We Ate the Road Like Vultures (15 page)

There was nothing else to do but go back to the house and so I did, still in a cloud of dubiety that the last twenty minutes had actually taken place in any realm other than my overtired mind. I flicked open the screen door on the large room that Rita had turned into a dining room and found Chicco and Carousel, all bathed and their wrinkles freshly pressed, sitting around bowls of birria and flirting with the blushing cook. They stared at me and in that moment of silence Adolf walked into the room and joined them.

Carousel coughed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘I see I am now the only one with a predilection for wearing pants.'

I glanced down and sighed when I realised my jeans were still on the beach, I pulled my T-shirt a little lower. ‘Sorry. Forgot them. I was too busy trying to find Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.'

They snapped up at that, and Carousel immediately looked past me out the door.

‘The captain?'

‘Gone. After I told him I wasn't here to turn you in to the US police.'

Adolf sat down and listened, flickering his eyes back and forth between us. Carousel relaxed and Chicco laughed. ‘That was one of the finest moments of storytelling in my entire life—the glory days of Butch and the Kid and how we robbed the capitalist Americans blind and faked our own deaths. And he ate it up, especially after I gave him my screenplay to the film signed by Paul Newman himself.'

‘And how did you do that?'

‘I ordered one from a bookstore and signed it ‘Paul Newman'—just like on the ranch dressing bottle.' Chicco was heartily amused by his own genius.

‘How can he possibly be so stupid as to believe that?' My jeans were forgotten and I sat at the table leaning over towards him and begging for some explanation that might make sense. Chicco chortled at me, ‘Everyone has their stupid, Lulu, you just have to find what it is.'

And with that we ate our birria, spiced gently by Rita for our weak mouths, and talked about other regular things for the rest of the night. At one point we even sang songs to each other with a banjo Rita had found in one of the rooms which, of course, was played skilfully by the endlessly perfect Adolf. And when it was all done and I couldn't stay awake any longer, I lay my head on Carousel's shoulder and slept there, and it was the best sleep of my crazy-magnet, stupid-filled life.

12

 

 

How many times can a man die?

 

 

sW
E REACHED TIJUANA TWO DAYS LATER AFTER
spending an entire day on the beach in our underwear and sarongs and blue lounge suits. We were salt-crispened and sun-ripened and quite happy by the time the Cuda jounced us into the city and pulled up next to the badly decorated bus terminal. Chicco paid Rita more than was needed and she refused cos she didn't need it and they giggled coyly at each other and Chicco promised to ‘drop by' again soon.

Adolf and Carousel went into town to get food and came back with a new T-shirt and bag for me, and I now had the proud Mexican flag emblazoned over my chest and all of my things, which consisted of a few tattered scraps of this moose-gutted journal, my cash roll and my passport,
in a tidy bright red tapestry sack. Adolf pulled his giant rucksack out of the trunk and loaded it onto his back and I remembered the moment he told me he would come with me.

We were swimming in the too-warm ocean, with too little clothing and far too great an audience, and his hands found my waist under the water and pulled me close enough to kiss. And yet he didn't kiss me, he just pulled our heads side by side and whispered his curious accent into my ear, ‘You know there is a shrine I have not visited in Tasmania. That must be close to your farm. Maybe I will come home with you.'

And of course I whispered back between my goosebumps, ‘Yep, its walking distance.'

So we stood flanked by buses, the young facing the old, and we all had nothing to say. I didn't want to go, but I was able to. Chicco reached to shake Adolf's hand and found himself enveloped in a broad hug. By the time he reached me his eyes were full of tears that ran between his wrinkles like a pinball.

‘You'll have to come visit me,' I said, as he hugged me tight.

‘I hate to say the words, Lulu, but I'm too old for that. You might need to come back to us, maybe, once, you can do it without the threat of an international kidnapping charge.'

I smiled. ‘That's not till next year. You might be dead by then.'

He laughed, ‘How many times can a man die? I think I'm done with all that malarkey. And the Plymouth Barracuda will need another outing by then.'

It was time to say goodbye to Carousel, and I stood in front of him unable to speak. He tilted his head back and sideways and looked me up and down.

‘I thought you were such a little thing when I opened the door, Lulu, and you seem so big now. Don't even think about coming back out here until you do what needs to be done.'

‘And what is that?' I didn't need to ask. I knew.

‘You go find your mother. She's probably starting to think you aren't coming.'

I launched my arms around him and could barely think about buses and planes and leaving.
‘I love you, Jack. You know that?' Whispers were all I had, so I kissed his brown leather and gave him a couple of my tears.

‘I know.' He finally held me back at arm's distance. ‘I have something for you. A souvenir. Show and tell.' He pulled a book from the glove compartment and handed it to me. It was brown, thumbed and grizzled, and it was
Satori in Paris
. I opened it and he had signed the inside page:
Find your own goddamn satori, Jack.

I read it and laughed and when I raised my head they were getting into the car and driving away, and there were waves but they faded quickly, and soon I was standing back at the bus stop I had been at just under two weeks before like nothing had ever happened. Except I heard the soft humming of a Hebrew song beside me and I looked up into the face of my very own beautiful stupid.

‘Come on, disciples, the road smells lonely.'

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story has had a wild ride of its own. It was a short story, then a blog, then a longer story and now this book. And there were many mad, good people who read it and loved it and told me how to make it better. Thanks to all of them, though I really do need to name a few: Michael Alt, Rozie Kadareanu, Helen Roberts, Michelle Able, Darin Roberts, Ebony Reynaud, Kimberley Duband, Jess Lawrence and especially the brilliantly incisive Fran Lebowitz.

There are people who make my writing life possible, some who have taught me to write and some who simply cheer me on with perfect wisdom—Glenda and Peter Roberts, Althea Halliday, Carolyn Rickett and Eliza Muldoon.

Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown found this story its home at Inkerman & Blunt, and Donna Ward and Irma Gold have been both brave and gentle.

My family inspire me daily with fresh insanity and truth—Tenzin Adair and Finnian James—one day you will own the world. My widest, longest thanks to Jim—for telling me to shut up and write. For reading it. Liking it. Fixing it. And everything else.

And of course, Jack Kerouac—I travel differently, write differently and think differently because of you.

‘
I promise that I shall never give up and that I'll die yelling and laughing.'

 

 

 

 

LYNNETTE LOUNSBURY
 is a writer, lecturer, martial artist, traveller, and occasional poet. She grew up in Papua New Guinea and on the NSW North Coast. She now lives in Sydney. She currently teaches writing and ancient history at Avondale College and is Senior Editor of the student travel blog, Ytravel. Her first book,
Afterworld
(Allen & Unwin 2014), was released for the young adult market in 2014.
We Ate the Road like Vultures
is her first novel for adults.