"'Scuse me ma'am, but we, my son and I, have had some misfortune'. We seem to have gotten lost an' used all of our gas tryin' to git back to the main road. We have not eaten since mornin'. I was hopin' you nice Christian folks could see your way inta loaning us a few dollars.... I could send it back ta you when we git home?."
The woman did not blink, Joe could see she was intimidated by Papa Joe, yet she also displayed compassion for the young boy whose face looked so sad. "Wait here,". she said as she closed the door. Several minutes later, she appeared with a large sack of food and twenty five dollars. "You take care of that child....."
Joe sat in the rear of the car not paying attention to anything but the sandwich he was wolfing down. They had stopped for gas, and as Davis filled the gas tank at a cost of six dollars, Papa Joe sauntered into the package store/gas station to buy a fifth of Bonded Bourbon. For seven weeks they had traveled the country; stopping when ever the money for booze and gas ran out to "ask" for charity. Though lately, through the good fortune of a real teenager, Papa Joe began to get greedy; stopping all of the time! The previous night was the worst demonstration of his new pattern: Papa Joe lost his temper when an old woman's son came to the door of the house he chose and demanded that Papa Joe take his kid and get the hell off his property or he would call the cops!--Papa Joe wanted to go back and "Do him right!". If, in fact, Pigny had not voiced his opinion that they had two hundred dollars in the kitty, Joe was sure Papa Joe would have carried through his threat. Instead, Papa Joe ordered Davis to stop at the next truck stop and demanded he follow him to the rest room. When they returned--Papa Joe with a large back slapping, grinning attitude, and Davis with tears and a halting walk--it became apparent that he had taken his anger and pleasure upon Davis.
"What a team. We ain't did this good for seven months. Mike there seems to make them want to give...Eh Pigny?"
"Yea, lets head to Nashville, the Christians are strong there!"
Pigny and Papa Joe sat in the front of the car, guzzling Bourbon and singing loudly out of key; occasionally, they would peek into the darkness of the rear compartment to wink at Davis and Joe with twin, perverted twists of their thick, tobacco stained lips. Joe's mind was going twice as fast as the car. He knew he was running out of time. The Orleans duo were talking of upping the ante. They wanted to "do som'thin' bigger". What that was, Joe did not want to know! Eventually, the booze combined with their vocal efforts to tire them out. Pigny stopped to let Davis drive, crawled into the back seat, and soon, the cars gentle throaty sound and light rhythmic bumping along the tar streaked highway had Papa Joe and Pigny in a deep, snoring sleep.
Joe tapped Davis on his head and, with a hasty motion of his finger to his mouth, warned of silence. He then slid next to Davis's left ear and began to whisper...
The sun arose to welcome the late fall morning: crisp, clean, cool air; falling leaves, turning colors of rainbow; squirrels running amuck along the ground of the rest stop--gathering legions of nuts in preparation of the coming winter. A scene, reminisce of Georgia, brought yearnings of freedom to Joe. One month had passed and Papa Joe had grown tired of his cat and mouse game with Davis...he began to show more attention to Joe than Joe desired. In the past two weeks, Joe had spoke with Davis about escape; he had convinced him that it was more than possible and Davis had begun to trade in his fear for friendship. Joe told him that whenever the opportunity presented itself, Davis had to be prepared. With Papa Joe leaning towards his "new ideas", Joe was sure that he would have to prompt that opportunity.
As everyone stretched their legs to limber out the cramps of sleeping in the confines of hard, plastic wrapped, bucket seats, Joe noticed a sign identifying a large truck stop off the next exit 100 yards down I-80. "Hey, why don't we stop at that truck stop and wash up and eat..." Joe blurted to Papa Joe, ..."Wouldn't you like to stop and use a rest room?" Joe continued, teasing Papa Joe.
Papa Joe's eyes glimmered and his smile twisted in a familiar crooked grin. "Yea, that sounds perfect...
The truck stop, crowded with huge rigs parked in neat orderly rows, swarmed with a multitude of truckers. Popa Joe, sensing that this many people might not be ideal to retaining his captives, decided to continue down the road; he ordered Davis not to stop....but Joe was not going to give up.
"Hey, I gotta go! Come on, lets use the rest room..." he said as he jumped over the seat and forced Davis to make an abrupt, tire screaming turn into the overflowing parking lot.
Sensing the futility of causing a scene, Popa Joe's anger was over taken by this temptation of opportunity. He ordered Pigny to pull behind the restaurant with it's collage of humanity and park by the outside rest room. When Pigny stopped, Popa Joe wet his lips and opened the door. Motioning Joe to get out, he held the door and told Davis and Pigny to wait. When Joe's feet hit the pavement, he turned and began to rapidly walk around the building. Papa Joe rushed to over take Joe...
Joe entered the restaurant and plopped down in the first booth he saw. Popa Joe, an arms length behind, cautiously sat down. "I thought you wanted to use the rest room?"
"Later, lets eat some real food for a change... Hey, waitress"... Joe yelled--loud enough for every patron to stop what they were doing and turn their heads. "Popa Joe, get the guys..."
Popa Joe was steaming mad, but he could do nothing. As he contemplated his next move, Davis appeared with the car in front of the window that the booth faced and parked. A wide, ear to ear grin swept his face as he exited the car with Pigny in tow.
Forks clattered, plates clanked, and a hum of rapid murmur--occasionally interrupted by loud barking orders of waitresses and cooks--filled the large dining room. 'What a place,' thought Joe, viewing the concoction of color, language and custom with awe.
Joe was always amazed at the diversity of a truck stop. There was not another place in the entire United States in which such a contrary group of individuals mixed with more harmony: Tall, bearded Texans, in western boots and plaid shirts, sitting with short, balding, Italian truckers from NY; men dressed in brown khaki pants and black, high top industrial boots, wolfing their food in heaps, while New Englanders cut theirs into small, precise shapes--with the deftness of a plastic surgeon--conversations of laughter exploding ethnic and racial barriers, conveying one word in a multitude of accents: Friendship!
One could hear a meeting of minds pushing aside the every day prejudice and disharmony blanketing the towns, cities, and countryside's these road warriors originated from. In the high sounding, boisterous laughter of truckers from a rapidly expanding West Coast as it broke, in sharp, rag-tag tempo, through the long, slow, drawling molasses like texture of the Southern truckers-- whose soothing sounds softened the hard edges of the serious laughter from those whom represented the crowded East Coast cities--caused Joe to sit back in bewilderment: "How come men did not behave like this all of the time?"
A grunt from Popa Joe, signaling he was still engaged in the process of stuffing his snout, brought Joe back to reality: Though the world moved upon it's continuing journey into the future, he was stuck in the present... with no change in sight! He looked at Pigny, he was gorging himself. Reminiscing the diner episode with Carmine when his journey began, Joe began to wait for Pigny to vomit!
As they dug into their platters, Joe signaled Davis to slip him the keys to the car--a pre-planned idea they had agreed to do at the first opportunity--and made an announcement. "I have to go to the bathroom."
"Pigny, go with him!" Popa Joe blurted.
"Hey, I don't need a chaperone, besides, the bathroom is over there...' He said, pointing to a door with a sign that said "MENS ROOM" not ten feet from the booth.
"Well, make it quick!" Pigny said...
Joe entered the bathroom with the confidence of the customary window he would make his exit from--he was stunned by his discovery: no window existed!
"#$%#!" he said out loud, " What the $#%$ am I gonna do now?" He went to the door and peeked through, the trio was still eating. He knew if he attempted to leave through the door they had come through would be committing suicide. He contemplated notifying someone of his and Davis's predicament, but he was unsure if Popa Joe would not come up with some con as to them being rebellious kids or something; this would prove fatal also, for then the police would be called in and Joe was sure that he would be returned to a juvenile home or even worse--returned to NY and the wise guys!
"What should I do?" He questioned himself. And then, the answer popped in his mind.
With purpose, he began stuffing the five commodes with toilet paper and paper towels. Moving from stall to stall, in rapid succession, he began to flush them. The water began to rise, and soon, it flowed across the bathroom floor and under and out the bathroom door. Within seconds, like a stirred up nest of ants, a rush of employees, mops, buckets, and towels in hand, invaded the bathroom. In the confusion, Joe slipped out and exited the restaurant. He ducked down and made his way to the car.
Keeping his head down, he opened the passenger door and crawled across the front seat. Placing the ignition key into the slot, he turned it until he heard the click and the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. He was ready, except for one other item: he had never driven a vehicle with a stick shift!
Though it seemed an eternity had elapsed since Joe had entered the restroom, only fifteen minutes had gone by. Popa Joe, whom sat wondering what had happened to him and the cause of the commotion of the restaurant staff, stood to investigate...
Joe peeked over the dashboard as he squeezed into the drivers seat. Popa Joe was rising from the booth, looking in the direction of the confusion that blocked the bathroom door. Pigny had already began to walk towards the mess and Davis was edging his way to the door. Joe shifted the drivers seat forward and began concentrating on the shifter. He had watched Davis and Pigny for more than a month, he was sure he could do it. Placing one foot on the clutch and the other on the gas, he placed his hand on the key and cringed as he gave it a twist....... "VAROOM!" The roar of the engine crashed through the parking lot and into the restaurant....
...just as the familiar VAROOM of the super charged engine of his beloved Ford broke through his conscious mind, Popa Joe instinctively turned to face the window. A look of shocked horror ripped across his face as his eyes met Joe's... ...and the action began...
...Joe revs the engine, pushes the clutch in, and moves the shifter...
...Davis hits the door...
...Pigny grabs Davis by his jacket, stalling him...
...Joe jams the gear shift into reverse, jumps his foot off the clutch and jams the gas....
...Popa Joe opens the door and heads towards the car...
...The engine roars but the car does not move!
...Davis breaks free by shifting out of his jacket...
...a horrendous sound of gears clashing together rips through the parking lot...
...Popa Joe grabs the door handle...
...Davis opens the door and comes tearing out...
...with Pigny in hot pursuit...
...just as Joe jams the shifter and lurches off in hopping movements...
...NO!...
...the car jerks FORWARD!!!...
...Popa Joe is thrown from his feet...
...Davis is almost to the door when he is grabbed by his leg by Pigny...
...Joe pulls the shifter out of first...
...Popa Joe reaches up and grabs Davis...
...Davis grabs the door handle...
....Joe grinds the gear shift into reverse and slams down the gas pedal...
...Davis falls on his face...
...Joe, his feet attempting to work the gas, brake and clutch, all at the same time, causes the car to move in hard, jerking movements down the drive...
...in reverse...
...Davis is almost at the door...
...Joe slams the brake!...
...Popa Joe, and Pigny are tearing behind...
...there almost there....
...Joe slams the shifter and rips down the gas...
...just as Davis slips his hand in the door handle...
...just as Pigny grabs Davis's leg...
...dragging Davis and Pigny...
...they all fall...
...Joe looks in his rear view mirror...
...just as Davis rises and zooms once more towards the moving car...
...Davis is in the lead...
...catching the car...
...Popa Joe...
...catches up..
...causing Joe to start and stop, in crazy, up and down motions...
...all the way to the road...
...over and over...
...until Popa Joe falls, tripping Pigny...
...and Davis reaches the car...
...Joe slams on the brakes...
...Davis snatches the door open...
...Popa Joe is up and at the rear window of the car...
...he jumps on the rear deck...
...the Joe slams the gas peddle down...
...leaping the highway...
...with Davis holding on for dear life...
...half in and half out of the car...
...and Popa Joe slides off...
...Davis climbs in...
...Joe gets the hang of the clutch...
...THEY HIT THE OPEN ROAD TO FREEDOM...
...LEAVING POPA JOE AND PIGNY GESTURING AND CARRYING ON LIKE A PAIR OF COMICS IN A NINETEEN TWENTIES SILENT FILM!!!
Chapter Twenty-Two: Harry, they zoomed towards the west...
Joe and Davis cruised down the interstate. They were one hundred and fifty-five miles from Albuquerque, New Mexico--just twenty more and they would be at the Navaho, Indian Reservation where Davis had grown up on. Davis decided to sell the car to a group of Mexicans whom would drive it over the border. He figured they should be compensated for their adventure. Though Joe felt physically great, the tribulation of the last two months had taken a toll on his mind and he could not remove the nagging thoughts that cropped up once more: had the last experiences become just another group of stories... reduced to just memories? What were the actual results? Did it contain a hidden meaning? Had it become just a thought? What of God... and then Ginny, Aggie, and Diane crossed his mind--they sometime did when ever God came into the picture--relieving the pain!
Davis, whom was driving with a case of absent-mindedness, habit, or a combination of both, said something which caused Joe to--absentmindedly himself!--look over at him: a figure, mouth moving in slow motion, relief plastered to it's face like a Greek actor's serene mask of play, rambling on about this or that... Bang! Like an exploding bomb it hit him: to Davis, whom had experienced more than the mental anguish--a word he was thoroughly familiar with--of the experience, the entire experience had become more than real! Joe was sure his entire life had been changed by the treatment he had recieved.... after all, he hardly could recall as many events as Joe could. Joe knew from his own trials and tribulations that an accumulation of events brought on a sort of dulling of senses--an ability to "numb thought!" Had Davis attained that void level? He doubted it.
"Hey, Davis, where you going to go?" Joe asked in his haste to end his thoughts...
"Michigan!"
"What's in Michigan?"
"My mother. She left the reservation ten years ago. After I stop and see my father, I'm gonna find her. You see....."
Joe sat stiffly in his seat as Davis rambled away about some Tribal Elder or something. Once again, Joe was not listening, in fact, his mind was on his own family. He missed his own mother, Angela, Carmine, and even his little brother Eddy--whom he hardly new! And, the sharp pain of his father, dead yet alive in the deep recesses of his memory, in that file marked Accident:personal, in that abyss, with no future, no present, no hope, cried for release... He refused to open the door--he did not desire to recall those vivid pictures and begin a new cycle all over again. The Shorty thing had put that life to rest....at least he thought it that way! He decided he would telephone his mother after they arrived at the reservation. 'Boy would she be surprised at how I have handled myself. She would be proud!'
No signs announced the Reservation, just a simple red clay road revealing a group of buildings resembling shacks; built of a variety of materials, they were massed together and naturally "landscaped" with sage brush, twiggy looking bushes, and a heap of dust.
Joe became excited as Davis drove down the road towards the buildings... 'REAL INDIANS!' He was going to visit with 'REAL LIVE INDIANS!' Memories of his first trip and the stories which wafted across the table of that truck stop with so much pomp and circumstance cried out: "Andrew Jackson! Naked Ladies! Long standing bridges with out columns! Alligators! And yes, INDIANS!..."
Joe was surprised when no Indians came riding out upon painted ponies with bow and arrow to confront and challenge their red chariot. For a kid from NY, whom only saw Indians in John Wayne movies and history books, it was a let down to see that Indians were nothing more than a memory of motion pictures...
Joe was initially confused when a group of "ordinary looking people", dressed in hand me downs and cast-offs, began murmuring and pointing excitably as they surrounded the car.
"What happened to your people, the Indians? These people are Mexican, aren't they?" He asked Davis.
"No, Navaho."
Joe was embarrassed, he began to say something in apology, "I was jus..."
Before Joe could finish his statement, the group, whom seemed to recognize Davis, drew closer and formed a curious half circle around the drivers side of the car. It was then that Joe began to distinguish their prominent features: high cheekbones; black hair--some with long braids; reddish brown skin coloration; dark, piercing eyes--which seemed to contain an immense store of sorrow and intrigue. Joe was suddenly face to face with his vision, but something was missing? It lacked "color".... Yes, that's what it was: A once colorful vision whose definition had become a black and white barrage of texture and thought due to it's poverty of life. Once more, in black and white, in have and have not, Joe was reminded of a fact of life which he had been continually exposed to thus far: Poor had no color; Poor had no qualification for race, religion, nor creed! It's lethal injection into society was epidemic; it's causes wide and varied. But then, from the center of the half moon, a short man, whom looked ninety years old, with long, gray streaked, jet black braids--which were tied with bands of red cloth and silver objects--stepped forward and began to paint in the color between the lines...
With a short brush stroke of his left hand, he silenced the group. And then, as if viewing a magnificent canvas with a keen eye, he motioned to the land with both arms in a gentle, sweeping manner and began, in a sing-song, melodic voice, to speak in his native tongue. His vocals, rising and falling like a rhythmic flowing and ebbing of a peaceful shore line, reverberated in sweet, smoothing, harmony. He began to walk forward, his voice rising with each deliberate step, until he reached the car. He halted and bellowed a crisp, sharp cry, while grasping Davis's arm with his right hand and signing with the other. As if on cue, the group, melting into one, warm hearted mass of happiness and friendship, converged on the car...welcoming Davis "Lost Cloud" home...
Tribal Elder Nihanio, one hundred and two, was the oldest surviving member of "the old way". Born in the year of 1865, in the face of a high, full moon, he was gifted with the name Night Warrior. Night Warrior Nihanio, man of a thousand truths and the oldest living repository of the history of his once great and powerful people, sat upon a threadbare sofa in a plywood faced shack, surrounded by fifteen young tribal members. His face was flat, high-cheeked, with piercing, eagle-like eyes, thick, broad lips, and strong, white teeth. Joe was amazed at his mental energy and his vibrant, physical demeanor. The first thought that ran through Joe's mind was the fact that the guy talked "normal"!
"The Great Spirit has honored our people for our care of Mother earth; for welcoming all whom seek peace and consoling; for behaving in the Right Way--with goodness and beauty;. therefore, with much joy and honor, we welcome Lost Cloud and his friend Mike to our home. We thank The Great Spirit for watching over him and showing him the way back to his roots."
For the next several hours, Nihanio entertained an eager Joe with stories of the Navaho's past....
"Before I was born unto this earth, the Navaho were called the Diné. "The Diné" translates in English into "the People" or "the Folks". The name Navaho was invented by Europeans whom had no clue to the vocabulary of the Diné! In fact, in my native tongue, the "V" in Navaho has no meaning...it cannot be reproduced! The Diné began as a small group of people related to the Apache. After settling in this very land, we began conducting raids to capture people--whom we allowed to join our tribe--and wealth in order to build our tribe. Up until the coming of the Spaniard, with his horse, steel sword, hot musket, and tendency to scalp his conquered, the Diné were basically a group of peaceful people whom loved the heat of the occasional fray like all of the other tribes whom made the desert's mesas and cliffs home. After the coming of the Spaniard, with his sly intrigue, wealth and power, the Diné began a specific routine of warring to satisfy their need for people and wealth with which to combat the Spaniard. Eventually, through this continuing war-like atmosphere, the Diné were able to become the most numerous and prosperous peoples of the painted land. Reaching more than 10,000 by my birth, my people were very industrious: Our women wove the finest blankets; we worked the Spanish metal of water into great works of art; we raised thousands of little peach trees and great patches of corn. Our hogans--what you call houses--were simple structures built of the earth and providing the necessary shelter we needed. Our flocks of sheep were as great as our desire to hear the Singers sing the Songs of Talking God. We cherished philosophy, poetry, and art. We were a happy and healthy peoples. But, due to many confrontations with our brothers the Apache, whom were being pressed by the Spaniards and their descendants, the Mexicans--whom enslaved vast amounts of peoples for their personnel and economic pleasure--we eventually became fierce warriors and raiders first, tenders of the land and flocks second. In 1849, three years after the Americans defeated the Mexicans, Americans began appearing in great numbers. We began to experience much robbery and outrage. In 1851, after numerous retaliatory raids and skirmishes, led by the most war-like of our people, Fort Defiance was established in the very heart of our country. The presence of the Fort and it's contingent of personal reduced the thefts and brought peace until 1858 when an argument between one of our people and the slave of an army officer--with everyone taking up for the slave--brought upon the greatest war of the Diné. Our people attacked Fort Defiance and the struggle began. The American Civil War brought a temporary peace until the appearance of Kit Carson in the winter of 1863-64. Carson led an expedition to the once impregnable Diné stronghold of Canyon de Chelly and cut down thousands of peach trees and fields of corn that took many men days to destroy. They butchered our flocks and eventually starved our people into submission. Our people were then moved to a reservation called Bosque Rendondo near Fort Sumner in eastern New Mexico. That is where I was born! By my third birthday, we were allowed to return to our lands--which were greatly reduced--and begin our lives again. And then..."
Thus, for seven hours, Night Warrior told tales of bravery and legend; of comical laughter and desperate struggle; of love and death. In the end, Joe felt proud and special; he knew the Old warrior was treating him to the most fantastic oral history lesson that he would ever be privy to! By four am, the old warrior had used his last remaining drop of energy and finally conceded to sleep.