By Timothy Michael Shey
The big Kenworth roared west through Wyoming.
"So how long've ya been on the road?" the truck driver asked.
"A day or two," the young man replied.
"Where'd ya start out?"
"Western Nebraska. I was working on a ranch for a couple of days and got sick of it. I have a friend in California I want to see."
"California?"
"Yeah."
The truck driver was heavy-set and wore a short-cropped beard and baseball cap. The young man was slender and wore glasses. His only possessions: a backpack and sleeping bag.
"Ya got a long ways to go," the truck driver said. "I'll get ya to Salt Lake. Then I'm headin' north."
"Thanks for picking me up. It was cold standing out there."
"No problem."
The rugged, rolling terrain of Wyoming. The sagebrush. The dry air.
"So what'd ya do before the ranch?" the truck driver asked.
"I was in school in Manhattan."
"New York?"
"No. Kansas."
"Where ya from?"
"Garden City."
"I see."
The young man looked over the horizon to his right. There was silence for ten minutes except for the noise of the engine and the bounce of the tractor-trailer.
"So who's this friend of yours in California?" the truck driver asked.
"She's a poet."
"She?" The truck driver smiled and looked at the young man.
"I've never met her before. I've read a couple of her books and we've exchanged a few letters, that's all."
"I see."
"She has a daughter going to school in Santa Cruz that I thought I might like to visit, also."
"I don't know much about poetry. Is it like drivin' a truck?" the truck driver asked jokingly.
"Exactly." Exactly. Poetry is breath and fire and pain. Poetry is getting drunk or stacking hay on a ranch in western Nebraska. It is holding a beautiful woman in your arms; it is holding a baby in your lap. It is dropping out of high school because of the shallowness and stupidity. Exactly. Poetry is hitchhiking all the way to California to see a brilliant woman who loves the letters you write.
"So where'd ya stay last night? It got pretty cold out there."
"A rancher picked me up outside of Laramie. He drove me to Rock Springs where his parents live. They let me stay overnight. Wonderful people. Gave me supper and breakfast."
"No kiddin'?"
"It was pretty incredible."
"I'll say. All a person hears about are people gettin' robbed or killed on the road."
"Yeah. Really."
The big Kenworth was going 80 miles per hour, passing cars and trucks. The speed and the power, the stress of steel and bolt, piston and axle and 18 wheels. Going west. Going west.
"So where you going after Salt Lake City?" the young man asked.
"Headin' north of Pocatello. Then I'll head back to Denver with another load."
Fire and breath and pain and heading north to Pocatello. Pocatello of your dreams. Pocatello of your nightmares. Six men die in gun battle with federal marshals at the Pocatello Corral. Southern Idaho desert. Dry heat, dry grass, dry blood on dry earth. Exactly. The breath of the moment, the heat of the battle--firefight in the Pocatello Corral. One federal marshal wounded. Dry sun on another horizon. This is not Kansas. This is not Nebraska. This is Pocatello. Pocatello of your nightmares.
"This sure is wide open country," the young man said.
"It's a wasteland. Desert."
"I like wide open spaces."
"Then ya won't like California. Ever been to L.A. or Frisco?" the truck driver asked.
"No."
"Where does your poet friend live?"
"Big Sur."
"Never been there."
California of your nightmares. Big Sur of your dreams. Fire out of Kansas. Wheatfields and golden landscapes and dry air and blue sky and. Words, ink on paper, meter and fire. The anvil and the hammer and the fireblood of a wounded heart. Laceration and pain. Fire. The wordsmith labors and sweats and bleeds and brings forth new life. Anvil and hammer. The hot steel is shaped. Blow after blow. Sparks fly in the hot and dry air of Kansas.
"So how old are ya?" the truck driver asked.
"Twenty-three."
"So what do ya want to do with your life?"
"I want to be a bounty hunter or President of the United States."
The truck driver smiled and chuckled. "Sounds good to me. Ever see High Plains Drifter with Clint Eastwood?"
"I am the High Plains Drifter."
Flame out of Kansas. Riding west to the gold rush of your dreams. Desperate, unshaven, sunburned and hungry. Big Sur on your mind. Leather boots, leather skin, the stink of horse sweat. Shot six men in Pocatello just to watch them die. The bullet wounds of your heart, the anguish of the moment. Six men in Pocatello. Just to watch them die. You cinch the saddle down tight and ride west with the hot wind of Idaho at your back. You will ride west where the Pacific meets the edge of the Universe. There you will grow new muscle and ride a horse of a different color.
West. Flame out of Kansas. Exactly.
The big Kenworth rolled west through Wyoming and eternity.
Ethos
May 1995
Iowa State University
[Republished by Digihitch.com]
Book Review: High Plains Drifter
High Plains Drifter (1973)
Meeting a Former Editor from Warner Brothers
Clint Eastwood's film High Plains Drifter (1973)
Meeting a Former Editor from Warner Brothers
Clint Eastwood's film High Plains Drifter (1973)
Interesting story--I enjoyed reading it! Thank you for posting!
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you liked it. The film "High Plains Drifter" is one of my favorite westerns.
ReplyDeleteYou may want to read this sometime:
"Meeting a former editor from Warner Brothers or Things Happen for a Reason"
http://tim-shey.blogspot.com/2010/08/meeting-former-editor-from-warner.html
8 August 2021
ReplyDeleteDear Editor:
I was doing an internet search earlier today and I noticed that you republished my short story “High Plains Drifter”. That was a pleasant surprise. Thank you. And I really liked the photo that you used that was taken by Jodene. Take care.
I think the last time I hitchhiked through Seattle was back in 1986.
Tim
I got a reply from the publisher this morning (10 August 2021):
Hi Tim,
Thank you so much! Your story is brilliant in a way more people should appreciate. The whole road myth of American culture in general and American cinema in particular takes on such incredible shading in your tale. I’m honored to reprint it.
86? My goodness. That was the end times, even then. Vancouver BC had their Expo that year, and somehow Seattle was allegedly voted “Best City to Live In” by Money magazine — just the kind of people whose opinion you should trust, you know. You never saw so many Californians and other nudniks passing through on their way up I-5. And like the parable of the mustard seeds says, some took root.
But the city and the state were still strangely pastoral then. Trees everywhere, even in the cities. And the beautiful mountains to the east and to the west were visible with no haze. No one had heard of “Windows”. Starbucks only had two locations. It was still a Boeing/Weyerhaeuser/Paccar town.
And so it goes, and we go, too.
Yours warmly,
Omar
Omar Willey
Publisher
The Seattle Star
My thoughts on SICARIO (2015), directed by Dennis Villenueve:
ReplyDeleteAlejandro (Benecio del Toro) was one of the most fascinating characters I have seen in a long time. In the beginning of the film, he came across as a loner, a cowboy (the scene where he is standing outside the private jet, looking on into the distance). Kate sees Alejandro taking a nap and he jumps in his seat (flashback)–so now we see he is suffering from some serious PTSD–at the end of the film we discover why (his wife and daughter were killed by the cartel). In that meeting with the Marshals and the Deltas before they pick up the prisoner: Alejandro looks like he is not even listening to the man speaking: he is distracted, thinking about something else. As we can see at the end of the film, Alejandro has one objective in mind: killing the cartel boss and his family.
The intriguing thing about Alejandro is that he used to be a lawyer; he was trying to use the legal system in Mexico to prosecute the cartel. When his wife and daughter were killed, he changed tactics: he became a hired killer, a hitman, a sicario. Alejandro was lethal and efficient with his sidearm; his skill was surgical; he was emotionless, passionless–he had ice in his veins. Alejandro was brutal, blunt (especially to Emily Blunt) and decisive. He was a wolf in the land of wolves.
Alejandro: “Nothing will make sense to your American ears. . . But in the end, you will understand.”