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Show RTVER "I didn't know snakes could shit," said Boris. "Listen, dearie," said Leslie. "Anything that eats, shits." The snake died and the police arrested Leslie on a morals charge and he decided to give up on show biz for a while. He showed me a picture of himself in drag: he looked like the kind of blind date you'd pick up in a nightmare. I've never enjoyed riding in Corvairs, not with the visions they conjure up of death on the highway. I'd seen too many of them split in two to be comfortable in one, especially at speeds over the century mark. Eventually the heat and the increasingly oppressive scenery quieted Leslie after he sang a song in a high falsetto voice, Tiny Tim style; it appeared to wear him out. I comforted myself that one way or another, this trip wasn't going to last very long. Then, out of boredom I suppose, Boris and Leslie started getting it on. I don't know what they were doing, but it sure sounded nasty. I was riveted to my seat, watching the hot blur of the desert and salt flats whiz past. I didn't even want to imagine what was going on in the back seat: hearing it was enough. I looked over at Thor. He was hanging over the back seat, slobbering, his tongue hanging low, a look of dog-struck wonder in his brown eyes. After that, I kept my eyes on the white line. Late in the afternoon, we came out of the salt flats and around the lake and into Salt Lake City, my hometown. The earth felt very good beneath my feet. I walked through East Mill Creek to my grandfather's house. I spent a few days visiting my relatives, who all tried to persuade me to stay in Utah. Being allergic to good advice, I hit the road again. Between Salt Lake and Spring Creek, North Carolina, I took some hard knocks and met some people who were getting knocked even harder, -131- |