big enough to ever have been his mother, but a few minutes later, as she looked searchingly into my face, her handshake was surprisingly firm.
The inside rooms smelled of faded potpourri and trapped air despite the air-conditioner. Only the smallest downstairs rooms seemed lived in: the kitchen, a breakfast nook, a small den with a television and fold-out couch made up as a bed. The large
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