was probably thinking it. I wondered then, and still do, why he thinks I’m so well adjusted. Must you be five feet seven, with one shoulder a little higher than the other, in order to have the obsessions and compulsions that Eli equates with intelligence? Eli underestimates me. He’s got me stereotyped: big dumb handsome
goy.
I’d like to let him look inside my Gentile skull for five minutes.
We were approaching St. Louis, now. Racing along an empty interstate highway through open farmland; then into something dank and dismal calling itself East St. Louis; and finally the gleaming Gateway Arch, looming up on the far side of the river. We came to a bridge. The idea of crossing the Mississippi absolutely left Eli stoned; he stuck his head and shoulders out of the car, staring out, as though he were crossing the Jordan. When we were on the St. Louis side, I stopped the car in front of a shiny circular motel. The three of them rushed out and scampered around like lunatics. I didn’t leave the driver’s seat. Wheels were going round in my head. Five unbroken hours of driving. Ecstasy! At last I got up. My right leg was numb. I had to limp for the first few minutes. But it was worth it for those five beautiful hours, those private hours, alone with the car and the highway. I was sorry we had to stop at all.
13. Ned
A cold blue Ozark evening. Exhaustion, anoxia, nausea: the dividends of auto-fatigue. Enough is enough; here we halt. Four red-eyed robots stagger out of the car. Did we really drive more than a thousand miles today? Yes, a thousand and some, clear across Illinois and Missouri into Oklahoma, long stretches at seventy or eighty miles per, and if Oliver had had his way we’d have driven five hundred more before knocking off. But we couldn’t have gone on. Oliver himself admits the quality of his performance began to decline after his six-hundredth mile of the day. He nearly totaled us outside of Joplin, glassy-faced and groggy, wrists failing to deal with the curve his eyes registered. Timothy drove perhaps a hundred miles today, a hundred fifty; I must have done the rest, several stints amounting to three or four hours’ worth, sheer terror all the way. But now we must stop. The psychic toll is too great. Doubt, despair, depression, dejection have seeped into our sturdy band. Dejected, disheartened, discouraged, disillusioned, dismayed, we slither into our chosen motel, wondering in our various ways how we could have persuaded ourselves to undertake this expedition. Aha! The Moment-of-Truth Motor Lodge, Nowhere, Oklahoma! The Edge of Reality Motel! Skepticism Inn! Twenty units, fake Colonial, plastic red-brick facing and white wooden columns flanking the entrance. We are the only guests, it seems. Gum-chewing female night clerk, about seventeen years old, her hair teased up into a fantastic 1962 beehive and held in place with embalming fluid. She looks at us languidly, no flicker of interest. Heavy eye makeup, turquoise with black edging. A doxy, a drab, too dumb-whorish even to be a successful whore. “Coffee shop closes at ten,” she tells us. Bizarre twanging drawl. Timothy is thinking about inviting her to his room for some fucking, that’s obvious to us all; I think he wants to add her to some collection he’s making of all-American types. Actually—let me say it in my capacity as objective observer, subspecies polymorphous perverse—she wouldn’t really be bad-looking, given a good scrubbing to get rid of all that makeup and hair spray. Fine high breasts jutting against her green uniform; outstanding cheekbones and nose. But the dull eyes, the slack pouting lips, can’t be washed away. Oliver gives Timothy a fiery scowl, warning him not to start anything with her. For once Timothy yields: the prevailing mood of depression has him down, too. She assigns us to adjoining double rooms, thirteen dollars apiece, and Timothy offers her his omnipotent slice of plastic. “Room’s around to the left,”
goy.
I’d like to let him look inside my Gentile skull for five minutes.
We were approaching St. Louis, now. Racing along an empty interstate highway through open farmland; then into something dank and dismal calling itself East St. Louis; and finally the gleaming Gateway Arch, looming up on the far side of the river. We came to a bridge. The idea of crossing the Mississippi absolutely left Eli stoned; he stuck his head and shoulders out of the car, staring out, as though he were crossing the Jordan. When we were on the St. Louis side, I stopped the car in front of a shiny circular motel. The three of them rushed out and scampered around like lunatics. I didn’t leave the driver’s seat. Wheels were going round in my head. Five unbroken hours of driving. Ecstasy! At last I got up. My right leg was numb. I had to limp for the first few minutes. But it was worth it for those five beautiful hours, those private hours, alone with the car and the highway. I was sorry we had to stop at all.
13. Ned
A cold blue Ozark evening. Exhaustion, anoxia, nausea: the dividends of auto-fatigue. Enough is enough; here we halt. Four red-eyed robots stagger out of the car. Did we really drive more than a thousand miles today? Yes, a thousand and some, clear across Illinois and Missouri into Oklahoma, long stretches at seventy or eighty miles per, and if Oliver had had his way we’d have driven five hundred more before knocking off. But we couldn’t have gone on. Oliver himself admits the quality of his performance began to decline after his six-hundredth mile of the day. He nearly totaled us outside of Joplin, glassy-faced and groggy, wrists failing to deal with the curve his eyes registered. Timothy drove perhaps a hundred miles today, a hundred fifty; I must have done the rest, several stints amounting to three or four hours’ worth, sheer terror all the way. But now we must stop. The psychic toll is too great. Doubt, despair, depression, dejection have seeped into our sturdy band. Dejected, disheartened, discouraged, disillusioned, dismayed, we slither into our chosen motel, wondering in our various ways how we could have persuaded ourselves to undertake this expedition. Aha! The Moment-of-Truth Motor Lodge, Nowhere, Oklahoma! The Edge of Reality Motel! Skepticism Inn! Twenty units, fake Colonial, plastic red-brick facing and white wooden columns flanking the entrance. We are the only guests, it seems. Gum-chewing female night clerk, about seventeen years old, her hair teased up into a fantastic 1962 beehive and held in place with embalming fluid. She looks at us languidly, no flicker of interest. Heavy eye makeup, turquoise with black edging. A doxy, a drab, too dumb-whorish even to be a successful whore. “Coffee shop closes at ten,” she tells us. Bizarre twanging drawl. Timothy is thinking about inviting her to his room for some fucking, that’s obvious to us all; I think he wants to add her to some collection he’s making of all-American types. Actually—let me say it in my capacity as objective observer, subspecies polymorphous perverse—she wouldn’t really be bad-looking, given a good scrubbing to get rid of all that makeup and hair spray. Fine high breasts jutting against her green uniform; outstanding cheekbones and nose. But the dull eyes, the slack pouting lips, can’t be washed away. Oliver gives Timothy a fiery scowl, warning him not to start anything with her. For once Timothy yields: the prevailing mood of depression has him down, too. She assigns us to adjoining double rooms, thirteen dollars apiece, and Timothy offers her his omnipotent slice of plastic. “Room’s around to the left,”
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