King of the Road

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

On the road to Vegas, Friday 6/23, Mojave desert.

I’m selfish at times. Selfish with my experiences, selfish with my life. Because when I don’t have to share my life with others, I am released. It frees me to do the things I've always wanted to do--things like being alone.

I’m not a loner by trade or some antisocial jackass. But there are some experiental times in my life where I just don’t want to be around anyone else. Driving to Vegas is one of those times.

As romantic as a rag-top trip across the open desert seems, the reality can be quite different. It is a sallow time if you are not in the right frame of mind. It is an endless expanse of dirt, rocks and Joshua trees juxtaposed by severe roadside attractions. Swingers summed up the trip to Vegas best, full steam in the beginning and a slow roll to the end. It’s true, that’s why most people fly. And that’s why I am driving.

With someone riding shotgun, I would be on their schedule as much as my own. I’d have to listen to their music, take part in their conversation and stop for a piss when they needed a piss break. Being on your own lets you turn left when you should turn right, crank up some Laura Branigan without the need to explain yourself and stop for no other reason than to look around and daydream. Driving alone let’s you be yourself, in your purest and most adventurous form.

The road between the two cities is generally a straight shot for most Angelinos in escape--the 10 E to the 15N. In between are a handful of illegitimate cities, distanced to your kidneys. So instead of keeping pace with the thousands of others on the main freeways, I decided to break from convention and take the back roads. A convertible at 80 mph gets old real fast. It is an endurance test. A test of the romantic vs. the dogmatic. A test of desert winds and desert heat. That’s why I chose another path. A slower, more recreational path to hedonism.

The desert is littered with ill-fated communities. There is the “old road” which is Route 66. When the freeway was built, the old road traffic dropped off and all the businesses became unsustainable. Their relics still stand as modern-day reminders of the fickleness of our society. As depressing as this sounds to some, it is quite the opposite for me. It is a Havana sunset.

The high desert is also meth lab central. It is home to a portable civilization. A disenfranchised group who dwell at society’s edge. They are hidden among the rocks, roadside stands and miles of dirt road. Their lives are as different from yours and mine as lives can be. They are an alien world fuelled by ephedrine.

I made my escape, armed with my desert playlist(Doors, U2, Van, Dead, etc.), plenty of water and a dog-earred map. I ended up getting caught up on Friday, so I left later in the afternoon. I cranked up the music, plugged in my radar detector (circa 1990) and got on the road to nowhere.

I drove for a few hours and stopped for a piss outside Mojave. Along the way, I had passed testing facilities, Edwards AFB and the Mojave airport, things you never see on the main road. The levels of recluse grow exponentially with every passing mile away from LA. First you see the 200K new houses, then the 100K. After an hour of driving you come upon trailer parks, run-down motels and junk yards. I got gas and started on the road again. Then I saw something that made me stop in my tracks, and completely changed my plans for Friday night.

It was a sign that read “Rooms to Let”

Maybe it was the sweet desert air or a call from the late Roger miller, but I figured, what the hell. It’s getting hot outside and I could use a break. I pulled up to an old man standing outside the wooden fence that separated dirt from more dirt. He was without a car and just had a blue suitcase with him.

“You waiting for someone?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Gotcha, are they out of rooms?”

“Nope, got plenty, I don’t need a ride, if you’re asking. Not now, anyway.”

“Ok, thanks,” I said now seeing how he misread the subtext. I got out of the car and walked toward the desk.

“If you wait a few hours, they drop their price,” he shouted at me as I was walking away.

“What’s that?” I said, less as a question and more as a response.

“They drop the prices every hour that they don’t sell the room,” he said, ”I’m waiting until 9 or so. They’re about 15 then.”

I walked back toward him.

“15 bucks for a room, I could swing that.”

I realized the irony of that statement as I looked at my dusty Porsche in the corner.

“But that’s 3 hours away, what are you doing until then?”

“Just sitting here. It’s starting to cool down. I’ve got a nice shady spot.”

“How bout I buy you a beer, what’s the place over there.”

“Bunch of fags there,” he said.

“Ah, so a gay bar? Anything else around?” I said, slightly taken back by his brashness.

“Not a gay bar, just fags. Goddamn faggots.”

Now I was reading his subtext. He obviously had a storied history with the people in that bar and expressed himself in the only way he knew, to challenge their sexuality.

“But there is a truck stop over there if you want to grab a bite,” he said pointing.

“Sure.”

So we walked in the desert splitting desert blooms and diesel fumes. We had pancakes and he shared his flask. I didn’t ask much about him, because I don’t think he wanted me to know. I was cool with that. He just told stories, and I listened. I asked him if I could get a picture with him, and he flatly responded, “no.”

After about an hour or so, we walked back to the spot. The sun was setting, not just on the day, but on my partner’s days. He was old and crotchety, but he survived where others have not. Take away the job, the road or whatever else was stolen from this guy, he still lives with Brylcream pride. For that, I thought, he deserved a break.

“I’m going in, you waiting here?” I said, walking towards the manager’s office.

“You go.”

I went to the manager’s office and got a room for two nights, $20/night. And in the strange world of desert motels, I stumbled upon a not-so-hidden discovery. They sold alcohol at the front desk, either legally or illegally. I grabbed a $20 bottle of Jack and got a key with 3b on it. I stepped inside the room and took a long, fruitful piss. I looked around the room. There was a faint smell of wet rust and pinesol. The rooms were paneled in a way that probably created a boutique feel in its heyday.

I put the bottle on the bed and walked out the door. There was Frank, just sitting there, patiently waiting to save $5.

“Hey Frank, wake up,” I said as I threw him the keys. “There’s a little something on the bed for you, too.”

He smiled, but never said thanks. By now, we were both pretty good at reading between each other’s lines.

I got in the car as the sun began to set on a mystical day and dialed the phone.

"Rob, where the fuck are you? Did you break down”

“Uh, sort of. I’ll be there in two hours or so.”

“Ok, you better because we’re getting ready for dinner now and I need to get your name on the list for later and…”

I held up to phone to the desert and hit the gas.

“Later Tracy,” I said, without waiting for a response.

I was on the road again, crossing the last bastion of sand between me and the crown jewel. I was awake, alive and ready to test out these wings.


Special thanks to the delicious Daniel for his help in the safe return of my cowboy hat.