Waiting for the Man (24 page)

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” Angie said.

“I think it does,” I said. “I think it means they’ve had enough.”

“I don’t think you understand the activity in that bus,” she said.

The highway defined a sudden shift in geography. On our left, the Rockies formed a kind of wall that stopped the prairies suddenly like some schoolyard bully demanding lunch money. On our right, the prairies sloped down. Toward the east, toward home. Driving north was disorienting in a way, and felt wrong, and this line of asphalt, this man-made natural barrier between the mountains and the tall grass made it all the more strange.

We drove through what felt like an endless series of suburbs and exurbs, the entire population of Colorado lined up like a strip of Velcro in the shadow of the mountains and then we were out of it, in a place devoid of people.

The landscape was pure here. It was the perfect place for a final meeting with the Man. For a revelation. This must be the place, I thought. It has to be. But we crossed into Wyoming and nothing happened. We drove by Cheyenne and nothing happened. We passed a lot of signs with the word “frontier” on them and then we really were in the middle of nothing and still nothing happened.

“Do you ever get discouraged?” Angie sighed.

I wanted to say yes, all the time, but I didn’t for fear of offending the Man. As if saying it and thinking it were different. I wanted to think I could feel his presence in this empty country, that this was his home somehow, that he was watching me, waiting for the proper moment, but I could also hear what my head had to say, the logical part, so shut off this entire time. It was despondent.

My eyes darted about the road, searching, the futility of the whole thing making me feel something, expendable, the victim of the most elaborate joke ever devised. How could this whole thing be made up? How could I be on such a long-winded delusional wavelength? How could I have done this to myself?

Angie was asleep. I wanted to wake her and talk this through with her. She was the only person whose sanity I had never questioned. She could still talk me out of this, I thought, even here, only to realize the folly of such a grand idea. What does one call hindsight when it happens in the present?

The sun rose in the east, which wasn’t in my back window anymore but to my right. We passed a small town buried in the wilds of Wyoming. We were the only vehicle on a lonely stretch of road. The only vehicle not going somewhere. With a driver looking for an end. For a beginning.

The Message

My office is a dungeon, a dark, minimalist corner amidst the storage and dust of a hidden, forgotten underworld. This is the landscape of the forgotten. Of the not-thought-through. The prettier the public area, the shadier the private. Like a movie star caught by paparazzi without makeup.

I’ve convinced Athena to hold off on the PR woman. The visit would be pointless. I’ve read her correspondence, emailed her, and her ditziness is like some kitsch rubber duckie floating in an old-world European spa populated by the outer edges of royalty. Or the members of MENSA. Stupid but sweet, I’m learning. The tagline for the entire PR industry. In the ad world, PR is seen as the lowest common denominator. As well as the biggest threat. Maybe it’s the same thing.

The PR woman is the kind of adult who peppers emails with words like “cool” and “awesome.” She uses emoticons in place of actual words. The emoticon is a part of the grammar of her writing. Syntax even. Her name is Lindsay. My sense of superiority, as a New Yorker, remains intact.

The research is going somewhere. I can say this with a certain amount of certitude. I have enjoyed the full effects of the spa, my ass has endured long horse rides, I have taken the ATV into the mountains. I discovered there is a day care onsite. Rare are the guests who bring their children along.

I have learned that the owners of this place were lifelong ranchers, are descended from a long line of ranchers, the property having been in the family for almost one hundred years. Two brothers combined their adjacent ranches with the plan of creating a hospitality empire. The brothers hired Athena to look after things while they traveled the world coming up with ideas. One of the brothers, Athena claims, had never traveled farther than Seattle. “They’re drinking their way around the world,” she told me. “They aren’t learning a thing. It’s up to me.” Not once does she mention her own involvement in any future venture. Perhaps Tomas is wrong about that part. The brothers’ wives are no better. Athena could barely discuss the wives. Her contempt for them was as thick as a sheepskin coat.

The staff lounge is the result of a failed experiment in creating, in Tomas’s words, an oxygen bar. There are lofts in the stables full of tubing and chrome chairs apparently.

Tomas has added a meat pie to the menu. The filling is made of duck livers and bits of dried salted pork. Small cubed potatoes. Seasoning, including allspice, cinnamon, and cloves. Doused in a red wine–duck gravy. Except Tomas is calling the gravy “jus.” No one can order the jus because no one can pronounce it properly. It’s one of those foreign words that are not kind to the American mouth. Staff have taken to calling it the “Dork Pie.”

In the lounge, between lunch and dinner, Tomas stops by for a glass of wine. He sits by me at the bar. My beer has turned warm from neglect. Before me, splayed out like a wounded animal, all the brochures and PR material this place has ever sent out. It’s as if I’m trying to devise something from the entrails of the sacred. “Have you tried the pie?” Tomas asks.

“I’m still partial to the elk steak,” I say. And it’s true. Tomas pairs the steak simply, with a sweet potato purée and some peas tossed with grated fresh horseradish.

“The pie is doing well.”

“That’s all that matters then.”

Tomas takes the wine glass by the stem and holds it to the light. “I have to say, you worry me,” he says, inspecting the wine.

“Oh, stop,” I say. “Not again.”

He takes the wine in his mouth and holds it there before swallowing. “You’re being more thorough than I thought you’d be.”

“That’s the kind of person I am. Don’t forget, I walked here.”

Tomas plays with his glass, twirling it. “It just sounded like such a half-assed thing in a way. To be honest. I know what I told you about my feelings on the subject. But I still thought the whole thing sounded like a make-work project. Like Athena going on a fishing trip.”

“I was doing fine in the kitchen.”

“You were peeling fruit.”

“I wasn’t complaining. Not yet.”

“But still.”

“Tomas, honestly, fuck off,” I say.

He leans in. “Watch yourself,” he says. Hisses is more like it.

“We’ve had our talk. You’ve told me your concerns. Yes, if it came down to you or me, you’d win. Of course you would. I know that. So, kindly, fuck off.”

I order another beer. Keith enters the bar and our eyes meet and just as quickly he leaves. Tomas takes a long drink from his glass.

Worry like his is so universal it is surprising we ever got out of the caves. People want change. Evolution is good. We may confuse evolution and progress but most would regard forward momentum as a good thing. Except when it’s imposed. Like CDs were. I know people who are still bitter about that. “I’ve heard great things about the pie,” I say.

“Because it is good,” he says.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I turn to face him. “Why? Why would your pork and duck pie suck? Why would anything coming out of your kitchen suck? You’re a brilliant chef. And for whatever reason, I’ve spooked you something good.”

“I just want to be understood,” he says. Apologizing almost.

“You told me this the other night,” I say. “I got the message. I told you.”

Tomas finishes his wine and stands. The bartender comes by and Tomas signs his tab. He leaves a dollar on the bar. “OK. Sorry. I came on too strong. I see you and it’s all I think about.”

“Great.”

“Sorry. I’m just not sure, you know? I don’t feel in control. It’s not a good feeling, that’s all. I’m a chef. We’re control freaks. Everything has to be perfect. Or close.”

He shrugs and walks out. I down my beer.

In Japan, the ads and brochures emphasize the location, the Wild West aspect of the place.

In California and throughout the West, the PR emphasizes the kitchen, the spa treatments. On the east coast, the PR is more like the Japanese. There are no ads for this place. Anywhere. It’s all media coverage. Athena has emphasized the media and continues to host travel and spa writers on a constant basis. The media for this place has been tremendous. The PR woman does her job well.

In the U.K., the PR showcases the kitchen, the location, and, for whatever reason, the wine cellar. In the rest of Europe, the horses, the Rockies, the western lifestyle. Again, no ads. Just an impressive amount of media.

The bartender returns and places a beer in front of me. “Can I ask you something?” I say. He’s young, a local, amazingly enough, a student doing a summer job.

“Sure,” he says, smiling.

“When you think of this place, what do you think of?”

“What place?”

“The ranch.”

“I don’t,” he says.

“You don’t what?”

“Think about the ranch,” he clarifies.

“I don’t mean in a philosophical sense.”

He takes the towel that’s slung over his shoulder and starts wiping down the bar. “I work here,” he says. “It’s the place I work to make some money. It’s better than nothing. It’s a nice place.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”

“It’s not McDonald’s,” he says. “And the chicks.”

“Wonderful.”

“It’s nice.”

“It is.”

“But I’m not really your average guy. I’m not clientele,” he says. “I live here. Hell, I’m from here. I only notice the scenery when I leave.” The phone behind the bar rings. “Excuse me,” he says and goes to answer it.

I finish my beer and return downstairs. In my email, a message from Lindsay. The subject line contains four exclamation marks. Denoting the gravity of the missive. Or excessive cheerfulness. The message:

Joe! I thought something about u reminded me of someone! But I’m always saying that about everybody I meet so I figured it was just me being me again! Can u tell me if this is u? See the attached file. It’s from
Variety
. (I have to admit I am totally addicted to
Variety
— it’s too cool for school. LOL.) This guy Dan Fontana just sold rights to a story about a guy who drove across the country. His name’s Joe. Is that u? That would be soooo cool!!! You can tell me, can’t u? Now that I know ur someone famous, I definitely need to come up there and talk branding and PR with u! This is soooo gr
8
t! See u soon!

And this is where I am. In my basement office. With a desk lamp providing illumination. Staring into the computer. Pleased for Dan. Feeling not lost. Feeling off. Just a bit off. As if my sell-by date were yesterday. As if the answer had come to me the moment the buzzer went off. As if.

Big Empty

Wyoming is not a state. It is a place optimistically marked on a map a long time ago now populated by grass and rocks and the odd pickup. Angie counted telephone poles and tried to contemplate a vista where one is surrounded by the horizon. We drove for miles and passed nothing. The interstate headed west again and then we were in Casper and out of Casper and going north. We drove through miles of nature and the only proof of civilization was the occasional sign on the road. We spent hours not seeing another car or town. The view here was
360
degrees with nothing but earth and sky in all directions.

Angie worked her phone. She may have left the black bus but the phone had her tethered to her work. And she did it. When the phone worked that is. Which wasn’t that often.

Every turn in the road, every signpost, every rise in the landscape was, I sensed, I hoped, I wanted, a hiding place for the Man. He had to be close. Why bring me to Wyoming if not to make his appearance? But he did not. Driving through this empty place, with both hope and disappointment marked by everything, exhausted me, angered me. I felt bruised. I felt no joy in Wyoming.

We stopped in a spot on the map called Midwest — a village, if that — just to stop, to get our bearings, and the look on my face must have been one of failure. I did not speak. I sighed. Much sighing. Angie and I walked into town and found a quaint general store that sold guns and candy and beer. It was a large shack of a building and had I been a tourist it might have overjoyed me. We bought Doritos and Hershey’s Kisses and a couple of burritos the owner had cooked in the kitchen behind the cash. We ate on a bench in the middle of town. We wondered where the black bus was. The cell phones were silent here. The land was big and the sky was swimming pool blue and all of this purity conspired to deny the cell phones a context in which to work. All around us, we could see hills in the far distance rising up gently from the ground like giants being woken up. We were surrounded. The state felt like some great sunken tub. Perhaps this explained its emptiness. I felt uncomfortable stopping for anything.

We bought some gas and got back on the highway. I didn’t speak for fear of missing something on the road. I tried to decipher the empty landscape for signs. For clues. There were none. The further north we drove, the further south my spirits went. Angie fell asleep and I envied her. What was she doing so far from home? What would happen to her at the end of this? Would she be content with working her father’s trattoria again? What was she getting out of this strange tour of the country? Can you really enjoy the scenery when your job is to keep desperately unhappy men happy, when the locus of your journey is crazed, possibly delirious?

I had felt it before, but in Wyoming my doubts really began to leak out of me. I could smell it. Perhaps it was fear. Or the imminence of my failure. But that thought I’d managed to keep hidden away for so long, the possibility of a ruse, of a self-deception as monumental as the monotony of this landscape, the thought was there now. Constant. On the surface. And my silence wasn’t just an attempt to search for signs, but was also a result of my attempts to snuff it out.

Deep in my heart I was doubting myself completely, but I could not bring myself to admit this. I could admit that the trip was a cheap spectacle cooked up by the media to fill some minutes during the summer’s newscasts. To Dan, the prize came at the conclusion of the journey. The event only had purpose at its conclusion. To me, this ordeal was a path to the start of a new journey. A new life. That’s what I had hoped.

When does desperation become optimism?

Would Dan get his payout? How was this playing in Peoria? We had not driven through Peoria.

My doubts were arrested always by one question: what did I hear? If not the Man, then what? How could I explain that? Did I want to see the Man so badly that I had forsaken everything? Was my life so bad that I
invented
the Man? Was my life so bad? I didn’t think so. I disliked my job. Even when it had interested me. This said more about me than the job. I knew that. But what did it say?

There is a Man, I kept saying to myself. There had to be. There was no other way to explain what I had done. The state of my life. There was a Man. And he was playing a cruel trick on an innocent. I apologized for thinking these thoughts.

I had to make sense of this.

The mountains came closer to the road, their peaks dusted with snow, and the towns closer to each other. The landscape was crumpled here, the result of some far-gone geology I would never understand. Around us were signs of civilization. We passed a McDonald’s and I thought of Takeshi. Angie was awake now. The cell phone worked again and she spoke to Dan. The bus was miles behind us. She assured him we were on the same road as they were.

We approached Sheridan and passed it. I stopped in a rest area and I fell into a fitful sleep. I tried to conjure up images of the Man. I couldn’t. I slept begging him to tell me what to do. Maybe I didn’t sleep.

Angie nudged me awake and pointed out the window at the black bus. It was night now and we got out of the Odyssey. The sky was poxed with stars, each one a tiny hole of light in a black, moth-eaten blanket. Dan got out of the bus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. I took out a Marlboro Light and put one in his mouth and one in mine. He lit our cigarettes and yawned. Angie yawned. “Christ,” Dan said, covering his mouth. “I’m starting to suffer real fatigue. It’s an awesome kind of tired. All the time. And my ass is killing me. I’m developing sores, I think. All the guys on the bus spend hours walking up and down the aisle. We’ve developed a schedule. We watch TV. There’s nothing on. The damned thing is a spirit crusher.”

“When’d you pull in?” I asked.

Dan shrugged. “An hour ago? Maybe. I’m not sure. I was sleeping. I’ve lost track of time. Time is irrelevant to everything I do. My blog? Time isn’t important. The podcast? Not important. I file a story every day. It’s not like I’m doing any live TV anymore. That stopped a few days ago.”

“The
Post
is running a story every day?” I asked. I figured New York would have given up on me by now.

“There’s a map every day, too, to show readers the journey we’ve taken so far,” Dan said, exhaling smoke toward the stars. “A few hundred words. It’s not much. They have to show something for their investment. I’m sure the map’s bigger than the story. All the networks have their own maps and graphics. CNN is calling the story ‘The Search for America.’ They’re implying meaning where there’s none. The
Post
settled on ‘Joe’s Journey.’ It’s flat but the graphic’s nice.”

“I can’t believe people are still interested,” I said. And taking in the blanket of silence around us, this was easy to believe.

“I don’t know,” Dan said. “I don’t know if anyone gives a shit. It’s not like we’ve been gone for long. But the fifteenth minute is fast approaching. Traffic’s way down on the website.” He stamped out his cigarette. “Whatever.”

We stood in silence in the middle of the rest area. I wanted everything to be over. I wanted to end it here. I wanted to find a soft bed and sink into it.

Angie touched my hand and then walked toward the restrooms. In the far end of the parking lot, a scattered assembly of Winnebagos stood lifeless, their occupants no doubt sleeping. “You hungry?” Dan asked.

I didn’t say anything. I watched Angie walk away. As did Dan. Before entering the restroom she turned around and looked at me and then vanished behind the closed door. “I’ll never have her,” Dan said.

“No, you won’t,” I said.

“It was awkward. I’m not very good in these situations. I tried as hard as I know how,” he said. “Meaning it was bound to end in rejection.”

More silence. I had never tried. I had wanted to once, a lifetime ago, when a fat bonus gave me the confidence of a thoroughbred. But my laziness trumped my desire and that was that. I never saw Angie’s kindness as anything other than . . . kindness. It had been my loss.

“What happened to Takeshi?” Dan asked.

“He lost it,” I said. “Sort of.”

“He really flew back to Japan?” he said.

“He was going to fly to L.A.,” I said, staring at the restroom. “And then home. Start work. His father’s got some major concern. Cell phones. Sounded like a very successful, very accomplished man. I’m sure there’s great wealth involved. Takeshi decided to face the music. He decided to confront his life. He was sitting there in the restaurant and then he just decided that was it, he was going to grow up, get on with his life. Dive in.”

Dan lit another cigarette. “He’s going to be a star,” he said. “The Japanese have been eating his story up. The CNN guys told me he’s caused a bit of a frenzy. Media there were using our feeds. They were set to join the bus. We were happy he left when he did. We have our seats and our likes and dislikes and an influx of Japanese reporters would have fucked things up.”

“He doesn’t want to be a star,” I said. The door to the women’s washroom creaked open and closed and Angie did not appear. I grew concerned.

“I heard that some movie star over there wants to do something with his story,” Dan said, laughing. “An American journey. He’s going to sell his story, I guarantee it.”

I looked over to the restroom again and could see a sliver of light from behind the door of the women’s side. “Wait a second,” I said, my head somewhere else, and I walked toward the light, toward Angie. I was filled with worry and with something else. Longing. I can’t think of another word to describe it. I wasn’t thinking. I was thinking of a million things. My mind was a hurricane.

I entered the woman’s restroom and found Angie leaning against a sink. A sly smile came over her lips. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. And I didn’t. “Is everything all right?”

“I think I’m about to get my period,” she said and I could not remember a time in my life when a woman had told me such a thing. “We have to stop somewhere for tampons soon. Otherwise I’ll bleed all over the car.”

Angie had let her hair down. She had splashed water on her face. “I was thinking,” she said.

I didn’t say anything.

“I’ve been having this conversation with myself,” she said.

We had something in common.

“You know? Don’t you?” she said.

No, I didn’t. It couldn’t possibly be happening. Not here. Not after all this time.

“Look,” she said, her hands on her hips. “I’ve always liked you, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. I’ve been wearing dumpy clothes and I feel like shit.” She smiled again. “I want to feel something. I’ve come all this way. We’ve come all this way.”

I walked toward her. I stopped halfway. I felt like a blind person trying to cross an unfamiliar intersection.

“This whole thing has no meaning,” she said. “Your trip. Everything.”

She wasn’t thinking about me. And neither was I.

I walked to her and grabbed her and she kissed me. My hands eased their way under her shirt and I felt the softness of the small of her back. I lost all sense of myself.

She took my hand and we entered a stall. Her desire for privacy at this hour struck me as odd. The stall was clean, the porcelain on the toilet gleamed. Were all women’s restrooms like this? She closed the door behind us and leaned into me and we kissed. She undid my pants and they dropped to the floor. I did not know what to do. She pulled my underwear down and took my penis in her hand. It was hard before her fingers were wrapped around it. She kissed me some more and pushed at me and I was sitting on the toilet. She straightened up and pulled her pants down. I kissed her belly and buried my face in it. I licked her and tasted the wonder of her skin. She stepped away and stepped out of her pants and then pulled her underwear down. She straddled me and guided me into her. “It’s safe now,” she whispered.

We made love in the stall and I could think of nothing but hanging onto Angie as she clung to me, bobbing up and down slowly, her hands clutching my head, my shoulders, her fingernails digging into my skin. Her inside was soft and tight and wet. I leaned back to kiss her and our mouths gripped each other’s, sucking tongues, inward. We tried to inhale each other’s mouths. I could feel our juices running down my balls and then I could hear them dripping into the toilet. Angie breathed heavily and her breath against my face was a warm and happy wind. I stood up and leaned her against the door, holding her up by cupping my hands beneath her bottom. I pushed as deep as I could into her and it was not far enough. I wanted to consume her. She held on to the top of the stall and pushed herself down upon me. A warmth was running down my legs and they felt as if they were about to give out, that they could no longer support the weight of Angie’s need. I leaned into her even harder and her back slammed against the door with each of our thrusts. She let go of the walls around us and held on to me, her breathing getting more and more labored. My legs were liquid. My muscles burned. And then I felt my life empty into Angie. She pulled me closer, squeezing me to her. She climbed atop me. She swallowed me up. She pushed herself against me with urgency. I knew I would soon fall over. She grabbed my hair and let out a sound, an operatic note that quickly drowned in her pleasure and soon her body was limp and the only sound in the bathroom was of our tortured breathing, of our mouths taking in huge gulps of air. I stepped backward and sat down on the toilet and Angie collapsed in my arms. She stroked my hair. I kissed her forehead and tasted the salt of her exertion.

“My God,” I whispered.

She pulled me out and stood up. She smiled. “Get off the toilet,” she ordered.

I did and she sat down and started dripping into the water. I had emptied myself into her and now she was emptying me from her. She looked at me and put her hand to her mouth and stifled a laugh. I looked down to see my penis covered in watery blood. Trails of red flowed from my penis to my balls and down my legs like varicose veins. Drops of blood covered the floor and our pants. The stall was a mess. Angie laughed out loud.

We spent minutes that turned into hours cleaning up. We washed the floor and ourselves, soaked our pants in the sinks. I soaped my legs and my groin. The restroom had sanitary napkins and Angie used them as sponges to clean off the blood. She took a handful for later. We used the hand dryers to try to dry our pants. “Now we can say we actually did something on this trip,” she said.