our arms were getting baked in the waning Colorado sun as we cruised from aurora to denver. tracy chapman was wafting through balls’ el camino, and we saw the neon k-mart sign light up in the distance. the air smelled excellent. in the rearview, i noticed a honda civic with an enormous spoiler and a mexican-looking lad behind the wheel. as he crept closer, the head-pounding melody fed into our car. balls guessed it was mexican rock music. i was fairly certain it was a band called blue turtle seduction. we sped off.
the streets in downtown denver are nothing like the cities of the east coast. navigation is easy and paying for parking’s a pittance. we parked the car and headed out for the streets. we were to meet balls’ girl at an old denver saloon. he told me about his new life in colorado.
“i’m working for a lithuanian tree cutter, and the fucker doesn’t start work till 1:00 p.m.”
“how do you feel about that?”
“well, i don’t have to get up early.”
“right.”
“i’m up in trees all day”
“you love it!”
“yeah, the rockies are all around, and that makes the landscape crazynew. the air hits my lungs and I feel like a zedong farmer, or probably a sherpa. i’m a sherpa, staring at the mountains and cutting trees with thoughts of zen placidity. i’m paul bunyan in my mind!”
balls is paul bunyan in his mind.
“i’ve been exploring caves and trying to enjoy nature, you know?”
“exploring caves?” i asked.
“yeah, spelunking. i’m taking a class on rope descension.”
“hrmm… i can’t imagine exploring caves.”
“i can’t imagine you exploring caves, either.”
conversation carried on like this as we walked the brick-lined streets of old denver. there were pretty young girls and old cowboys and shy mexicans and all sorts of people bopping around, slicing into this jazz club or that taco bell or, oooh…how about the arcade and beer hall at the top of a huge flight of stone slab steps? hoooweee. we entered the bar where bridgette was waiting. there were wild west double saloon doors, the floor was made of wooden planks, and there were carvings in the table where henry miles left his mark in 1938. bridgette had just met back up with balls in denver after a stint in san antonio. they had been living together in massachusetts until balls decided he’d had enough. bridgette moved away and balls commenced a year-long binge of rude proportions. we sat down with beers to talk.
and you know how nights like these end. it was late, the beer was gone, and bridgette had to be at work in five hours. so fuck it, we went back to balls’ house for more kicks.
“i have the script you’ve been asking about.” balls said.
i’d been badgering balls for months about reading the screenplay he wrote. he tossed a beer over and handed me the script. i began reading and we were doing a buck forty through the fruitless Arizona desert. i laid down and reconfigured the couch into a drunken el camino. i kept reading, over and over, “head west and don't forget to stare at the orange grove.” “head west and don't forget to stare at the orange grove.” “swing to the motel with glossy flamingoes guarding the entrance and hitchhikers gobbling coleslaw.” the three of us sat in the el camino all sage and yoda-like as the desert sand whipped dervishly against the tires. my half-illuminated, glowing mind heard a slow burning devotional song etching out of the cd player. i pulled down my sunglasses as we came across a sign in the middle of the desert. we stopped and stared for about 5 minutes. “warning: drug-sniffing dogs ahead.” we drove on.
there seemed to be a lot of killing taking place.
