| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder 7 February 1980
Today was sunshine and blue skies. Beautiful. It was the first nice day the new kids have
seen. They must have revised their opinion of life.
We drove into town. A short way from the ranch, a twenty ton boulder lay on the dirt
road, nearly blocking it. We took a snapshot and went on. We did our laundry and some
shopping.
Today was sunshine and blue skies. Beautiful. It was the first nice day the new kids have
seen. They must have revised their opinion of life.
We drove into town. A short way from the ranch, a twenty ton boulder lay on the dirt
road, nearly blocking it. We took a snapshot and went on. We did our laundry and some
shopping.
| Chapter Twenty-two TOUGH TOES |
Vikor closed his eyes in silent embarrassment. Thoughts of his family unnerved him. They were the only
things that could. He was cool as ice in situations that might put others into the shakes. But, for instance, when
he visualized his grandfather, recalling the tales told by his mother, he sometimes would blush for the older
man's foolishness.
Moreover, he was confused. Vikor's own life was so hell-bent violent that he did not have the time to sort out
what was truth and what was imagination, as regarded his own genealogy. Coming, as it did, from two separate
sources, one real, and one running on automatic from its conception in a liquory haze of barn dust and old
typewriter ribbon, he was not sure that he could refine his memories with any logic or accuracy. It was easier to
deal with his own unique present, easier to aim his analytical side at the current near future, which was insistent
enough with its demands.
But the other side of Vikor, his right-brain side, if you will, did not engage in any such shuttered focus.
Midway through the looting of Gail Henderson's home, he could and did find himself speculating again on the wild
swarm of uncoordinated tales about his progenitors.
He sat with a wary look about, a look that depended on more than vision, more than all the five senses, in
fact, a look that drew on instincts bred, rehearsed and dependent on the smooth harmony of both sides of his
brain, and both sides of his reality regardless of how it fractured, right and left, real and unreal, or hunter and
hunted, and the look told him that it was safe, for a spell, to sink into reverish daze.
With a commandeered briefcase filled with money and Krugerrands, Vikor settled onto a soft carpet with a view
through the glass at the cloistered back yard that had, for it's north and west walls, nothing but the sheer drop
into Mission Valley. What peril, he idly chided himself, as he slid into his dream confident that, should danger
break, he could be through the door and over the edge into the deep north slope chaparral in a smooth instant.
Now, almost everyone has two grandfathers. Vikor, in theory, had four, but he was unconcerned about two of
them, the father of Selabjun Kirkhaz, as well as the unknown sire of Diana's equally unknown mate. (Perhaps
non-existent would have been the more accurate appellation, but even smug Vikor was a trace shy to claim virgin
birth.)
Vikor was intensely interested in the other two, the fathers, respectively, of each of his mothers, Cat One
Dolan (certainly she never changed her name again), and Diana Stream Gallagher (who never had a chance to
change either of her illegitimate appellations). That both of these gentlemen were named Johnny was like a joke
to Vikor. Neither of them attracted much pride from their mutual grandson.
It was sad. Vikor thought so. Each man, so inadequate in his own way, might have been complemented by the
undeniable strengths of the other. If only they could have been merged in one human being… perhaps for Cat
One they were, at the loss, maybe, of her own wholeness, or oneness.
If only they could have been merged in one, there might have been a what? A role model? A paragon of male
virtue, honest and hard working and stable (Johnny Dolan's contribution), as well as wild and adventurous and
unique (imaginary half-breed).
things that could. He was cool as ice in situations that might put others into the shakes. But, for instance, when
he visualized his grandfather, recalling the tales told by his mother, he sometimes would blush for the older
man's foolishness.
Moreover, he was confused. Vikor's own life was so hell-bent violent that he did not have the time to sort out
what was truth and what was imagination, as regarded his own genealogy. Coming, as it did, from two separate
sources, one real, and one running on automatic from its conception in a liquory haze of barn dust and old
typewriter ribbon, he was not sure that he could refine his memories with any logic or accuracy. It was easier to
deal with his own unique present, easier to aim his analytical side at the current near future, which was insistent
enough with its demands.
But the other side of Vikor, his right-brain side, if you will, did not engage in any such shuttered focus.
Midway through the looting of Gail Henderson's home, he could and did find himself speculating again on the wild
swarm of uncoordinated tales about his progenitors.
He sat with a wary look about, a look that depended on more than vision, more than all the five senses, in
fact, a look that drew on instincts bred, rehearsed and dependent on the smooth harmony of both sides of his
brain, and both sides of his reality regardless of how it fractured, right and left, real and unreal, or hunter and
hunted, and the look told him that it was safe, for a spell, to sink into reverish daze.
With a commandeered briefcase filled with money and Krugerrands, Vikor settled onto a soft carpet with a view
through the glass at the cloistered back yard that had, for it's north and west walls, nothing but the sheer drop
into Mission Valley. What peril, he idly chided himself, as he slid into his dream confident that, should danger
break, he could be through the door and over the edge into the deep north slope chaparral in a smooth instant.
Now, almost everyone has two grandfathers. Vikor, in theory, had four, but he was unconcerned about two of
them, the father of Selabjun Kirkhaz, as well as the unknown sire of Diana's equally unknown mate. (Perhaps
non-existent would have been the more accurate appellation, but even smug Vikor was a trace shy to claim virgin
birth.)
Vikor was intensely interested in the other two, the fathers, respectively, of each of his mothers, Cat One
Dolan (certainly she never changed her name again), and Diana Stream Gallagher (who never had a chance to
change either of her illegitimate appellations). That both of these gentlemen were named Johnny was like a joke
to Vikor. Neither of them attracted much pride from their mutual grandson.
It was sad. Vikor thought so. Each man, so inadequate in his own way, might have been complemented by the
undeniable strengths of the other. If only they could have been merged in one human being… perhaps for Cat
One they were, at the loss, maybe, of her own wholeness, or oneness.
If only they could have been merged in one, there might have been a what? A role model? A paragon of male
virtue, honest and hard working and stable (Johnny Dolan's contribution), as well as wild and adventurous and
unique (imaginary half-breed).
| * * * |
All four of the Wilsons were fat. Mama and Papa were stupid. The two sons were imbeciles. They lived in a
sleazy, cheap-grease grandeur on money from the government. They had come to the street to buy and to eat the
cheap starch and fat that had been raised on government subsidies. They dripped like overripe blackberries on an
unpicked bush.
Vikor watched as they bought and ate first donuts at the all night shop, then ice cream at the creamery. It
wasn't their gross qualities that had attracted him. He didn't like to be the judge of things like that, but these
people seemed unfit, unfit to survive, unfit to be seen, and unfit to be a part of the world that boasts the gazelle.
Even the hippo has a certain grace that these dumb gluttons had not. Even a walrus spread plump on an ice flow
has dignity and bearing. He knows what a vital torpedo he can become in a flash.
Their wrists were fat. Their heels were fat. Buttons burst on the bellies of the babies, the six-foot tall babies
who drooled and gobbled sweet fried dough and frozen secretions like pigs at a trough.
Vikor didn't know the trough was public. He tried to imagine what Jumbo did for a living. Truck driver? Office
manager? Were he and Missus Jumbo fat hogs when they conceived the younger Jumbos? Such a romance it
must have been. If grease can sizzle, you must have been able to hear them pop from the next room.
Vikor zeroed in on them not because they were ugly, fat parasites. He did not seek to punish them for taking
more than their share. He did not yearn to reeducate them so that they might be more productive. He did not
want to save them.
He had merely noticed that Jumbo, who wore about his neck a gold chain, was paying for sundaes and fritters
from a ponderous roll of cash. What a life, eh?
Jumbo Wilson had more things going for him than just the family welfare check. He had social security
checks for each of the kids, and for himself and Tilda too. They were disabled by the trauma of having scrambled
genetic monsters for children. Not only that, but Jumbo was smart enough to use a decent chunk of his total
entitlements as seed money to buy drugs in bulk, drugs like cocaine, which later in the month he turned at a
profit. By the end of the month, the money was all gone, and the government checks showed up again.
What a life, eh? Vikor didn't know any of that either. He could see that Tilda and Jumbo loved the big fat
tykes they had created. Tilda would spoon the ice cream into the fawning mouth of Benjo or Gravy. They in turn
would take their turns with the spoons, so they would get ice cream all over themselves.
They went back for more, and Jumbo paid again, flashing the roll that made Vikor's nostrils flare, and his
mane bristle. He followed them to the inevitable parking structure, another of the network of space warp,
morlock environments that connect us with the highway. The family trudged like ducks in a row, Jumbo bringing
up the rear to protect the brood.
It was all over in a flash for him, the silent rush from behind, the hair seized, the head pulled back, the sharp,
merciless steel cutting first skin, then fat, then muscle, then veins and gullet and arteries and windpipe, all in
one slash of pain and loss and fear and relaxation and release. What a life, eh?
He could have stopped there. The other three hadn't even noticed. They waddled on, and he sliced them one by
one, and he could have stopped any time. A little madness, a little kindness, makes for happiness. Isn't that how
the saying goes? The blood of each of the Wilsons flowed down the ramp and joined, mother to son to brother to
father, becoming eventually a scarlet ribbon a hundred feet in length, and more, that flowed past fallen Jumbo
and disappeared into the mercury darkness.
By then Vikor had sprinted down the scarlet trail, stooped to recover the green roll from the black man, and
once again he vanished in the deep, deep blue.
Actually he went back to his hotel room. He was sure no one had seen him. In seconds he was out of the world
of shadows and cars and dead bodies, and back in the mall. He had emerged spotless (it was so easy), and he
walked with the calm poise of a serious and responsible citizen in the world of lights and live people. He went back
to his hotel room and counted the money.
He remembered good ol' Jack Bush. It's just amazing what some people will carry around with them on the
streets of America. This time there were fifty-three of the crisp hundreds. Along with the handful of twenties, it
added up to five thousand five hundred and fifty dollars.
Added in with the earlier loot, and minus some incidental expenditure, it left Vikor with better than sixty-six
hundred bucks to take away with him from Birmingham. He got on that train and he rolled out and away, first to
Albuquerque, and then on toward home, by air.
sleazy, cheap-grease grandeur on money from the government. They had come to the street to buy and to eat the
cheap starch and fat that had been raised on government subsidies. They dripped like overripe blackberries on an
unpicked bush.
Vikor watched as they bought and ate first donuts at the all night shop, then ice cream at the creamery. It
wasn't their gross qualities that had attracted him. He didn't like to be the judge of things like that, but these
people seemed unfit, unfit to survive, unfit to be seen, and unfit to be a part of the world that boasts the gazelle.
Even the hippo has a certain grace that these dumb gluttons had not. Even a walrus spread plump on an ice flow
has dignity and bearing. He knows what a vital torpedo he can become in a flash.
Their wrists were fat. Their heels were fat. Buttons burst on the bellies of the babies, the six-foot tall babies
who drooled and gobbled sweet fried dough and frozen secretions like pigs at a trough.
Vikor didn't know the trough was public. He tried to imagine what Jumbo did for a living. Truck driver? Office
manager? Were he and Missus Jumbo fat hogs when they conceived the younger Jumbos? Such a romance it
must have been. If grease can sizzle, you must have been able to hear them pop from the next room.
Vikor zeroed in on them not because they were ugly, fat parasites. He did not seek to punish them for taking
more than their share. He did not yearn to reeducate them so that they might be more productive. He did not
want to save them.
He had merely noticed that Jumbo, who wore about his neck a gold chain, was paying for sundaes and fritters
from a ponderous roll of cash. What a life, eh?
Jumbo Wilson had more things going for him than just the family welfare check. He had social security
checks for each of the kids, and for himself and Tilda too. They were disabled by the trauma of having scrambled
genetic monsters for children. Not only that, but Jumbo was smart enough to use a decent chunk of his total
entitlements as seed money to buy drugs in bulk, drugs like cocaine, which later in the month he turned at a
profit. By the end of the month, the money was all gone, and the government checks showed up again.
What a life, eh? Vikor didn't know any of that either. He could see that Tilda and Jumbo loved the big fat
tykes they had created. Tilda would spoon the ice cream into the fawning mouth of Benjo or Gravy. They in turn
would take their turns with the spoons, so they would get ice cream all over themselves.
They went back for more, and Jumbo paid again, flashing the roll that made Vikor's nostrils flare, and his
mane bristle. He followed them to the inevitable parking structure, another of the network of space warp,
morlock environments that connect us with the highway. The family trudged like ducks in a row, Jumbo bringing
up the rear to protect the brood.
It was all over in a flash for him, the silent rush from behind, the hair seized, the head pulled back, the sharp,
merciless steel cutting first skin, then fat, then muscle, then veins and gullet and arteries and windpipe, all in
one slash of pain and loss and fear and relaxation and release. What a life, eh?
He could have stopped there. The other three hadn't even noticed. They waddled on, and he sliced them one by
one, and he could have stopped any time. A little madness, a little kindness, makes for happiness. Isn't that how
the saying goes? The blood of each of the Wilsons flowed down the ramp and joined, mother to son to brother to
father, becoming eventually a scarlet ribbon a hundred feet in length, and more, that flowed past fallen Jumbo
and disappeared into the mercury darkness.
By then Vikor had sprinted down the scarlet trail, stooped to recover the green roll from the black man, and
once again he vanished in the deep, deep blue.
Actually he went back to his hotel room. He was sure no one had seen him. In seconds he was out of the world
of shadows and cars and dead bodies, and back in the mall. He had emerged spotless (it was so easy), and he
walked with the calm poise of a serious and responsible citizen in the world of lights and live people. He went back
to his hotel room and counted the money.
He remembered good ol' Jack Bush. It's just amazing what some people will carry around with them on the
streets of America. This time there were fifty-three of the crisp hundreds. Along with the handful of twenties, it
added up to five thousand five hundred and fifty dollars.
Added in with the earlier loot, and minus some incidental expenditure, it left Vikor with better than sixty-six
hundred bucks to take away with him from Birmingham. He got on that train and he rolled out and away, first to
Albuquerque, and then on toward home, by air.
| * * * |
Like a lot of surfers, Joe Kelly stayed barefoot a good part of the time himself. Not at work, for sure; he wore
boots at the station. But the rest of the time he was as apt to have his brown feet out in the air as not. They were
tough on the bottoms, and he was vaguely proud of that. But he knew better than to go without shoes in
rattlesnake land.
Diana did not know better. Even the winter in Southern California was not enough to drive her into shoes. Her
feet were tough and beautiful.
They were not invulnerable. Now and then a rock or a thorn, or worse a cactus spine, would find its way
through the leathery pads and send a message of pain to her brain. From childhood, each such injury had led to
increased toughness, as well as greater sensitivity. Once she abandoned school, she abandoned shoes as well.
She took tough toes, heels and soles for granted, but for the life that she led she consciously valued the
awareness, that flowed to her through her pretty little paws. To wrap them now in canvas or leather would be, as
she had implied, the equivalent of muffling her hearing or her vision. In the dark, in deep brush, on every kind
of terrain, her feet told her worlds about her environment, and especially about her own path.
Most of the time, the messages that she received from her lower extremities were a tantalizing mix of
pleasure and information. Tender feet on the rough ground cannot give their owner reports of anything but
discomfort and outright pain. For soft pinkies, reared only in stockings and socks, the backcountry ground was
unloving and rough, a constant torture of rocks and hard clay, hot sand, insects, and endless varieties of twigs and
thorns, stiff stubble and poison barbs.
It was all relative, like the rest of creation. For Diana, whose feet had grown used to the land, a walk was a
symphony of tactile pleasures. Each step on the land that she loved was subtly different, familiar yet exciting. At
night it was like she could see in the dark, so clearly did the trail speak to her of its nature. It told her where she
was.
At times she wondered how other hikers (sometimes she espied them from afar) could be content to walk
through such magical beauty with feet encased, cocooned in a swaddle of cloth and leather, numb to the kiss of
the tiny flowers, the caress of the dried grass, the lush feel of greenery, the texture of the soil, the warmth of the
sun and the swish of the breeze, the tease of rocks and the glory of sand.
Of her five senses, touch was one. She knew from instinct and habit that to shun this awareness in favor of
comfort would be her loss, and it was not a loss that she cared to afford. It wasn't only her feet that kept her in
touch with her world. As she passed through the scratchy chaparral she would continually feel, with her fingers
and arms, the various sensations available from the surrounding vegetation. From years of this, the skin on her
arms and her fingers had achieved its own tough sensitivity. On a path where others might curse the brush, the
harsh scrub oak, the holly and chamise that constantly reached and tore at the passerby with sharp claws of dry
leaves, needle-sharp scallops, pointy twigs, bark, the grass with its foxtails and pollen, and the poison oak, Diana
experienced it all like a stimulating massage of her senses. Even her legs, which were bare in all but the coldest
times, would wade through the thrash of scraping brush with chills of pleasure, sustaining no more than faint,
shallow abrasions which disappeared in moments and left her skin as smooth and supple and unscarred as a doe's
nose.
More than that, she constantly tasted her world as she moved slowly through the canyons and the ravines, as
she crossed the green and golden hills. Everything went into her mouth, absently, in small nibbles. She smelled it;
she tasted it; she knew the bitter from the sweet. Like Jesus in the barley, she would pull half-ripe grain from its
stalks, threshing it in her fingers and chewing the sweet, fresh starch.
Diana could move with considerable speed through her rustic territory. She could vanish in an instant like a
deer, disappearing into the scenery without a second spared or granted. But usually she moved slowly. Her steps
were not thumps. It was more like she reached out and seized the surface of the world with her toes in a gentle
grip that pulled her across the ground, that pulled the earth to her with unforced grace. In tall brush she could be
enveloped yet free to move, knowing the trail, knowing how the tall bushes would part like water before the prow,
as she eased her invisible way.
Other times she would be on all fours, hands reaching intrepidly into the dead leaves and earth, scuttling with
the skill of a wood rat through the maze of tunnel-trails that laced the wild chaparral.
boots at the station. But the rest of the time he was as apt to have his brown feet out in the air as not. They were
tough on the bottoms, and he was vaguely proud of that. But he knew better than to go without shoes in
rattlesnake land.
Diana did not know better. Even the winter in Southern California was not enough to drive her into shoes. Her
feet were tough and beautiful.
They were not invulnerable. Now and then a rock or a thorn, or worse a cactus spine, would find its way
through the leathery pads and send a message of pain to her brain. From childhood, each such injury had led to
increased toughness, as well as greater sensitivity. Once she abandoned school, she abandoned shoes as well.
She took tough toes, heels and soles for granted, but for the life that she led she consciously valued the
awareness, that flowed to her through her pretty little paws. To wrap them now in canvas or leather would be, as
she had implied, the equivalent of muffling her hearing or her vision. In the dark, in deep brush, on every kind
of terrain, her feet told her worlds about her environment, and especially about her own path.
Most of the time, the messages that she received from her lower extremities were a tantalizing mix of
pleasure and information. Tender feet on the rough ground cannot give their owner reports of anything but
discomfort and outright pain. For soft pinkies, reared only in stockings and socks, the backcountry ground was
unloving and rough, a constant torture of rocks and hard clay, hot sand, insects, and endless varieties of twigs and
thorns, stiff stubble and poison barbs.
It was all relative, like the rest of creation. For Diana, whose feet had grown used to the land, a walk was a
symphony of tactile pleasures. Each step on the land that she loved was subtly different, familiar yet exciting. At
night it was like she could see in the dark, so clearly did the trail speak to her of its nature. It told her where she
was.
At times she wondered how other hikers (sometimes she espied them from afar) could be content to walk
through such magical beauty with feet encased, cocooned in a swaddle of cloth and leather, numb to the kiss of
the tiny flowers, the caress of the dried grass, the lush feel of greenery, the texture of the soil, the warmth of the
sun and the swish of the breeze, the tease of rocks and the glory of sand.
Of her five senses, touch was one. She knew from instinct and habit that to shun this awareness in favor of
comfort would be her loss, and it was not a loss that she cared to afford. It wasn't only her feet that kept her in
touch with her world. As she passed through the scratchy chaparral she would continually feel, with her fingers
and arms, the various sensations available from the surrounding vegetation. From years of this, the skin on her
arms and her fingers had achieved its own tough sensitivity. On a path where others might curse the brush, the
harsh scrub oak, the holly and chamise that constantly reached and tore at the passerby with sharp claws of dry
leaves, needle-sharp scallops, pointy twigs, bark, the grass with its foxtails and pollen, and the poison oak, Diana
experienced it all like a stimulating massage of her senses. Even her legs, which were bare in all but the coldest
times, would wade through the thrash of scraping brush with chills of pleasure, sustaining no more than faint,
shallow abrasions which disappeared in moments and left her skin as smooth and supple and unscarred as a doe's
nose.
More than that, she constantly tasted her world as she moved slowly through the canyons and the ravines, as
she crossed the green and golden hills. Everything went into her mouth, absently, in small nibbles. She smelled it;
she tasted it; she knew the bitter from the sweet. Like Jesus in the barley, she would pull half-ripe grain from its
stalks, threshing it in her fingers and chewing the sweet, fresh starch.
Diana could move with considerable speed through her rustic territory. She could vanish in an instant like a
deer, disappearing into the scenery without a second spared or granted. But usually she moved slowly. Her steps
were not thumps. It was more like she reached out and seized the surface of the world with her toes in a gentle
grip that pulled her across the ground, that pulled the earth to her with unforced grace. In tall brush she could be
enveloped yet free to move, knowing the trail, knowing how the tall bushes would part like water before the prow,
as she eased her invisible way.
Other times she would be on all fours, hands reaching intrepidly into the dead leaves and earth, scuttling with
the skill of a wood rat through the maze of tunnel-trails that laced the wild chaparral.
| * * * |
A description of Ming's personality would be difficult. He made no attempt to continue with cheese production,
letting the goats dry up instead. He didn't consume dairy products himself.
But he ended up spending a month alone at the ranch with the goats while Johnny recuperated from his GSW
down on the coast. It was a time, Ming said, that he would value forever. After he left, Johnny received one letter
from him. It was addressed to Johnny and Dolly Malone. Dolly was one of the goats. One very special and lovable.
Among goat herders and their friends, there is a continuing joking reference to bestiality. No one ever knows
for sure who's kidding, and the goats can't talk.
Two years later, Johnny was on a train going north, the train called the "Coast Starlight". His destination was
San Luis Obispo. It was early September. The golden hills rolled by as Southern California merged imperceptibly
into the central coast. At Santa Barbara, the Coast Starlight stopped for a moment. It was one o'clock in the
afternoon. Johnny had a seat by the window on the right side of the coach, and he found himself gazing at the
Morton Bay fig tree, the "Big Fig" that grows by the station, alongside Highway 101. Hello old tree. It spreads its
giant branches over a quarter of an acre. Its roots radiate in thick ridges two feet high. Ten years before, as a
lonesome young hitchhiker, Johnny had slept a night nestled between those roots, hiding from the police and
other rough guys. Ever since, the Big Fig had been one of his mother trees, and Johnny Malone paid his homage
to her whenever he went by.
Back then as Johnny huddled in his sleeping bag, with twenty dollars in his pocket and an old guitar, he heard
the whistle of the train. He felt the heavy rumble, his young ear pressed to the earth and the loving roots.
Back then Johnny Malone was not aware of the eyes that searched him out from deep in the comfort of the
passing train. Like a cosmic helicopter, ten years high in the altitude of time, Johnny spied on himself.
The next day, boiling with frustration, stranded with his thumb out for hours as Highway 101 sped blindly past,
Johnny was unaware of the gloating stranger across the station lot who watched him without mercy, sipping a
beer, laughing at all hitchhikers.
It took hours or days back then to catch a ride out of Santa Barbara. As the day grew, so did the competition.
A car stops where they have strung themselves out along the highway by the Oldsmobile dealership. The driver
has been telling his passengers, three young men of nineteen and twenty years, that he will deposit them at a
good spot.
"I see kids hitching there all the time," he says helpfully. "It must be a good spot."
Dear kind driver, who brought them here from L.A., where are you now, warm and full, asleep in a home?
How many hours have gone since they thanked you goodbye? They are hungry and cold. Across the road this
giant tree mocks them with a thousand arms and a million thumbs, charming a ride from every car, train or
breeze. There are too many hitchhikers here. It's getting dark. This is a place where many rides end, but few
begin. Driver, they don't choose their places to stand; you choose for them.
And you don't know.
At twilight the donut man comes. Johnny had seen him before. He wondered if he still came early every
evening with a bag of day-old donuts. He shares them with the hitch-hikers.
(This is my body.) They gather around, a communion of saints on the road. His nose is red.
(This is my blood.)
"Play us a tune," he asks Johnny, but Johnny hasn't learned to play Miss Stella yet, and she is snatched away
from him by the others. A chord, or two, floats on the spring air in Santa Barbara. The cops cruise by. Later that
night, in some fashion, they will crucify the donut man.
In the dark, another drunk comes down to the road. In Santa Barbara, the people seek out the gypsies not to
hear their fortunes told, but to tell them. The young man who found Johnny was very drunk, and he was crying.
Sniffling tears, he told the hitchhiker his fortune. But it was in the past. It was a girl named Jenny.
"I was at a party in Berkeley," he sobs, "and Jenny was there." More tears.
The three young hitchhikers move off down the way, to get away from the weirdo. They were years away, in
1967; time loops are common at favorite hitchhiking spots. Johnny was there with them.
Suddenly sober, out of earshot of the others, the drunk leans toward him and gives Johnny his own personal
fortune, delivered in a tone that says Johnny will always remember these words. "Whenever you eat or drink
anything, you are using yourself up."
The stranger on the Coast Starlight chuckles and sips his beer. The whistle blows, and the train rumbles by,
heading north to fields of artichokes.
letting the goats dry up instead. He didn't consume dairy products himself.
But he ended up spending a month alone at the ranch with the goats while Johnny recuperated from his GSW
down on the coast. It was a time, Ming said, that he would value forever. After he left, Johnny received one letter
from him. It was addressed to Johnny and Dolly Malone. Dolly was one of the goats. One very special and lovable.
Among goat herders and their friends, there is a continuing joking reference to bestiality. No one ever knows
for sure who's kidding, and the goats can't talk.
Two years later, Johnny was on a train going north, the train called the "Coast Starlight". His destination was
San Luis Obispo. It was early September. The golden hills rolled by as Southern California merged imperceptibly
into the central coast. At Santa Barbara, the Coast Starlight stopped for a moment. It was one o'clock in the
afternoon. Johnny had a seat by the window on the right side of the coach, and he found himself gazing at the
Morton Bay fig tree, the "Big Fig" that grows by the station, alongside Highway 101. Hello old tree. It spreads its
giant branches over a quarter of an acre. Its roots radiate in thick ridges two feet high. Ten years before, as a
lonesome young hitchhiker, Johnny had slept a night nestled between those roots, hiding from the police and
other rough guys. Ever since, the Big Fig had been one of his mother trees, and Johnny Malone paid his homage
to her whenever he went by.
Back then as Johnny huddled in his sleeping bag, with twenty dollars in his pocket and an old guitar, he heard
the whistle of the train. He felt the heavy rumble, his young ear pressed to the earth and the loving roots.
Back then Johnny Malone was not aware of the eyes that searched him out from deep in the comfort of the
passing train. Like a cosmic helicopter, ten years high in the altitude of time, Johnny spied on himself.
The next day, boiling with frustration, stranded with his thumb out for hours as Highway 101 sped blindly past,
Johnny was unaware of the gloating stranger across the station lot who watched him without mercy, sipping a
beer, laughing at all hitchhikers.
It took hours or days back then to catch a ride out of Santa Barbara. As the day grew, so did the competition.
A car stops where they have strung themselves out along the highway by the Oldsmobile dealership. The driver
has been telling his passengers, three young men of nineteen and twenty years, that he will deposit them at a
good spot.
"I see kids hitching there all the time," he says helpfully. "It must be a good spot."
Dear kind driver, who brought them here from L.A., where are you now, warm and full, asleep in a home?
How many hours have gone since they thanked you goodbye? They are hungry and cold. Across the road this
giant tree mocks them with a thousand arms and a million thumbs, charming a ride from every car, train or
breeze. There are too many hitchhikers here. It's getting dark. This is a place where many rides end, but few
begin. Driver, they don't choose their places to stand; you choose for them.
And you don't know.
At twilight the donut man comes. Johnny had seen him before. He wondered if he still came early every
evening with a bag of day-old donuts. He shares them with the hitch-hikers.
(This is my body.) They gather around, a communion of saints on the road. His nose is red.
(This is my blood.)
"Play us a tune," he asks Johnny, but Johnny hasn't learned to play Miss Stella yet, and she is snatched away
from him by the others. A chord, or two, floats on the spring air in Santa Barbara. The cops cruise by. Later that
night, in some fashion, they will crucify the donut man.
In the dark, another drunk comes down to the road. In Santa Barbara, the people seek out the gypsies not to
hear their fortunes told, but to tell them. The young man who found Johnny was very drunk, and he was crying.
Sniffling tears, he told the hitchhiker his fortune. But it was in the past. It was a girl named Jenny.
"I was at a party in Berkeley," he sobs, "and Jenny was there." More tears.
The three young hitchhikers move off down the way, to get away from the weirdo. They were years away, in
1967; time loops are common at favorite hitchhiking spots. Johnny was there with them.
Suddenly sober, out of earshot of the others, the drunk leans toward him and gives Johnny his own personal
fortune, delivered in a tone that says Johnny will always remember these words. "Whenever you eat or drink
anything, you are using yourself up."
The stranger on the Coast Starlight chuckles and sips his beer. The whistle blows, and the train rumbles by,
heading north to fields of artichokes.
