Off the Road - 31

a jazz novel on a typewriter

11

We ascertained that we were slicing through the line of South San Francisco. And as anyone can tell you the difference between the line for SF and SSF is like the novel being dead: there is no point of writing made-up stories. The reason is you cannot begin at the beginning since there never was and never will be the beginning you have just strayed to a middle coming from an end. It is the logos with a penetrating supplement.

Dean leaned backward in his seat, and then came to a conclusion: “I don’t know what the laws are here about tinting the windows so dark on that Cadillac.”

“The law in Massachusetts is very strict about darkening glass.”

“That is what I thought though I can’t be sure without checking be traffic ordinances in this state. But I think we can be sure that there is someone looking for us with a mean streak.”

“And probably a gun.” Betraying what I was thinking about.

“No, it is called a weapon when someone knows how to use it.”

We were talking of course about the car that had followed us up the trail of the smaller towns up the neck. We tried to look inside the car, which was a Cadillac of course. A dark blue Cadillac the way that Miles Davis tinted the All Blues on the front track.

Then is iPhone rang out with the hollowest ring imaginable, one that Dean had set particularly for reasons unknown. For the first time, I saw him pounce on anything least of all a phone.

“This is Dean. Who am I talking to? And why should I listen.”

I could hear a voice, but I could not recognize even the sex of the other party. His voice went low, and he exchanged short sharp shocks with the person on the other side then he listened and finally pushed the end button. I waited because I knew he was going to have something to say.

“Are we on South Linden Ave?”

I peered around and saw that we were.

“Turn around and go up San Mateo Avenue. And at the other will the Produce and at the corner will be a Denny’s.”

I did as told me though I wondered that from coast to coast there was always a Danny’s in some small corner of the world. It seemed to be a ritual to the Church of the United States of America bound up with the US Constitution, the Gettysburg Address, and the opening of Cheers.

So, there we were and there we were waiting for the light to Park the boat in the Marina that is Denny’s. We did not have to wait long under US-101. Once inside we looked around and around and around and around and around. And once we did that we saw a woman in a blue dress. She was Alice and one of us knew that she was going to be there. I was clueless.

So we shuffled down the Naugahyde cushion and then Dean placed his arms on the table and clamped his chin to his hands. And with that wide eye glance that he had perfected so long ago: “So how’s tricks and assorted other gags?”

Alice looked extremely hurt as if she had feelings. “I was sent here to dispose of you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know because that’s yesterday’s news.” With a mimic that comes with the quote.

“But I don’t want to do that.”

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t.”

“So, tell me why I shouldn’t.”

“Or what?” Dean remained placid but I could tell from his hands he was annoyed.

“Happiness is a warm gun.” Her voice sounded like a record player on 45.

“So, what is in it for me?” I watched back and forth as the US Open tennis match reached a climax. Bip-bop-bip-bop.

Alice fumbled with her large brown handbag but realized that she could not light up a cigarette. So, she kept fumbling as her mind phrased her next response.

“I’m sure that we can come to some understanding.”

“Is that before or after I am dead?”

“What if I say that I will not be the one to do that?”

“There are a lot more complications that need to the strong together.”

“What happens if we string them together later?” And her chest went down and there was some deflation and not just in the presidential race. It was at that point that there was a moment that sooner or later Dean and Alice would have to go out into the wide world because right now they were stuck in a garage waiting for the rain to stop. It is like the proverbial bluebird if you just have nowhere to look.

And at that moment the story is again clear:  because if it was a film noir one or would be shot and the other one would with a last gasp tell the tail in reverse the way so many had done so in black and white.  But if it was a road novel then everyone would realize that one or both were actually villains, and they would be together for all eternity.  It wasn’t the film noir.  Then they held their hands and even their eyes kissed in the interlude.  Then they dropped their hands and Dean looked at me saying in a gesture that it was time to go.

 So, we left the Denny’s. We left South San Francisco on US-101. Then we entered into the heart of the West and finally in the back of my head I could hear,  hear the colored girls scream: “Doo, do-doo, do-doo, do-do-doo.”

And I was happy about this finally.

So, we drop over and under the Twin Peaks in their divine stutter and take up the slathering edge of the twist that the Market Street with a curly cue, with an answer to the question of whether Dean could ob-tain any being he wants at Alice’s restaurant. The answer was “Yes.”