TRONA LIGHTS

Last night it was dark in the Panamint Valley west of Death Valley, the two nether-world stretches of folded earth that time has to catch up with.

I drove through the Panamint with a car behind me. I was glad it was behind me. It was forty miles to Trona. Twenty more to Ridgecrest.

I turned south onto 178, the truck not far behind. It was flat, I’d remembered. Sixty miles per hour steady, the truck tracking me from a hundred yards back, not crowding me. Sixty-five miles per hour, high beams on, rough road. After several miles my Jeep started to slow and I added some gas to keep my speed. I could tell from the speedometer and the tachometer that I was going up hill. I had no sensation of up or down. Black on black, headlights disappearing just beyond reach.

I felt the Jeep struggling to keep my speed and lights behind me were coming up. I kept my speed, lights reaching ahead to the yellow reflective arrows pointing left, left LEFT and a curve came fast. I braked and turned, swerved and fought the steering wheel, slowing to thirty five.

In the curves now, walls of clay and rock flash by, the lights behind me shining through the edges of little bridges across the draws I must have been driving over on the edge of this desolate valley, the lattice patterns of the bridge rails flashing and tilting from the lights behind me.

Reflective arrows pointed right, right RIGHT and I slowed this time. The walls of the canyon were on me, and the lights behind me played on the rock and scrub brush. I felt the Jeep downshift through the turns, left, right, left right, tight, around the bend, lights behind me throwing patterns on the wall in front of me, reflectors pointing left, right.

I came out of the turns, felt the Jeep still pulling, looked at the tach and speedometer to gauge the vehicles ascent or descent, all sensation of up and down gone, the only sign the tach and speedo to tell me which way the Jeep was heading.

The road flattened out. I could see the tach slowing down under two thousand RPM’s and the speedometer moving above sixty, sixty two, sixty three miles per hour. The road was straight. The headlights were on full, high beams with fog lamps underneath if I dimmed them, but there were no cars. Just a light in the distance. Maybe an approaching car, maybe a motorcycle. Far away, too far to know.

The light was twinkling like a star. Maybe a safety light, a warning for a curve, highway work being done. I headed into the dark night, watching the light. For a moment it seemed like the light was just ahead, coming towards me like a car, moving out of the dark edge of night. No, it was far away. Maybe a light in front of a motel, a sign to turn off, a warm bed and a meal and a shower. The light was so far in the distance, even after watching it for two, three minutes. All the lights I could see; my dashboard, tach and speedometer and the blue ‘high beam’ indicator and the green ‘fog light’ indicator and the light of my headlights and the light behind me and the light ahead of me, I questioned them all. None seemed to be right. My headlights had no reach, the brightest light I had and it fell short of telling me anything. The tach and speedometer were showing I was moving up, down, the shadowed light from the vehicle behind me on the curves throwing ladders of shadow and dim light on the walls of the canyon, and this bright spectre winking at me coming at me down the road, but holding its ground.

I wanted this light in front of me to show itself.

Identify yourself in this midnight valley. Who goes there?

Three minutes, four minutes, what vehicle lights would be visible for three, four minutes, without showing itself as two headlights coming down the road rushing past me? I looked in my mirror for the headlights of the vehicle behind me and there seemed to be another vehicle behind him, another pair of headlights. I looked back to the road in front of me. Still there, moving toward me, the light seemed to be coming down a grade, the strange winking light. I’d been watching it for four minutes or so. In my mirror the vehicle behind me gave space.

There were two lights in front of me. It was a car, a truck, not a motorcycle. It had been in my vision for over four minutes. Four minutes or five minutes. A pinhole of light in the desert of night, Venus coming at me on the horizon. I could not tell the difference. The vehicle speeded past me, two headlights out of the dark. Then they were gone. I drove on. Trona was coming up, its lights steady and distinct, the old plant on the edge of town, I could see it a few miles away. I’d make it.

In Trona I came up on a black Mustang convertible going twenty miles an hour, no more than thirty through town. For five miles I followed him. This driver knew his way home, all the way to Ridgecrest. The truck followed me. The Mustang weaved and hobbled like an old pony with a bad leg, but he knew the way.

I’d come through the dark desert highway. I could go forty, forty five, fifty through the dark, down in to Ridgecrest behind this old pilot. He could be my tugboat captain.

I turned in at McDonalds and ate in front of a family of large people. Their young children were respectful and delighted to sit with their big mom and dad. I heard the girl calling ‘Mom, Mom, come look at this’ and I knew she was happy.

WOLFE'S

He is a big man, too big, and I heard him talk about surgery.
I thought it was a good price, I hear him say, then I eat my sandwich, my mind drifting to writing, sun shine after rain, cars coming in and out of the driveway.
I talked to him.
He is young, friendly, sitting at a small table outside.
‘Market’s been here since the early 1900’s’, he says.
‘Heard it was going to change’ I say. ‘Take out some of the grocery aisles and make it a gourmet market, deli, counters with meat and salads, and not compete with big chains that bring oranges in from South Africa’.
‘But they didn’t’, he says. ‘They talked about it. People have been coming here thirty, forty, fifty years’, he says, ‘they talked to the owner, wrote letters, said they didn’t want the market to change. They know where everything is’.
‘I’ve been coming here for twenty years’, I say. ‘Used to bring Dad here and get sandwiches’. He liked coming here. Reminded him of an old time market, I think.
‘I like the meat counter, the deli sandwiches’, I say. ‘Good quality, good price, everybody’s friendly’.
I have cravings. Corned beef. Brunkhorst’s Boar’s Head beef bologna with American cheese. Nothing else will do.
‘Business is pretty good still’, he says. ‘Economy hasn’t hurt too much. Lots of people only shop here’.
Lot of BMW’s. Couple of Prius’. My Jeep Grand Cherokee. Delivery trucks with breads and produce and a few men walking in and out carrying small bags.
The birds will come back to the small bare trees when they blossom in a few weeks. That’s when I like it. Outside, with a corned beef sandwich. And the birds.

VOICES

I was a boy when I asked my mother about people talking when no one was around. Park benches, sidewalks in San Francisco, heads down, busy talking.
They’re not well, she said.
Things are sticking in their ears now.
‘Yogurt’s on sale, ten for seven dollars.’
Looking at pieces of paper, talking loud in front of the canned beans.
‘Barbecue or ranch?’
Paying money to stick things in their ears.
‘Chicken or fish?'
'How’s Kenny doing?'
'Where are you?'
'What are you doing?'
Pound weights and pump machines at the gym.
'What are you doing? Overnight it? Be there tomorrow.'
When I was a boy, people talking with no one around scared me.
I think I will go across the street and talk with Raoul who is raking leaves in front of his house.
He’s wearing a NY Yankees t-shirt and he shakes my hand.

FOUR WOMEN

A woman in a big blue smock on her phone blonde hair short,
waves and starts across.
A woman in a fuchsia blouse from the other direction.
She stops. Blue smock and blonde hair short, stops
They’re in the middle of the crosswalk
They smile
They embrace
They chat
The light is red.

Two women in black, black, black, black shirts hair, pants, all black,
They wave.
They walk.
They come to the woman in fuchsia.
They smile.
They hug. They all hug.
Me Too, Me Too,
They keep walking. The woman in fuchsia to the left.
Black, black, black to the right.
The light is red. I sit in the car.
Me, Too, Me Too.
I think about it.
The light is green.

AROUND THE PARK

I walked around the park today,
Near a place I used to work.
I walked on grass, softball fields,
Boys and girls kicking soccer balls,
On grass, on cinder path, men and dogs,
Cocker Spaniel dogs and larger dogs.
Earphones all plugged in.

Softball fields were smooth like someone cared
Near a place I used to work.
The fields were scraped clean and even,
Little footprints first to third,
Ready for action,
With lumpy tufted grass.

Woman walking in green scrubs,
Large man to small boy, ‘What are you doing?
‘Small boy stuff’,
Woman running, pounding her best,
Two men in their language,
Clouds get grey in late afternoon
While people fight theirs.

Everyone I needed to see,
Women,
Men,
Young,
Old,
Animals and cars going
In, out
All there,
Near a place I used to work.
I worked today.
Someday,
I can say.

HANDS SHAKING

Mort Sahl was sitting in Starbucks
I held out my hand and he shook mine,
The handshake that men of a certain age do,
The hand you want to hold on to for ever,
The hand that you think, if you did, would lead you places, teach you things,
Hold- on-to-those-hands-for-the-rest-of-your-life kinds of hands,
Soft, firm.

Hands-that-have-done-things-hands and know how to shake another man’s hands without making him seem unimportant,
too important,
trying to get over on you,
insult you,
intimidate you,
overpower you.
Not too firm,
Not too limp,
Just-right-hands,
Trustworthy hands,
Believable hands,
Good hands. Mort Sahl’s hands.

Men of a certain age,
Men who look like twenty-five year olds in older men’s skin,
Like they could zip down and step out and go one-on-one,
Firm, still in shape,
Bodies of men who take care of themselves,
Make them last and
Make them count because it’s the only one we get and they want to go the distance.
Firm hands and steady eyes that light up with twinkle and energy,
Eyes that know things, could tell you things, could lead you to secrets and wisdom.
Eyes that see.
Hands that know,
Hands that read you,
Hands that aren’t afraid to hold another man’s hand, feel him, touch him, let-him-know-he-understands kinds of hands.
My hands were shaking, and then I was shaking hands.
The way I want to shake another man’s hands.
If I know anything.

OLD SCHOOL

Sign of the times? The new radio ‘ad’ for the Sugar Shane Moseley – Antonio Margarito fight Jan 24 at Staples; ‘Due to the unbelievably high demand for tickets, we’ve made additional seats available, at the low, low, price of only twenty dollars!’
Read; ‘we ain’t sellin’ no seats, dudes, come on down, get ‘em while they’re cheap’
These two fighters are outstanding, and have both shown abilities to excite crowds, take on fights as underdogs and win, and show the highest levels of courage and skill under extreme pressure.
Shane beat Oscar De La Hoya twice, Margarito wore down Miguel Cotto in a very entertaining fight this past summer. He didn't just beat Cotto, he mugged him in the alley. Nobody wants to fight Margarito because he’s just too tough. Shane is past his prime and is accused of using ‘juice’.
Is Oscar through? Probably. After what I reluctantly call an embarrassing fight loss against Manny Pacquiao, Oscar only needs to go to the counting house, stack up the coin, continue promoting fights for the good of the sport along with ‘good guys’ Goosen Tutor and be the bright face for the sport of boxing.
I’ll be checking out the talent and talking with John Bray at Fortune’s next week. John is training a team on The Contender and trains fighters and helps kids with his youth clinics and boxing exhibitions through the John Bray Foundation. Fortunes is a 50’s style gym in Hollywood. Might have to pull on the Everlast hoodie, take the train and hustle on in there.
Don't give up on boxing. We'll see how the economic conditions treat the newcomers to the fighting sports. Me? I see a return to brick, skylight and ceiling fans, the thump-thump of speed bags and the crunch of hard abs and the pain, man, the pain. Recession/Depression brings out the old school. Protect yourself at all times.