Carsick: John Waters Hitchhikes Across America (11 page)

GOOD RIDE NUMBER TEN

GUMDROP

Up the hill, that’s where. And lo and behold, here comes a truck. Please, dear God, let him stop. Even though I don’t really believe in God (or at least any of the ones I’ve heard about), my prayers are answered. I run up to the idling Kenworth eighteen-wheeler, lugging my bag, and climb up into the cab. Behind the wheel is Gumdrop, a cross-country trucker driving for Farley’s & Sathers, a large candy company. He started his route in the Midwest and he’s on his way to a candy wholesaler in L.A. A little too far south for my journey but a good ride to Utah, where I’ll jump out and head north to Reno and then down on into San Francisco. Imagine my delight when Gumdrop starts talking about candy! Mexican Hats, Red Hot Dollars, Dots; he likes the same treats as I do! He’s cute, too, but I don’t get any sexual vibes, he’s just sweet … like Swedish Fish.

“How about Jujyfruits?” he asks with a wink and a smile showing a chipped but beauteous front tooth. “You’re kidding,” I answer, “they’re my favorite candy of all!” “Filling-rippers,” he yells enthusiastically, agreeing with my candy-connoisseur opinion. “My dentist warns me off Jujyfruits, but I say fuck him,” I brag. “I love those chewy little pellets.” “But not Jujubes, right?” he asks with sudden concern. “No, they’re too hard,” I answer. “That’s because they use potato starch instead of cornstarch as their primary thickener,” he explains, “and Jujubes are cured longer, making them tough, hard as nails … inedible, if you ask me.” “I agree,” I answer in breathless candy brotherhood. “Nothing resists a bite more perfectly than a fresh Jujyfruit.”

“Guess what,” Gumdrop says, leering. “I got a whole truckload full of them!” “Jujyfruits?” I ask in a sugar frenzy. “Yessiree,” he boasts, “they make them in Creston, Iowa, and that’s where I’m coming from. You should see the plant! Huge tubs of Jujyfruits! Thousands and thousands of those sweet little nuggets popping out of the sugar machines every minute. They don’t make the small boxes anymore, damn them, but I got twenty thousand movie-theater-sized boxes in the back of this truck … and”—he pauses with drama—“can you keep a secret?” “Sure!” I pant, just imagining the orgy of flavor in the rear. “I got mint ones,” he whispers conspiratorially, “the flavor those confectionary fascists discontinued in 1999.” “Good heavens,” I moan, “I haven’t had a mint Jujyfruits since then! I thought they were totally unavailable!” “They
are
,” he answers with penny-candy vigor, “unless you’re in the distinguished company of yours truly. I didn’t get the name Gumdrop for being a candy dabbler. I’ve been saving ’em.” “Look,” he whispers with pride as he pulls out a small trash bag filled with mint-flavored forbidden treats. “Can I have one?” I ask, shaking in candy awe. “You sure can, John,” he answers, and my mouth is watering so much I don’t even realize he has recognized me. “Here…,” he offers, picking a few mint-green Jujyfruits from the bag. I nibble some out of his callused hands the way a horse would go for a lump of sugar and he doesn’t seem to mind. I savor the tangy flavor that may once have been the most unpopular shade, but what does the public know? I’ve been thinking outside the Jujyfruits box for years and I’m honored to report that this discredited chewy little fella retains its original flavor with gusto.

“Look, I gotta be honest,” Gumdrop announces as we finally turn back onto Route 70 West. “I loved
Pink Flamingos
but I hated that
Hairspray
shit.” “You hated
my Hairspray
?” I ask, nibbling our highly collectible treats on my own. “The one with Divine and Ricki Lake?” “Yeah,” he says with a shrug, “I like crazy shit, man. Ever been to a pirate truck stop?” he asks with newfound friendliness. “I don’t think so,” I respond, already intrigued. “What are they?” “The illegal ones with strippers and gambling,” he explains with obvious excitement, “and free liquor!” “Sounds good to me,” I cheer. “I hate that NATSO organization,” he seethes, “all these goddamn safety rules, weight restrictions. I don’t want no ‘truck plaza,’ I want a fucking truck
stop
! No fenced parking lot! No security cameras. Just some kick-ass trucker fun!”

“Let’s go!” I scream, realizing we’ve been on the road for hours, it’s getting dark, and I’ll need a place to sleep. “I know a great one and it’s just outside Fillmore, Utah,” he enthuses. “It’s not on any Triple A map. It is an outlaw truck stop, all right—the Gas and Go-Go!” “Yay!” I yell, probably too enthusiastically. “I’ll pay for the rooms.” “Now, John,” he suddenly counsels, “I gotta get one thing straight. I’m not a fag. Nothin’ against ’em, but a hairy ass crack just don’t do it for me.” “That’s okay,” I mumble, oddly touched by his total unawareness of politically correct gayspeak. “Not everybody is queer. It’s no big deal.” “But I’ll watch over you,” he offers almost tenderly. “I’ll make sure nobody fucks with you. Deal?” “Deal,” I say as we pull into the scary-looking Gas and Go-Go truck stop parking lot.

Lot lizards patrol the corridors between trucks and I can see full-tilt female-male blow jobs going on right out in the open. Truckers are walking around openly guzzling from liquor bottles and laughing and slapping each other on the back in off-work revelry. I get out of the truck and I see Gumdrop swallow, without water, two pills that look like black beauties. “God, do they still make them?!” I ask. “Want one?” Gumdrop offers kindly, but I decline, trying to imagine flying on speed at my age. Gumdrop high-fives a few other drivers he obviously knows and leads me toward the truck stop’s “Party Palace,” which has all the windows blacked out and just one small lightbulb illuminating the entrance. Frightening hookers approach us but Gumdrop barks, “No oral!” and they back off in respect.

“Don’t worry, they got fags here, too,” Gumdrop tries to comfort me, but I’m not concerned, I’m having a great time already. I’m introduced to a big hog of a bouncer named Joe-Eddy. “I loved the rosary job in
Multiple Maniacs
,” he says gruffly as he rubber-stamps my hand with a gearstick penis logo. “Thank you,” I answer as he hands me two “free speed VIP” tickets. “Fuck your brains out,” he welcomes Gumdrop, who just chuckles and asks, “Is Fumbelina working tonight?” “She sure is,” Joe-Eddy responds lecherously. “I love that bitch,” Gumdrop explains as we enter the dark, hot truck stop nightclub that has been off the beaten path for so long that it is now completely claimed by lawbreaking truckers lucky enough to know this place still exists. Everybody inside seems to be high on crank. Big-time. They’re drinking, too, and truckers clap wildly as the strippers slide up and down poles made out of truck tailpipes. One girl slaps her ass with an oil dipstick as she dances to “Hot Wheels,” an amazing Johnny Cash soundalike tune with the lyrics “I’m takin’ little white pills to keep me awake and pushin’ on down the line.” I love this song! When I hear the trucker-horn sound effects mixed in with the chorus, I know I’m in the right place. Maybe I can use this song in my next movie soundtrack!

Gumdrop leads me to a bar and orders me a free vodka without even asking what I drink. He just knows. He gets gin for himself and guzzles it down in one gulp and burps out the sound of a busted truck muffler with amazing realism. He drags me through the partying drivers, many of whom are dancing recklessly with other scary women. I see a red-hot dancer who looks like a gal in a Russ Meyer movie undulating with precision in a bikini top and a micro-miniskirt. Gumdrop races ahead and stuffs a $20 bill down her cleavage. On cue, she retrieves the bill from between her giant tits, pretends to drop it, spreads her legs in a practiced stance, and bends over to pick it up. She is, of course, wearing no underpants. Knowing the routine, Gumdrop leans his head over between her legs and looks up to Cupid’s cave. Fumbelina purrs, “Smile, you’re on
Candid Camera
” and “takes a picture” with the expert muscle control that can only come from years of training. I have never seen a man look happier than Gumdrop does at that moment. He fumbles for another double sawbuck and in between her knockers it goes. Once again, she pretends to be all thumbs as she retrieves it and “drops” the twenty and slowly … very slowly bends over to pick it up. “Take two,” Fumbelina chuckles as Gumdrop takes his place below and says, “Say cheese,” through a shit-eating grin. Again she snaps his “photo” with vaginal precision. I can see Gumdrop’s eyes beaming in gratitude. “Fumbelina, this is John Waters,” he says politely, poking me in the side to let me know I, too, should give her a twenty. “Nice to meetcha,” she says as I slide a bill inside her supervixen breasts, and Gumdrop slaps me on the back in approval. Fumbelina “fumbles” the bill, drops it in choreographed clumsiness, bends over to pick it up. I hesitate, knowing what is expected of me. “Don’t worry, I’ll retouch the picture,” she says with a giggle, and I take my place between her legs looking up into her natural lens. “Hold still for focus,” she orders, and I do. Click! Yikes, a snatchshot! I feel like Lee Miller as she modeled for Man Ray’s first solarized photography, the “rayograph.”

“See over there?” asks Gumdrop, pointing to a curtain in the back. “Yeah,” I say, noticing a few truckers sneaking behind it every once in a while. “Take a look, John. You’ll be okay. I’m gonna let you explore a little on your own. There’s a bunch of you cocksuckers back there,” he explains in the nicest, most unjudgmental voice imaginable. I laugh out loud at his clueless homophobic words that belie his gay-friendly attitude. He just doesn’t know. I’m not offended; actually, it’s kind of sweet. I realize Gumdrop would like a little more quality time with Fumbelina, so I decide to be brave. “Okay,” I reply, still sounding a little worried. “I got your back,” he says assuredly. I look around at all the tough guys ear-banging each other in amphetamine delirium, laughing at nothing and celebrating the very act of not thinking, and feel safe here in this paradise of trucker sexuality. Who needs intellectuals when you’re having fun?

I head toward the mysterious curtain, hesitate, pull it back, and go inside the hidden annex. It’s little but, oh, brother, I’m in fag heaven, as Gumdrop might innocently say. Queer-bait go-go boys are everywhere, and the truckers in this audience are just as wild and hopped-up on speed and hooch as their straight brothers out front. Every time a new dancer is announced they shout “Whip it out!” or “Get it! Get it!” just like characters in my old films might. “Basket” seems to be a real favorite. He’s got a huge, tattooed cock that he stirs drinks with when he kneels down on the bar. And then there’s Chicken Little, who’s just my type, a baby-faced ruffian who, much to my initial astonishment, “cold-shakes” Viagra onstage and then shoots up just as Gerard Malanga did with heroin in 1966 as the Velvet Underground played in Andy Warhol’s
Exploding Plastic Inevitable
. Some of the truckers are jerking off in the friendliest way possible. Chicken Little’s dick gets harder on the Viagra, and he circulates the room slapping customers in the face with it as they roll up bills tightly and insert them up his ass. Wow! This is my kind of club! But since I’ve already had two peculiar sexual encounters today, I decline Chicken Little’s face-slapping (whap! whap! whap!) “helicoptering” offer when he gets to me.

I’m startled to feel Gumdrop’s arm around my shoulder. “Shoot your shot?” he asks, unembarrassed and possibly totally unaware that this was the name of one of Divine’s early techno record hits. “No, but that’s okay,” I respond in our newfound kinship of roadside honesty. “I did,” says Gumdrop with a twinkle in his eyes before adding with a knowing laugh, “Come on, my diet pill is wearing off.” “Hey, that’s a line from
Hairspray
,” I respond; “I thought you didn’t like that movie?” “Well,” he chuckles, leading me to the exit, “I liked that
line
.”

We head back toward his truck and I ask if there are rooms we could rent so we can get a good night’s sleep. “Nah,” he says, “you don’t want to get in any bed in this place. Besides, I’m gonna take another upper.” “But I’ve got to get some shut-eye,” I beg, “I have to catch a new ride tomorrow.” “I told you I’d watch over you, John,” he says with unaffected kindness as he pops two more pep pills and swallows them down dry-mouthed. “You get your forty winks”—he motions to the cab of his truck as he climbs up—“I’ll just watch.” “Watch what?” I ask, confused, but flattered at his nocturnal offer. “I’ll just watch you sleep all night and make sure nobody harms you,” he says tenderly. “Will you let me do that, John?” “Yes,” I answer, completely touched by his unsexual kindness, “I certainly will.”

GOOD RIDE NUMBER ELEVEN

SPACE CADET

When I awake after one of the most peaceful night’s sleeps in my life, Gumdrop is in the exact same position, sitting in the chair, watching over me in bed. He looks a little tired but still wired, and he could use a shave. Otherwise, he’s still my nocturnal protector. I get up quickly and gather my few things. I know Gumdrop’s got a shitload of Jujyfruits to deliver and he has to head south. No way I’ll risk hitchhiking on I-70 through Utah where there’s not even a rest area for hundreds of miles. It’s time for us to part.

He gives me a lift to a local porn wholesale-outlet warehouse and drops me off, assuring me this is a “destination location” that many interstate truckers visit. I know I’ll never see Gumdrop again, but we do have our Jujyfruits memories and that’s all I can ask for, traveling these lonely highways. You only get a
real
fairy godfather for a few hours in life, I’m afraid.

He’s off and I’m all by myself, the way everybody
really
is no matter where you are. There’s not a car in sight on the road, so I just stand there feeling the power of being alone and hopeful. I see a desert-rat-type guy in his late forties coming out of the porno outlet empty-handed. Who would come all this way to an X-rated warehouse and not find a thing? This big guy, who looks part cowboy, part mental case, gets in a broken-down early-eighties AMC Eagle and peels out toward me. Will my amazing luck continue? Of course it does. He stops and I get in.

Up close, he looks like a real space cadet. I introduce myself and, no internal debate here, my rider has no idea of who I am. I tell him where I’m going. “Headed that way,” he mutters, “right to the middle of nowhere.” I’m not sure if seeing him come out of a porn outlet is a thing I should quiz him about, but I do. “You like adult movies?” I ask with as much nonchalance as I can muster. “Never look at that shit,” he says without rancor; “I just sell my old tapes when I need the money.” “Your tapes?” I ask with newfound interest. “Yeah … I used to do that shit for a few years … way back …
before
I had my encounter.” “Uh … what kind of films?” I gently pry. “Gay porn,” he answers unembarrassedly. “I ain’t queer but I could get my dick hard no matter who was sucking it.” He chuckles with nostalgia. “What was your porn name?” I ask, trying to look into his ravaged face to remember a possible stud from yesteryear smut. “John,” he says shyly, and then it hits me like a ton of bricks. “Johnny Davenport?!” I shriek. “Shhhh,” he scolds, suddenly paranoid, “they’ll hear you.” “
Who
will hear us?” I ask, confused, as I look out to the empty landscape surrounding us. “Them people,” he answers vaguely before correcting himself; “well, not ‘people’ exactly, but just … them.”