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RAT Casing the Promised Land
Clinton, OK
The old Oklahoma is hiding a mere mile off the highway. It announces itself in handmade, campaign-style signs staked one right after the other along the byway that leads into town: First Church of Christ; Church of the Nazarene; Church of God; House of Worship; Services Saturday, Sunday, Sunday and Tuesday; You might disappoint Jesus, but he won't disappoint you… Clinton's not a big town and there seems to be a church a piece for every man, woman and child here. The school's called Light Eternal; the strip mall goes by Saving Graces. The only thing here without a Christian affiliation is the Bank of the West, but I'm sure it trusts in God as well. The whole place unhinges me-not the smug tone of its marketing, that's to be expected; it's the sincerity of the message that shocks. I suspect that here-unlike in New York City-cynicism and sarcasm are greeted with a disappointed wince. This place negates my right to negate. I'm screaming, "Elvis, step on the gas!"
Groom, TX
I've gone undercover. I'm faking like a Jew for Jesus and I feel slightly more at ease.
So…
I'm circling the base of The Largest Cross In The Western Hemisphere, snapping closeups of the stations and a snow haired man of sixty in suspenders and crisp clothes strides towards me. The spikes go up on my back. I think "Fuck. Don't these people stop evangelizing even on their own turf?" But when he puts his hand on my shoulder, he smiles and I can see through his sunglasses (the go translucent as you get toward the bottom) that there is nothing predatory going on behind them. "Son," he says, " If you get a good one, we'd sure appreciate you sending us back a copy." I can't escape the warmth of his conditional love. I resent being one of the fold.
Tucumcari, NM
A mother of pearl sunset over low rider clouds. Highways of light dangle like a fan from Heaven. I catch myself saying "Holy Jesus." I catch myself reflecting on the Holy Spirit. Is this the way God shows his face? I have to stop this piggyback Christian thing. I have to remember I'm trying to head toward The Real. I can no longer obscure the issue with neurotic self defense tactics. No, I say, No. Let me see this sunset on my own terms. Let me see it for real. But I can't.
Ramah, NM
Elvis pulls over, having spotted a couple of kids with an acoustic guitar. "You know how to play that thing, boy?" he asks. "Little bit" (they don't recognize him). " Let me hear something, then."
As they work their way into a Gin Blossoms cover, he leans against a tree and bows his head. I know what he's thinking. He's hearing their passion. He's coveting their innocence. He's listening to their tepid chord progressions; how much the music means to them and how they really mean it. His eyes are growing misty and he's thinking back on the day when he realized rock and roll would be his destiny-the day long before it became his occupation. As they warm up, the boys grow more confident. They don't know we are, but they know we adore them. By the end of the song, Elvis is lost in reverie. They ask me where I'm from and I tell them. "What are you doing out here in Corner Of Nowhere, New Mexico?" they ask. "Looking for you."
And is that the beginning of hunger I see in their faces? Is that the needle of artistic pretense I see searching for their veins?
The Arrowhead Tavern, Winslow, AZ
This place will sell you a shorty of Cobra malt liquor for $3.25, a bottle of St Ives for a buck. Two rounds of Cobra, and I've forgotten all about God and the Irish Jewish dilemma. I'm drinking with the Hopi. They've christened (Hopied?) me Eagle Boy and I'm thinking: "If I'm an eagle, why do I have such a vision problem? But I'm not going to dwell on it-at least right now, I could care less what is real.
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Previous Dispatches
http://www.manwithvan.com/roadrat7_17.html
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