Undun

As we talked about Jake’s trip, I was reminded of the the trip Chris and I took from Carbondale, IL to Los Angeles in the spring of 1991, so that he could meet my parents (we'd just become engaged the month before).  Chris had a 1980 Chevette (remember those, oldtimers?) and we maxed out at about 30 mph on any steep grade.  I was very anxious to see my family and I thought we might not ever make it.  We drove to Albuquerque the first day and spent the night (at one point on that leg I listened to the Vanilla Ice tape for hours because Chris had fallen asleep and I couldn’t reach the tape box).  The next morning, not even 80 miles later, the Chevette breaks down and we spent a strange, dry, desert morning in Grants, NM, waiting for Eddie Lovesse at the Shell station to install a new alternator.  That evening, about halfway to LA, the alternator gave out AGAIN.  This time, in Kingman, AZ, a place that I do not remember with much fondness.

In fact, I've been known to say that Kingman, AZ might very well be the most horrible place I've ever been, and I once spent the night in East St. Louis.  In the 80s.  The cabdriver routed us to some place called the Orchard Inn rather than the Motel 6, where we'd reserved a room.  "It's so much cheaper and cleaner," she insisted.  We checked in, Chris went to find some cokes or something, met some people who, like, LIVED in the motel, but who also advised him where to have the car towed.  I checked out the room and by the time Chris returned I was in tears.  There was a funky smell (once I described it as unwashed genitalia and rotten peanuts) and odd water on the toilet bowl, as well as some kind of dead bug.  I tried to sleep on the small, circular table, but even at 5'1 and 93 lbs. I was too big.  I refused to get into the bed and refused to take off my clothes.  Finally, in a fit of frustration, I threw my book across the room and announced that Chris needed to get me out of there.  NOW.  The manager, by this time, had gone to bed, or whatever, so we left under the cover of night to the Motel 6, which was like the Ritz.  Or at least a Hilton.

Surprisingly, the Orchard Inn still exists on E. Andy Devine Ave. in Kingman.

In any case, in 1991, Kingman was desolate, and had a strange vibe.  I seriously felt like we were trapped in some kind of vortex and might never get out.  This feeling would persist long after we did leave and into late 1993 when I nearly stayed in Los Angeles, rather than move back to the Midwest at the time my mom did, simply because she planned that our caravan would leave late in the morning and that we would stay overnight in Kingman.  Although she did convince me, I think Kingman is where I left the clock I'd planned to give my friend Jill as a wedding gift.  I imagine it is still on the shelf in that closet, ticking and ticking, because that’s the weird kind of place Kingman, Arizona is.

So, many of the places that Jake rode through this last month or two, I’ve encountered as well.  We told Ashley the legend of Tucumcari, although, since it was fresher in his mind, Jake told it better.  Jake did not remember Grants, but then why the hell would you?  I swear to god I remember tumbleweeds in that place, although I know that’s probably my mind filling in scenic gaps.

My mother and I stopped a second day in Amarillo, Texas, not far from the Waffle House where Chris and I stopped for breakfast on our way back to Carbondale.  We did the return trip non-stop (possibly because our budget had been blown with that unanticipated stop in Kingman).  It took 33 hours, which I will note is significantly faster than the Amtrak, which, when I made the same run by train took over 48.  I think that may have been my first visit to a Waffle House. 

By the time my mother and I had been through Albuquerque, on the second day, it was clear that something was wrong with the heater in my car.  I’d bought it in LA and had had no reason over the course of that year to use the heater.   I spent two winters in that car with wonky heat, two winters that included a drive to Chicago in zero degree weather.  I have never in my life been that cold.

My fascination with Rte. 66 began during those trips; I have a small collection of Rte. 66 merchandise that I’ve collected over the years and have driven all of the Old Road between Chicago and St. Louis  (for that matter I’ve also driven I-40 in its entirety).

I’ve got the bug now.  I need to convince Tom (and my employer) that we need a month long road trip into the desert.

Posted by: Book on 6/13/2008 5:22:05 PM , 1 comments