Random Walk: A Novel for a New Age

Five

Walking to Bend, Jody Ledbetter thought. Walked across from Roseburg, and now he was walking to Bend. You met all kinds and sooner or later you heard every damn thing, but whoever heard of anybody walking from Roseburg to Bend?

And he’d said he was going east. Going to Bend first, and then going east.

East where? East to the Idaho line, say? Or east to Chicago?

Nice enough sort of a dude. Course there was a minute there when he’d thought the guy was turning him down because either Jody or the truck wasn’t good enough for him, but fortunately that little misunderstanding hadn’t blown up into anything. No, he was an okay-seeming guy, and you didn’t get the feeling he was crazy. A lot of the people you ran into these days tended to be on the weird side, and it wouldn’t make any difference if they told you they were walking to Chicago or flying to Paris. But this dude looked okay and sounded okay. The only thing crazy about him was what he was doing.

And how crazy was that? The dude was going to Bend, and then from Bend he was going someplace else. Jody, on the other hand, was also going to Bend, and from there he was going right back where he started from.

And it wasn’t as though there was anything that sensational to get back to in Klamath Falls. Lumber was bad and farming was worse, which didn’t leave a whole lot, so he wasn’t exactly living in the middle of the land of opportunity. What he was living in the middle of was a trailer, and a hell of a messy one at that, messier ever since Carlene had gone back to her mother, but not all that neat before she left, as far as that went. Seventy miles was a long way to walk just to get to Bend, but two hundred and seventy miles was a long way to drive, and that’s what the round trip amounted to, and when he was done he’d be back in Klamath Falls.

Well, shit.

There was a Circle K up ahead and he braked and downshifted and pulled in. He had plenty of gas but he was dry even if the truck wasn’t. He went back to the cooler and started to pull a couple of cans of Coors loose from the plastic webbing, then changed his mind and grabbed the whole six-pack.

The kid at the counter said, “I think we got Olympia.”

“Say what?”

“Olympia. I think we got some in the cooler. You’re wearing an Olympia cap.”

“Well, shit,” Jody said. “I got a John Deere cap home. If I was wearing that would you try an’ sell me a tractor?”

He got back in the truck, started it up, and headed back south in the direction he’d come from.

He saw the walker a long way down the road. He waited a minute to make sure it was him, then gave a honk. The dude waved, but Jody didn’t think he recognized him or the truck. Which stood to reason, because he wouldn’t be expecting to see Jody so soon; a Lear jet couldn’t have made it to Bend and back that quickly.

He braked to a stop alongside of the dude and leaned across to roll down the window on the passenger side.

“It’s a pretty warm day out and that sun’s startin’ to cook some,” he said, “and I was thinking you might could use a beer about now.” He handed a can of Coors through the window. “You do drink the stuff, don’t you?”

“I sure do, and this is the right day for it.” He cracked the can, and Jody broke one open for himself, and they raised the cans aloft and drank. “Ah, that’s good,” he said. “I thought you said you were going to Bend.”

“I did.”

“What did you do, fly?”

“Didn’t go yet. Decided I’d rather buy you a beer than clutter up the back of the truck with machine parts.”

“That what you were going to Bend for?”

“More or less. This farmer outside of Klamath’s looking to save on energy by generating his own electricity with a windmill. Well, I guess it makes sense, you get all that damn wind and you might as well use it. Me an’ my brother are doing the work for him, and there’s a gear assembly we need, and the closest one we can run down is in Bend.” He threw the door open, climbed down with his beer in tow. “Exciting way to spend a Saturday, huh?”

“Working with windmills sounds interesting.”

“Does it? I guess.”

“This stuff goes down easy. You know, I can’t believe you drove back here just to bring me a beer.”

“That right? I got to tell you, hoss, I can’t believe it myself. I can’t even believe I stopped to give you a ride first shot out of the box. I don’t hardly never stop for people I don’t know, and I sure don’t stop if they aren’t even hitching, and I definitely don’t when they’re all to hell and gone on the other side of the road. Anybody walks facing oncoming traffic, he’s not looking for a ride, he’s out for a walk, right?”

“Generally, yeah.”

“So why’d I stop? Crazy, I guess. Though not a whole lot crazier than a man who sets out to walk to Chicago.”

“Who said anything about Chicago?”

“Nobody, I don’t guess. Where are you headed? After Bend, I mean.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You said east.”

“That’s as much as I know.”

“Guess you take it as it comes.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“You mind a personal question? Are you by any chance Jewish?”

“No. Why?”

“I didn’t really think so. I was thinking today’s Saturday, and I know there’s some Jewish people won’t ride in a car on their Sabbath. But if that was it you’d say that, you wouldn’t come up with a whole story about walking from Roseburg to Bend.”

“Not hardly.”

“Of course not, but it was going through my mind so I thought I’d ask. The Jewish people I know, they all ride on Saturdays anyway.”

“Same with the ones I know.”

“Here, have another beer. Hey, go ahead, I got six and I’m not about to drink five myself. And they’d just get warm in the truck.”

“Well, one more, then. Thanks.”

“My name’s Jody.”

“Guthrie Wagner.”

“Pleased to meet you, Guthrie.”

“My pleasure. Say, do you smoke, by any chance?”

Jody’s eyes narrowed. “Just how do you mean that?”

“Oh, no, I just meant cigarettes. See, I got a carton of cigarettes in my pack and they’re no good to me.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, it looks as though I don’t smoke anymore.”

“‘Looks as though’? What, did your doctor make you quit or something?”

“It just happened.” Guthrie shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it. I started out on this walk Monday, and I think it was the day before yesterday I noticed I wasn’t smoking anymore.”

“You just quit.”

“I guess.”

“Without trying to.”

“Seems that way.”

“What kind of cigarettes?”

“Camels.”

“Camel filters or the real ornery kind?”

“Short and unfiltered.”

“Shee. You know, my brother smokes them sometimes. He smokes the filters, but now and then he wants something lowdown and nasty.” He chuckled. “Myself, I never got the habit. Tried it a couple of times and never liked it. Same thing with chewing. Only bad habits I ever tried that I didn’t like, come to think of it.” He underlined the remark with a long drink of beer, then added a belch for punctuation. “Excuse me, but that did feel good. I might could take them for my brother, if you got no use for ’em.”

“My pleasure. I’m glad to lighten the load.”

And so now he was driving north again with a full carton and an unopened pack of unfiltered Camels on the seat next to him. Was that why he’d stopped to offer Guthrie a ride, and why he’d gone back with the six-pack? Just so he could trade two beers for a carton and an extra pack of cigarettes?

All part of God’s wondrous plan, he thought, and praise the Lord and pass the plate, hallelujah and amen.

When he reached the Circle K again he slowed for a moment, then stomped savagely on the gas pedal. A mile or so further down the road he braked to a stop, let a car pass him, and swung the pickup around so that he was facing south again. He drove back to the Circle K, made a left turn into their lot and parked.

He didn’t have a sack, or any clothes but what he was wearing. His shoes were ankle-high work boots with heavy lug soles, well broken in and comfortable enough, but he didn’t know how good they’d be for long-distance walking. Guthrie had running shoes, he’d noticed, and maybe that was what he ought to have.

Well, if he got as far as Bend, he could get some there. Odds were he’d quit before he got that far, stick out his thumb and hitch back to Klamath. Or hang in as far as Bend and get a ride back from there. But if he got to Bend and felt like keeping on with it, he could buy whatever he needed. A sack, some clothes to put in it, other shoes if it turned out he needed them.

Of course, all this was assuming Guthrie was willing for him to come along. A man sets out to walk across the country all by himself, it stands to reason he wants to be all by himself. The dude had been friendly enough, but it was no particular strain to be friendly when you knew you were going to be shut of a person in another five minutes.

So there was no point calling until Guthrie showed up. There were two beers left. He cracked one of them and sat in the truck watching the road, sipping the beer slowly, nursing it along. When Guthrie finally came into view he trotted across the road to intercept him.

“Me again,” he said. “I got one beer left if you think you can handle it.”

“I’m afraid two’s my limit for now.”

“Yeah, well, I’m having trouble finishing my third, far as that goes. I see you’re wearing your hat.”

“The sun’s pretty warm.”

“That one of those hats you can wet on a real hot day?”

“Supposed to be. It hasn’t been hot enough yet for me to find out.”

“Well, you stay with it, it likely will be. Say, Guthrie?” He looked away as he spoke. “I was wonderin’ if you could stand some company for a spell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, see, I was thinking about walking along with you.”

“To Bend?”

“Well, I don’t know as I’d stick it that far. I was never one to walk if I could ride or stand if I could sit. Or sit if I could lay down, far as that goes. But I got to tell you, I been tryin’ to drive away from you and not havin’ too much success with it. You got any objection to me taggin’ along? If either of us don’t like it, well, all they got to do is say so and we can go our separate ways.”

Guthrie didn’t say anything at first. Well, shit, Jody thought. He’s trying to figure out how to say no and be polite about it.

But he said, “Yeah, I’d like that, Jody.”

“You mean it?”

“But don’t you have to buy a gearbox in Bend? And what are you going to do about your truck?”

“Sort of a gear assembly. What am I gonna do about the truck? If I got enough change I’m gonna make a phone call.” He rooted in his pocket, came up with a handful of silver. “Won’t take a minute,” he said, and crossed the road to the Circle K. There was a pay phone just to the left of the doorway.

He made his call and when his sister-in-law answered he said, “Patty, let me talk to Line, if you please.” He waited, leaning a shoulder against the brick wall. When his brother picked up he said, “Bud, there’s a Circle K on 97 about midway between Beaver Marsh and Chemult. You know where I’m talking about?”

“What did she do, the carburetor flood out on you again?”

“No, she’s running fine,” he said. “Bud, what I’m gonna do, I’m leaving the truck right here at the Circle K. Just listen to me, will you? I got something I got to do, I’ll be gone for a while. And hey, I didn’t get up to Bend so I didn’t pick up that gear assembly and shit.” He held the receiver at arm’s length and closed his eyes, shutting out his brother’s words.

Then he said, “Look, Bud, I’m telling you where the truck’s at. You got keys so I’ll just lock it and leave my keys in the ashtray. Oh, speaking of that, there’s some cigarettes for you. Camels, a carton and an odd pack. And I’m hanging onto the money for the windmill parts, so that’s whatever it is, three hundred fifty dollars I owe you.”

He rolled his eyes skyward and listened to his brother’s response.

“Well, Bud,” he said, “all I can say is that’s how it is. You know where the truck is, and you can pick it up or not, and what it comes down to, I guess, is fuck you. Nothing personal and all, but fuck you, hoss.”

He hung up and walked over to the truck. Guthrie had crossed the road to stand in the Datsun’s shade. “One thing,” Jody said, “is if a person wants to pick up and go away, they can’t stop you.”

“Damn straight.”

He dropped his keys in the ashtray and closed it, left the unopened beer on the seat with the cigarettes, chucked the open beer into the brush at the edge of the parking lot. He rolled up the windows, locked the doors, ran a hand through his mop of bright hair and replaced his cap.

“Hard to believe that’s all there is to it,” he said. “I feel like I used to feel in high school, right before a football game. All pumped up. You ready to go?”

“Whenever you are.”

“Then let’s do it. But look, you’re the expert, you know what I mean? You’re the one walked over the mountains. Tell me if there’s something I’m doing wrong, because I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about walking.”

“It’s pretty simple,” Guthrie told him. “The main thing is you have to remember to alternate feet.”

“Left right left right.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Well, I’ll concentrate on it,” Jody said. “By an’ by, I might could get the hang of it.”