This is an evening of bad judgment.

It has been many, many years since we’ve driven through the night. And for us to choose a stretch of desert to do it in is certainly a foolish idea. The kids would be terrified if they knew we were doing this. It’s exactly the sort of thing they’re having nightmares about. But the fact is, I don’t care and John doesn’t know any better. It’s just another long highway in front of him.

When we were younger, it wasn’t uncommon for us, in a sudden end-of-vacation rush to get home, to drive twenty, twenty-four, even thirty hours straight. It was a punishing thing to do, a kind of trance to which you had to give yourself over. Deaf with fatigue, you thought of nothing beyond the road, beyond the quivering bright scoops of your headlights.

On those nights when we surrendered to that madness, the miles would hiss past with a jagged, frazzled rhythm. We would stop for gasoline every half hour, it seemed, greet a new state every hour. Our senses were heightened to the point where we’d hear every seam of the asphalt, every click of the odometer.

John would drink so much coffee his stomach would creak and growl. He would chain-smoke Galaxy cigarettes and scream at the kids. Yet he kept driving, guzzling gas station mud, crunching down Tums with every cup. Out of boredom, I would dole out whatever was left in our cooler—lunch meats, warm pops, fruits from roadside stands, foods edging brown and green. After twenty or more hours, our car took on the smell of kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom all in one. Our whole family’s eyes became accustomed to the dark. Through glass smudged with stale breath, gas stations glowed and throbbed in the empty night, motel neon smeared red-orange trails; the reflection of our high beams in the highway signs flash-blinded us as we shot past.

The only thing that could move us to damage ourselves in such a way was to get home. There would come a time after twelve or thirteen days of near-solid travel that all you wanted was to be in your own house. Travel was wonderful, travel was glorious. See the USA in your Chevrolet! But what you wanted more than anything right then, was simply to sleep in your own bed, eat in your own kitchen, sit on your own toilet. You wanted to stop seeing the world. You wanted to see your world. So we would drive.

The all-night journeys were never planned. We would never intend to drive so ridiculously long and far. We would get one of those “good” days under our belt—six hundred miles or so—then we’d suddenly get fussy, unable to find a decent campground in our AAA guides or from the billboards along the road. We didn’t want to stay in a motel. We’d already spent enough money after two weeks on the road. (We were getting close enough to home to realize that we’d have to pay those credit card bills soon enough.) We’d say, Let’s just drive a little longer. See how far we can go before we have to stop.

So we would drive. A little bit farther. A little bit farther. Twilight would come, arc over us, a lump of sun dissolving in our wake, turning our rear window into color television. Then night would settle in, gather around us, cozylike, an afghan of stars. It was a relief to our eyes after the cruel shifting beauty of sunset. After a while, the kids would even stop whining and complaining and settle down. They were as anxious to get home as we were. Then without even trying, it would be 11:00 P.M., way too late to stop for the night. We knew what we were doing by then. Too late to turn back. Drive, drive. We were heading toward something, a place we wanted, needed to be.

 

Tonight, John and I are smack in the middle of the Navajo nation. A gritty breeze buffets the half-open window. Along the highway, I see forked silhouettes of cacti, glints of rubbed rock and dynamited stone, darkened empty trading posts with signs that advertise INDIAN JEWELRY AT SUPER PRICES! I’m scared to be out here in the dark, but it’s no longer a fear that I can take seriously. It’s all starting to feel like one of the rides at Disneyland. Of course, this may have something to do with all the discomfort pills I’m popping. It’s the only way I can operate now. I guess it’s happened: I’ve officially become a hophead. Frankly, I thought it would be more fun than this. I still have no idea why the kids love the dope so much.

I keep a close eye on John as he drives. He reminds me of the John of forty years ago (without a cigarette between his fingers), eyes trained on the road, very alert, not even yawning. I see no traces of the “highway hypnosis” that they used to warn us motor travelers against. (Chew gum! Open the windows! Sing along with the radio!) We are both too awake, one of us too aware.

John and I are tethered to the interstate tonight. No side trips in search of the pink concrete of the original 66. At night, there’s just too much chance that we would get good and lost. This way, all we have to do is stay on I-40 and keep moving for as long as we can. Yes, it’s a shame that we’re driving through the Painted Desert in the dark, but tonight is special. We need to get to our destination soon. I can tell.

“I’m going to play some music, John,” I say, fumbling with our bulky case of remaining eight-track tapes. We used to have a lot more, but our stereo has devoured them over the years. I find one called Provocative Percussion by Enoch Light & the Light Brigade and plug it into the player. “Blues in the Night” comes on way too loud, scaring the crap out of both of us. John must have accidentally turned it up when it was off. I turn it down and it sounds all right for a moment, but then the music starts to warble. The woodwinds are pulled thin, and the plucky guitar notes ring flat, but I don’t care. I need sound. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I don’t like my thoughts anymore. They are not to be trusted.

My mouth is so dry. I take a sip from one of the bottles of emergency water. I look over at John and he looks back with the emptiness in his eyes, but also with affection. He whistles along with the music and taps on the steering wheel.

“Hello there, young lady,” he says, smiling at me.

I turn down “Fascinating Rhythm,” which is so chipper and cheery that it’s almost too much to handle, even with the distortion slowing it down.

“Do you know who I am, John?”

“Sure,” he says, smiling, faking it for me.

“Who am I then?”

“Don’t you know who you are?”

He’s tried this before. “Sure, I know,” I say. “I just want to know if you know.”

“I know.”

“Then who am I?”

“You’re my lover.”

“That’s right.” I lay my hand on his knee. “So what’s my name?”

He smiles again. His lips move, but nothing comes out. “’S Wonderful” comes on the stereo, sounding like it’s being played on a tuba.

“What?” I say.

“Is it Lillian?”

I take my hand away. Son of a bitch. Lillian? “Who the hell is Lillian?”

He says nothing. I know he’s confused, but I don’t really care. “You heard me. Who’s Lillian?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I smack him in the arm. “You just said Lillian was your lover.”

“I don’t know.”

I don’t know what this means, but I want to strangle him. When I used to ask John if he’d ever step out on me, he always used to say that he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t faithful. Now I’m wondering. “Who’s Lillian?” I repeat.

“I’m married to Lillian.”

“No, you’re not. You’re married to me. I’m Ella.”

“I thought your name was Lillian.”

“We’ve been married practically sixty years. You can’t remember my goddamned name?”

“I thought—”

“Oh shut up,” I say, punching the off button, then yanking the cartridge from the stereo. The music sputters out as tape spills from the slot.

John sighs, leans back in his seat, and sulks. I do the same.

 

The miles pass silently. The moon rises, about three-quarters full, revealing vague clues of the Painted Desert: silver glimpses of veiny hills, ridged brick-striped plateaus, and puffy glow balls of scrub. It’s a relief to get off the freeway in Holbrook for gas. I recall that there’s something to see here, but don’t feel like looking in my books. Then just inside the city limits, in front of a rock shop, I see a gathering of gigantic prehistoric creatures—dinosaurs, brontosauruses, stegosauruses—all colors and sizes, loitering along the road between scattered chunks of petrified wood.

“Well, look at that,” I say to John, though I’m still ticked at him.

“There’s Dino,” he says, brightly.

The tallest one does look like the old Sinclair dinosaur. Towering over the others, neck swanned, the stone reptile peers curiously at us from the side of the road. He knows his own kind when he sees them.

We turn a corner through this deserted burg and pass down Main Street. That’s when I remember what’s in Holbrook and it ain’t the dinosaurs. Before long, I can see the neon blazing green against the desert horizon.

WIGWAM MOTEL

Have you slept in a wigwam lately?

 

Behind the sign and the office, there is a glowing half circle of shiny white teepees, each ringed with crimson rickrack, a single spotlight bright at the crown.

“John. Do you remember staying here on our first trip to Disneyland?”

“We never stayed there,” says John.

“Yes, we did. It was small inside, but it was comfy. The kids loved it.”

It crosses my mind to pull in there, knock off for the night and sleep in one of those concrete wigwams again for old times’ sake, but we are getting so far into Arizona, making steady time, that I don’t want to stop. Besides, I remember our slides of the inside of our wigwam, the dinky log furniture, the cramped bathroom. It was tiny. We might as well just sleep in the van.

Down the street, we stop for gas, use the credit card, slide in and out of the restrooms. We don’t speak to a soul.

 

A dozen miles in the velvet darkness. Briefly on 66, we pass a place with a giant jackrabbit standing sentry in the parking lot. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. The dinosaurs were much more friendly looking.

Later, back on I-40 near Winslow, a roadrunner zips across our path. I remember these little birds from previous trips. Frankly, I remember them being faster than this one. John never even saw it as it crossed the beam of our headlights. I saw it only for an instant. When we hit the poor thing, there was barely a noise to speak of, just a thup, as if we had run over a milk carton.

“What was that?” said John.

“I think we hit a bird,” I say, my voice splintering. “A roadrunner.”

“A what?”

“A roadrunner. You know, like what Wile E. Coyote used to chase?” I feel bad for the little creature. It all happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to make a peep. This seems like a bad omen. Suddenly, I feel like one of those sailors who must wear an albatross around his neck after killing it. I try to think about something else.

The frantic part of my discomfort is gone now, and I feel less in a panic to get to Disneyland. A quick check of my books tells me that we have another six hundred miles to the end of the road, then another fifty to Anaheim. I was a fool to think we could make it there tonight.

It’s almost 10:30. John keeps yawning and rubbing his face.

“John, do you want a Pepsi?” I say. “I think we have one somewhere.”

He shakes his head. “Not thirsty.”

John could drink tea, coffee, and pop all day long, but here in the middle of the desert, he’s not thirsty.

“John, do you want to stop for the night?”

He says nothing.

“You want to drive a little more?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t we head for Flagstaff and get something to eat?” I say, not knowing if anything will be open this late, but we’ll try.

 

We get to Wendy’s just as it’s about to close for the night. The voice of the woman at the drive-thru is the first that we’ve heard all night besides our own. We sit in the parking lot and watch the sky and mountains grow brighter as they switch the signs off, then moments later, the dining room lights. The moon and a nearby streetlamp allow us just enough light to see each other inside the van.

John chews his hamburger intently. I suck hard at the straw in my Frosty, but nothing happens. Through the windshield, the world tonight feels to me like an alien place. I haven’t been out driving at this time of night in many years, much less in an unfamiliar area. These are the things that scare you as you get older. You understand night all too well, all its attendant meanings. You try to avoid it, work around it, keep it from entering your house. Your weary, but ornery body tells you to stay up late, sleep less, keep the lights on, don’t go into the bedroom—if you have to sleep, sleep in your chair, at the table. Everything is about avoiding the night. Because of that, I suppose that I should be scared out here in the dark, but I am finally past that, I think.

John clears this throat as he finishes off his single with cheese. He licks catsup off his finger and glances at my burger on the console, only two bites taken out of it.

“Go ahead,” I say.

John picks up the burger and digs in. I pop the top of my Frosty and go at it with a plastic spoon. The ice cream cools my parched throat and calms my stomach.

Every once in a while a car hisses past.

John stops chewing. He puts my hamburger down, wipes his lips with a napkin, places his hand on my thigh. “Hi lover,” he says to me, completely forgetting what happened before.

He knows who I am. He knows that I am the one person who he loves, has always loved. No disease, no person can take that away.

 

The lobby of the Flagstaff Radisson is lovely. I wonder if they’ve just recently renovated the place as I wheel on up to the check-in counter. Tonight I have broken out the You-Go, my rolling walker. It’s got lockable hand brakes, a basket for my purse, and a seat in case I get tired, all with a jazzy “candy apple red” (as Kevin calls it) paint job. We’re at that point where I need more support to keep me steady on my feet. We cannot afford any more falls.

“What kind of rooms do you have? Do you have something nice?” I ask the desk clerk. This is not like me. I’m more likely to ask, “What’s the cheapest room in the joint?”

The clerk, a Mexican fellow with a receding hairline and a postage stamp of hair under his lip, looks up from his book and stares dolefully at me. According to his nametag, his name is “Jaime.”

“I’ve got a standard double, nonsmoking, and a suite, also nonsmoking,” he says. The accent gives his words a roundness that’s pleasant to my ear.

“We’ll take the suite,” I say, tired of scrimping.

“It’s one-twenty-five a night, plus tax,” he says.

I gasp. “Jesus, I don’t want to buy the place, I just want to sleep here.”

Jaime shrugs at me.

“I’m sorry.” I hand him our Visa. I decide that we’re going to give that little bugger a workout in the next few days. But being a spendthrift is going to take some getting used to. I’ve never paid that much for a hotel room in my life.

As he runs our card through the machine, there’s a long uncomfortable silence.

“Excuse me,” I say. “How do you pronounce your name?”

He eyeballs me for a moment, then he says, “Hi-Meh.”

“Oh, like the Jewish pronunciation?”

“Not really, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t call you Jamie.”

There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Me, too.”

We leave our van in the handicapped space. Jaime gets our overnight bags (packed special for when we stay in hotels) and takes us on up to our room. I’m pleased. It’s done in shades of gold and beige, all looking very new. There’s a living room and a bedroom and I try not to think about all this space that we don’t need. I try not to kick myself for my extravagance. I tell myself to hell with it, stop worrying, live a little.

“That’s the minibar,” says Jaime, walking around, pointing at things. “You’ve also got a DVD player and a stereo. Over here’s the kitchenette area. There’s the coffeepot and a snack basket. All the prices are listed on that sheet.”

“This is a nice room,” says John. “Can we afford it?”

I turn to him. “Hush, John. Of course we can.” I smile at Jaime, then I look in my purse for a tip.

He holds his hand up as if to say it’s not necessary. “Enjoy your stay,” he says as he exits.

I wheel the You-Go over to the stereo, turn it on, and look for a station that doesn’t make my head hurt. I’m still craving noise to keep the thoughts at bay. I find one of those smooth saxophone stations and leave it there. Then I steer over to the minibar. “Let’s have a cocktail, John. It’ll help us to sleep.”

“All right.”

The minibar has tiny bottles of Crown Royal, but no sweet vermouth, so we have to improvise. After I pour out our drinks, I get a packet of Sweet’n Low from my purse and sprinkle half in each drink, stir it with my finger. Some considerate soul has also filled the tiny ice cube tray so we’re all set. I don’t once look at the price sheet. Maybe being a wastrel will be easier than I thought.

John and I sit down at the little table in the living room to enjoy our cocktails. He looks around at the room and whistles. “Wow, what is this place?”

“It’s our fancy hotel room. Pretty classy, huh?”

“I’ll say,” he says as he raises his glass to me. “This is the life.”

“What’s left of it,” I say, raising my glass to meet his.

Two manhattans later, John is on the bed in the other room, in his clothes, snoring like a buzz saw. I’m hoping he won’t have another accident. I’m sitting here, thinking about putting the TV on, but I just can’t seem to get myself to do it. My head is swimming, maybe low blood sugar, but most likely booze and pills. I finally understand that expression feeling no pain. That’s okay. That’s how we dope fiends operate.

 

I wake up with my husband for the second morning in a row. Instead of sleeping in the comfy chair, as I would normally do, at the last moment I wheeled myself into the bedroom to sleep with John. There are no bladder accidents as far as I can see or feel or smell, and when I open my eyes after a few furtive hours of what might be called sleep, but is really more like switching through a thousand different channels of cable TV all of which are devoted to moments in one’s life, I am rewarded.

“Good morning, Ella,” says John to me, his eyes clear and glistening.

“Hi, John.”

“You sleep good?” He plucks his glasses from the nightstand and puts them on.

“Not really. How about you?”

“I slept like a rock. I feel swell.”

“I’m glad.”

He looks around the room, eyes wide. “Jeez, the place looks great. You clean up?”

I’m amazed. For once in John’s mind, home isn’t some run-down trailer park or crummy motor lodge. Finally, home is a four-star hotel. That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.

“Yes, I did clean up,” I say, touching his cheek. “John, do you remember when we went to Lake George in New York?”

“Did the kids go along?”

“Not that time. Cindy was married by then and Kevin was old enough to stay home alone. We went on our own.”

John grins. “I remember one thing about Lake George. We had the room with the hot tub? And we skinny-dipped.”

I smile, too. “We were both a lot skinnier then.”

John looks in my eyes. The old John looks in my eyes, cocks his head, then he kisses me. He kisses me harder than I can remember him kissing me for a long time. We kiss like a man and woman kiss, not like two old people who call each other Mom and Dad. But when he kisses me, there is a sourness to his mouth that makes my stomach flutter and rotate and I can feel the booze from last night churning, along with all the dope, wrenching those bites of hamburger from my guts up into my throat. Up it comes, a brief gusher of acid. Not much really, but it burns like hell. I pull myself from John just in time to vomit on the floor next to the bed.

“Ella. What’s wrong?” says John.

I have to wait to turn back to him, just to make sure that I don’t have another geyser coming. I am panting now, trying not to do it too loudly, so as not to alarm John. I’m not doing a very good job.

“Ella!” He gets up to go to the bathroom. “I’m going to get you a glass of water.” After a breath, I turn around to watch where he goes. He finds the bathroom right away, no problem. I suppose if you think a place is home, you probably know where the bathroom is. He comes back with a glass of water.

“Drink this. See if it makes you feel any better.”

“Is it cold?”

“Lukewarm. It’s okay. Drink it.”

I drink the warm water. At first, I think I’m going to puke it back up, but it stays down. The nausea passes.

“Feel better?”

I nod. I like having him be so concerned and worried about me like this. It’s been so long since he’s taken care of me and not the other way around.

“What do you think made you sick?”

“Just last night’s dinner,” I say. “I guess it upset my stomach.”

He doesn’t remember last night or what we ate or anything about it. He lies down next to me again and we don’t speak for a few minutes.

Still a bit shaky, I get up, fill the ice bucket with warm water, grab the little spray can of Lysol I carry in my overnight bag, gather our remaining towels, and try to clean up my mess.

 

Though I could’ve easily stayed in that beautiful hotel another day, I knew that we needed to keep going. I called the front desk to get help with our bags. Checkout was at 11:00 A.M., but I laid on the old lady charm (“Oh, I’m so sorry. We just plain forgot. It happens when you get to our age.”) and got us out of there without paying for another night. I was tempted to tell them to use a little something extra on the carpeting next to the bed, but I decided we should just get while the getting was good.

We reconnect with 66 in Flagstaff’s “Historic Railroad District.” Before long, it turns into the frontage road for the freeway. Last night, I was frantic about getting to Disneyland, thinking that we should take the fast road all the way, but today I’ve decided that we’ll be all right, at least for a while. I’m feeling better after some sleep, such as it was. We won’t be visiting the Grand Canyon, though, I’m afraid.

So instead of turning right on Highway 64, which would take us to the canyon, we turn left for a quick jaunt though the town of Williams, just for old times’ sake. It’s a bit down at the heels these days, but I’m happy to see that Rod’s Steak House is still around. We stopped for a steak there once on our way to the canyon. Their jumbo brown-and-white steer statue is still on the sidewalk in front. That’s their trademark. Even their menus are shaped like a big cow. Mentally, I add this to the list of giants that have revealed themselves to us here on the Mother Road.

 

About twenty miles down the road, we pass through a small town called Ash Fork, where I see—ta-dah!—a restaurant called the Route 66 Diner. We also spot a beauty salon called Desoto’s with an old purple-and-white car on the roof. Why it’s there, I do not know. Mostly we see long sunbaked lots filled with cut stone. We pass acre upon dusty acre of it—textured fieldstone, bleached fawn and silver, rough-hewn and chiseled flat. It’s piled on skids, on the ground, even stacked vertically, its irregular shapes jutting upward like the skyline of a dozen cities crushed together. One of my books says that Ash Fork holds the dubious title of “Flagstone Capital of the World.” One lot has nothing but huge, oversized steles. Two huge blank slabs in particular catch the glare of the sun, almost absorbing it, but not quite. The brightness is too much for my eyes, even with my sungoggles. I have to turn away.

John is quiet and I am thankful for it. I pick up the cellular phone and dial Kevin’s number. He should be just getting home from work by this time.

“Hello?”

“Kevin. It’s your mother.”

“Mom. Thank God. Are you okay?”

He sounds so worried. I feel a jolt of guilt for making him suffer like this, but there’s no choice. “We’re fine, honey,” I say, putting on an extra-cheery voice. “Everything’s great.”

God, am I a big fat liar.

Kevin’s voice, usually a solid baritone, rises as he speaks. “Mom, Dr. Tomaszewski thinks you should come home immediately.”

“Oh, does he?” I say. “Well, tell Dr. Tom to mind his own damn business.”

“Mom, please,” says Kevin, frantically. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Kevin, I am tired of doing what everyone else thinks I should do.”

Kevin takes a long breath. “Dr. Tom says if you don’t come home, you’re not going to last—”

“Damn it, Kevin, stop it.” I’m screeching into the phone by this time. I did not call to get all upset. I take a breath myself, try to calm down. “Honey, this vacation is a good thing, it really is. We’re having a real nice time.”

“No, you guys are coming home. I mean it.”

I’m surprised to hear this attitude from Kevin. He’s usually not this way, especially with me. “No, Kevin. And I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“I don’t care. We spoke to the State Police.”

I am not pleased with my son. “Kevin Charles Robina, why would you go and do something like that?”

“We didn’t know what else to do, Mom. That’s why.”

I can’t see it, but I know he’s got that mad, pouty look that he gets on his face when he defies me.

“Well, there’s nothing they can do,” I say brightly. “We haven’t broken any laws. Your father has a legal driver’s license.”

Kevin says nothing. The police probably said the same thing to him. Being old is not against the law. Not yet, at least.

“Mom, we tracked your credit card. I know approximately where you are. I’m coming to get you guys.”

“Don’t you dare, Kevin. I mean it.” I say this with all the maternal authority I can muster. “Now I want you to stop worrying. We’re both just fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I can hear his voice starting to crack. He’s trying to be strong. John would always tell Kevin not to cry, not to be a big baby, but he couldn’t help it. I would always say, Stop yelling at him, John. He can’t help it. He’s just sensitive.

“Sweetie, it doesn’t matter if you believe me or not.”

“If you come back, Mom, maybe you can get better.” His voice is quivering and damp with tears now, a voice that’s all too familiar to me.

“Dear,” I say, suddenly exhausted, “now you’re talking crazy.”

The line cracks and I almost think I’m going to lose the connection, but then it comes back.

John turns to me. “Who are you talking to?”

“I’m talking to Kevin, our son.”

“Hi, Kevin!” yells John, suddenly jolly. I hold the phone to John’s ear. “How’s my big boy?” he says. John listens for a second, then smiles. “Aw, we’re fine. Talk to Mom.”

“We have to go, Kevin,” I say, once I’m back on the line. “Tell your sister we called.”

A long pause. I hear my son blow his nose.

“Will you do that?” I ask.

Another pause. “Yes, Mom.”

He says something else, but I can’t make it out. His voice sounds far away. “We love you both,” I say. “Remember that.”

“Mom? I can’t hear you.”

“Kevin? Kevin? Are you there?” I pull the phone away from my ear, try to find a volume button on it. When I look at the dial, it says:

SIGNAL FADED

Well, I didn’t need all this.

I think about something that happened when Kevin was over at the house a few years back, putting the storm window in the front door. He accidentally cut himself on the door hinge. It wasn’t rusty, thank God, but it was sharp. He walked into the kitchen, blood dripping from his finger. As soon as I saw what happened, I jumped up and fetched a Band-Aid for him. I put a dab of antibiotic ointment on it then wrapped the Band-Aid around his finger, making it just tight enough. Then I squeezed his finger and, without thinking, gave it a little kiss. That’ll make it better, I said. Then I looked up and saw a forty-four-year-old man. It had been decades since something like that had occurred between us, yet nothing had ever felt so familiar.

These are the things that squeeze the breath out of me when I remember them. Just when I start to think I’ll be okay with what’s happening, something like this pulls everything apart, leaves me shattered.

 

We are both quiet for a while after the call. I try very hard to think about something else. “John, there’s a place in Seligman that’s supposed to have good chicken. How does that sound to you?”

“Nah.”

I sigh. “They’ve got hamburgers, too.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Good Lord. I don’t know why I even bother. I’ve had so many hamburgers this trip, I’m about to start mooing.

When we reach Seligman, it looks to be yet another depressed little burg, then we get to Delgadillo’s Snow Cap Drive-In. I read that it was supposed to be different, but I’m not quite prepared for how different it is.

“What the hell kind of crazy place is this?” says John.

“It’s supposed to be fun,” I say, but he’s right, it looks crazy. Painted red and orange and blue and yellow, the place is cluttered with mismatched furniture, old gas pumps, banners, even an outhouse. An ancient flivver is parked next to the door, decorated with claxon horns, flags, plastic flowers, and twinkle lights. There are signs all over the place.

 

DEAD CHICKEN

CHEESEBURGERS WITH CHEESE

EAT HERE AND GET GAS

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

SORRY WE’RE OPEN

 

I consider forgetting the whole thing, but there’s a tour bus parked in front of the place, so how bad can it be? Besides, we need a break. Maybe it’ll be fun.

Inside, it isn’t any less crazy. After getting laughed at by all the tour bus people on the patio for trying to get in through a door with a fake doorknob (John was not pleased), I wheel us into a room where the walls and ceiling are covered with calling cards, notes, postcards, and foreign money. It didn’t look as clean as I would like, but maybe it was just all the stuff hanging there.

Behind the counter is a tanned man in his fifties, all eyebrows and teeth and brilliantined hair, smiling like he can’t wait to talk to us. “LOOK!” he yells, then throws a candy bar on the counter.

John and I both look. LOOK is the name of the candy bar. I summon a polite smile. I hear laughing from the people in line behind us.

“What the hell is this place?” says John, in a tone that is not courteous.

It doesn’t faze the counterman, whose laugh is somewhere between a yelp and a bark. “Our special today is chicken!” he says, swinging a big rubber hen.

“Don’t wave that goddamn thing at me,” says John.

I see the uneasiness in the face of the man behind the counter.

“John,” I say, trying to smooth things out. “He’s only joking. I think they do that here.”

“This isn’t McDonald’s,” hisses John. I watch the redness spread across his forehead, down his cheeks. His upper lip twitches.

“Calm down, John.” I avoid the stares of the folks behind us, a family with a little girl.

But he’s riled up. “What the fuck kind of place did you take me to?” he roars, slamming his hand on the counter, palm down. The candy bar trembles.

The counterman is not smiling anymore. He looks shocked and scared. “Sir, you’re going to have to leave.”

“You shove it up your ass!” bellows John.

I grab John’s arm and pull him toward the door. “I’m sorry,” I say to the counterman. “He’s not well.” But there’s no sympathy in the man’s face, only hurt and anger. It looks like he could cry. We’re making everyone cry today. John and Ella just out there spreading joy, that’s us.

John just stares at him, then steers his death ray at me. Fast as I can roll, I push past the little girl, who is about seven, with short sandy hair, big ash-colored eyes, and a barrette with a cartoon cat head on it. Biting her lip, she looks at me pleadingly, not sure what’s just happened.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, honey,” I say, trying to smile at her. She runs forward and pulls open the door for us. I touch her tender arm for a moment and keep moving. Out on the patio, the tour bus people are laughing, oblivious to the scandal that just occurred inside. I whisper to John, “We’ll go somewhere else for lunch.”

“Goddamn right we will,” he snarls.

In the van, John is still muttering. I don’t say anything. I’m scared of him right now. I bury my head in one of my guidebooks. I read about the stretch of 66 ahead, from McConnico to Topock, leading to California. By all accounts, it’s the most authentic part of old 66 left—long stretches of isolated desert, ghost towns, roaming packs of hungry wild burros, loose gravel on the shoulders, and winding switchback canyon roads.

I direct us onto the interstate.