The Boys from Santa Cruz

3

April 18

To tell the truth (and why would I lie to you, my own brand-new, full-sized dear diary), I could have thought this thing out a little better. Or maybe I didn’t really believe I was going to make it. I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t come up lucky on a couple of counts, the first of which was that it had been my left ankle that was injured, so driving a car with an automatic was not a major problem.

The most crucial piece of luck was that Murphy’s barn was still standing. Or at least leaning. Half of it, anyway. A landslide had taken out the rear half of the building, hayloft and all, but the front was still intact, jutting out from the base of the landslide.

More luck: Rudy’s untouched van was parked right where I’d left it ten years ago, inside the barn, facing the rear, with the front bumper only inches from the edge of the landslide. The money was still there, too, stuffed behind the false walls and floor along with two kilos of vacuum-sealed Humboldt County wacky weed.

Unfortunately, dear diary, you can’t live on money and weed alone. So after I’d cleaned the two of us up as best I could without water, and exchanged our ash-smeared clothes for clean but creased and musty-smelling jeans and shirts from Rudy’s suitcase, we drove back to the giant Wal-Mart outside Marshall City to stock up. I figured it would be safe enough, that no one would be looking for us so soon after the fire, and I was right.

We did get some curious stares, what with me tootling around in the electric scooter (I couldn’t put any weight on my left ankle) and Chuckles lumbering along beside me pushing two shopping carts. But by the time we left, with the trunk and backseat of the Beemer stuffed with food, clothing, medical supplies, including a pair of crutches for yours truly, camping equipment, etc., etc., all paid for in cash, we were provisioned for a good long siege.

It was full dark by the time we got back to Murphy’s farm. Chuckles got out and opened the sliding barn door. I drove the Beemer inside and parked it next to the van, which left us a living space around fifteen feet wide and twenty feet deep. For supper we ate bologna sandwiches by lantern light, then crawled into our new sleeping bags. Chuckles dropped off while I was writing yesterday’s entry, and I followed him into dreamland an hour or so later.

And that, dire deary, was about the extent of my good luck. When I woke up this morning, my left ankle resembled an eggplant in both size and color, and was throbbing painfully. With the aid of my new crutches I went outside to take a leak, and when I got back Chuckles was sitting up in his sleeping bag, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth while muttering unintelligibly under his breath.

That was twelve hours ago, and guess what, he’s still there, rocking and muttering. The only thing that’s changed is that now he seems to be aware of my presence: every once in a while he looks over at me and glowers. So even though I’m pretty sure that he’s only detoxing, I’m glad I’ve got Rudy’s.38 automatic in my sleeping bag with me. My plan, as soon as I finish this entry, is to turn off the flashlight and pretend to close my eyes. If he makes a move toward me, I’ll shoot him dead. If not, I’ll try to get some sleep, and hope my ankle will start to show some improvement in the morning.

Because I didn’t go to all this trouble just to sit around here watching Chuckles drool. I’ve got more important things to do, like driving back down to Santa Cruz to pay a little call on my grandparents. And won’t they be surprised to see me! I can hardly wait to see the expression on their dear old faces.