By the third day, I’m already starting to get used to waking up with the sunrise, and falling asleep with the sunset. It’s just the way I like to roll while riding around the country.
On the road, usually during the summer, the sun rises around 5-6AM, and sets around 7-8PM; and after riding 400+ miles, it’s easy to fall asleep with the moon and stars.
Waking up in Benson, Arizona, I was anxiously looking forward to the day, because it surely was gonna be a good one. I was gonna ride to Tombstone to see the O.K. Corral.
After walking the streets of Tombstone, I wanted to check out the Lavender Pit copper mine in Bisbee, then cruise the Mexican border to Rosa’s Cantina in El Paso, Texas.
—ooOoo—
It was a beautiful morning to sit on a wood porch swing, carefully listening to the sounds of waking outside silence.
Outside silence is different than inside silence, and waking outside silence is different than sleeping outside silence.
Morning mediation is another habit while riding around the country. It comes naturally living a nomadic lifestyle.
I give thanks for the sunrise, I do a mojo mediation for the bike, and a little prayer that I find a good place to sleep.
—ooOoo—
I was at peace with my morning, watching the sun rise over an old barn. A power line forming a shoestring of a silhouette, from the top of the trees to the top of the barn.
The mourning doves with their haunting drawl of a husky whistle, all hidden in the trees. I could feel what’s left of a morning dew, and smell the aroma of the grass and fields.
The sunlight became more apparent as the sharp reddish tone of the horizon became more real to me. Strange, I didn’t know what to expect, except to expect something.
—ooOoo—
Jake stands in front of a laundromat, turned into a laundromat and game room decades ago. There’s a breeze in the air that forces the trees to make that fucking noise, branches rubbing up against the vinyl side of a building.
A doublewide, up off the ground on a cinderblock foundation, and three rickety steps that run up a large wood deck, thick with shellac, and a painted yellow sign that reads “GAME ROOM” above a shut screen door.
Inside the room smells like stale cigarette smoke and fabric softener. The floor is a sea of grey speckled interposing square vinyl floor tiles that no longer match the yellowing ceiling. The walls are postmodern-Barstow.
There’s a used saw blade, now painted with pheasants hunkering down in a winter country scene, hanging above a window surrounded by cracked faux wood panels with seams highlighted by narrow strips of plastic duct tape.
On the left side of the building is the alleged laundromat, consisting of a row of eight commercial coin-operated washing machines with dryers stacked on top, none of which appear to have ever been cleaned or serviced.
At the end of the row of washing machines and dryers is another machine hanging from the wall, looking more like a condom machine in a seedy bar, but instead dispensing laundry detergent to unsuspecting patrons for a dollar.
On the right side of the building is the game room that includes a ping pong table, an old gumball machine that dispenses ping pong balls for a quarter, a beat-up barroom pool table, and a vintage Capt. Fantastic pinball machine.
—ooOoo—
Jake is six feet tall with brown hair and blue eyes. His hair is just about shoulder length, with tangled unnatural curls in the back made from relentless hair twirling. He wears a rusty brown rimmed hat, and his hair seemingly flows from it as if there is a perpetual wind around him. Blue jeans, rolled halfway up black boots, with the heel of the right one worn more than the left one due to an antalgic gait in his walk.
He reminds me a little of Marlon Brando in The Wild One, what with a troubled presence, deeper than the one shown, and a steadfast expression of always looking for something else. With arms crossed and a crooked smile on his face, his close fitting t-shirt bunches up near his broad shoulders, and his left eye often displays a soft faint wink to show you he’s still interested – or at least he’s still willing to play along.
—ooOoo—
It was going to be an awakening. It was going to be an opportunity to look behind the curtain; to speak directly to god; to force answers to all of my questions. More than just taking stock, it was going to be a self-reckoning.
So after enjoying the sunrise, and being as quiet as possible, I gathered up all of my dirty clothes and put them into a tough black plastic bag, and I headed down the hill and around the corner toward the laundromat.
On the way, I started to get a strange feeling in my stomach; almost like a sense of falling or anticipation. I chalked it up to being early; to my being hungry; to the medications, but I knew that neither one was right.
It wasn’t much of a walk and I wanted to get my laundry done before it got hot. The closer I got, however, the more the sensation, which spread all over my body, producing a cyclically hue of varying colors to my vision.
I made it to the steps leading up to the laundromat. My right hand clenched the splintery handrail while my left hand gripped the makeshift laundry bag that was swung over my shoulder. “Need some help?”
Those were his first words to me. Strange thinking about it now; him standing on the deck looking down at me with a sinister grin. I accepted his help, and he stepped down to grab the laundry bag from my shoulder.
I’m grateful, “My name’s Mike, by the way, thanks for the help.” He smiles, carefully sets down the laundry bag on the deck, takes off his hat, and pleasantly extends his hand to me: “I’m Jake. Nice to meet you.”