The following narrative is not contemporary. In fact, I wrote it during my college years at UC Davis. But it certainly fits the theme of Bourbon and Bitters, since it does describe an actual event from my early childhood. I have transcribed it verbatim, even though the punctuation is somewhat haphazard. For me, it is fascinating to peer into my young adult mind from 35 years ago.
Incidentally, at the end I wanted to describe the image of a shaft of light squeezing between two objects, like the summer solstice shining between the enormous blocks of Stonehenge, in England. So, I just made up a word, "stonehenged." I was marked down for that. Oh, well. I still like it.
Down the San Joaquin: A Descriptive
Narrative of a Non-event Remembered
Narrative of a Non-event Remembered
Great orchards - peaches, oranges, walnuts - swept by the highway. Rows of trees spun like helicopter rotors past his car window, flickering. As each row came into view, he saw something past it. Something; then it was gone. A tractor, a car, a man walking (or was it a woman? too quick to tell), or maybe nothing. Just another ordered mass of trees beyond, rotating in unison with the nearest, yet slower (why always slower?).
Sitting, melting on the hot vinyl bench seat, the family station-wagon, forest green. The plastic sweated a greasy-feeling substance (why?) that refused to be wet. He folded his arms in his lap, rested his head upon them, and tried to doze. Whether he succeeded he didn't know. Be he woke up soaked in perspiration, a womb-like wetness that was, at the same time, both stagnant and comforting. Vaguely, he remembered the others talking of road signs, orange-juice stands, and blackbirds, all this while in a sleep-like stupor. They played Highway Bingo on little cards with sliding glass windows that were red. He lost, unable to find an s-curve sign.
The highway rose slightly, skirting some hills. They were naked except for the golden grasses on which herds of dairy cows grazed (didn't they get tired of standing like that all day?). Pavement mirages mouldered ahead of the car, always out of reach. He looked down at the roadway where the mirages had been (where had the puddles gone to?). His mother was doing a crossword from the Sunday paper. Her glasses were tipped down on her nose and every so often she would stare off into the distance, resting her eyes. He tried to read some of the words (m-a-n-d-a-t-e, man-date, man date, mand ate?). She gave him a scolding look, so he sat back and gazed out the window. At least the window seat was his for this portion of the ride. It lacked support on the ends yet it was better than sitting in the middle. He hated being there, his legs astride the center bump, the hard seat torturing his butt and, worse, nothing to lean on (why were car seats always like that?). But the window was his and the telephone lines sped by rhythmically. Wires crossing and recrossing, rising and falling, crossing-recrossing. They abruptly veered away from the highway and rushed off towards the horizon along an irrigation ditch between two fields. He slept.
The sign said "Freshest Peaches in the Valley - 500 ft. on right." To his surprise, the car was slowing down, pulling off the road onto the shoulder, stopping. He opened the car door and got out, pulling on his shirt-tail to unglue his back from the dampness. A zephyr spun through the parking lot, cooling the perspiration on his back like a refrigerator. He ran the back of his hand down his spine and looked at it: dripping. His shirt had a peculiar feel to it, cool, wet, dirty. He took a pre-moistened towelette from his back pocket and tore open the metal foil. It smelled good, clean and moist. He stood there and just held it unfolded over his face, enjoying. Then he cleaned his hands, his forehead, his mouth with it, and looked again. It was soiled and didn't have any more of that perfumey scent that he savoured. He folded it and put it back in its wrapper.
The fruit stand stood beneath two large oaks, the ground around it was littered with spoiled fruit, but its cement floor had just been hosed down and looked cleaner than any he had seen in the past (hadn't they cared?). A No-Pest Strip hung in either corner of the building, apparently doing nothing to get rid of the countless flies that were present. The fruit stand was a strange place: in addition to the produce there was Mexican papier-mache pottery for sale (did anyone ever buy it?). His father handed him a washed peach; it was bigger than his outstretched hand. A chill went through his body when he tried licking the fuzz. He rubbed it on his shirt and bit in. The juice trickled down his chin, into his palm, and down his forearms. He sucked up what juice he could, bit at the yellow flesh, sucked, bit again, till he came to the pit, wrinkled and red. Bits of peach clung tenaciously to it and he nibbled free each strand, that is, until his mother took it from him and gave him another towelette. He held it over his face again and walked back to the car, peering through the paper. His sister held the car door open and he got in, luxuriating in his perfumed world, imagining himself in an all-white room, air-conditioned and faintly feminine. The motor started and his sister got in, nudging him into the center. He feinted fastening his seat belt and lounged backward on the seat, face covered, imagining. After they got under way he washed himself and stuffed the used towelette into the litter bag. His ear hurt.
DIP (that was a silly sign!). The dip make his stomach feel funny, like turning somersaults. He and his sister giggled. Billboards flickered by, advertising hotels, motels, restaurants: forty miles, thirty miles, fifteen minutes, five minutes, just ahead, turn left here, a blaze of light, clusters of buildings and then, You just missed... There was a Travelodge sign with a sleeping bear in a nightshirt, holding a candle with one hand and yawning with the other. He yawned; dusk fell.
The pain woke him up. It seemed to come from inside his head, like in the television commercial (why does it hurt so much?). He whimpered, and his mother turned around. Just a little farther, dear. It's his ear, I think, said his sister. We'll give you something to make you feel better when we get to Grandma's, she said, frowning sympathetically at him and turning back around. Streetlights, neon signs and brightly lit billboards leered in at him. Minute scratches in the windshield made long-rayed stars out of approaching headlights. The rays spun as the car flew past. It ached, it ached, it ached, it ACHED.
He opened his eyes and he was in bed at Grandma's. The light show on the highway had stopped. His mother took his temperature and sat on the edge of the bed. It made him feel secure when she did that. She gave him half of a medicine capsule covered with jelly on the open end. His sister arranged his toys on the windowsill by the bed. The ceiling light was on, but it was alright since it didn't move. He watched the plastic dinosaurs on the sill. They were marching in a line: Brontosaurus, Stegosaurus, Tyrannus Rex. He knew their names and slept. He awoke the next morning feeling better. The sun coming up across the street between two houses stonehenged a gold and silver arc through his window...
February 1976
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