— T-Mobile. She looked defensively at him. — And what about the one you lost? What network is that?
There was more silence. Then Scott passed the small first-aid kit over from the back, and Madeline helped Eugene clean and dress his wound. Fortunately the cut was less deep than it had seemed.
Eugene attempted to work out their location. He had earlier given up on the map — the reverb from the drugs aftermath and his fatigue had made the lines and symbols and colors one big head-fucking mess. He had an autistic younger brother, Danny, who did these incomprehensible drawings. Now Danny’s art made more sense than the gazetteer he was compelled to revisit. Instead of taking the Interstate 80 across the Sierra Nevada, they’d gone north out of Black Rock City onto the 395 and then started to hit some of the back roads to get into the Nevada desert in order to do the yagé. He estimated that they were now probably about two hundred miles northeast of Vegas. — If the axle’s gone, I guess we’re gonna have to stay here until help comes or the storm blows over and we can phone or look for somebody, he ventured.
Scott shook his head in the negative. — I wanted to go to fucking Vegas, man…
Eugene looked at Madeline, who remained impassive, then turned back to Scott. — Don’t think it’s gonna happen, bro.
— And I had somebody coming to paint my apartment, Madeline said, sweeping her road-heavy locks back from her face. — I needed to get things sorted out.
Scott’s big dark eyes fell searchingly over Eugene. Shaking his head, he asked petulantly, — How the hell did you manage to crash?
Sucking in a deep breath, Eugene struggled to force the words through his tightening jaw. — It’s kind of called fatigue, man, he sneered. — If you recall the idea was that we’d fucking share the driving duties, remember that one? His sarcastic voice rose. — But I guess that poor old Eugene here had to do the lot cause you guys were still out of it. I do nat believe that you have got the fucking audacity to complain! Asshole! Eugene snapped, and then was out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Scott glanced at Madeline, who smiled tensely. Her grin vanished as a sound came from behind them. It was Eugene. He opened up the back of the Dodge and pulled out the tent.
As he struggled with the steel and fibreglass poles in the strong winds, Eugene hoped that it would stay up, and he was secretly relieved when Scott and Madeline appeared by his side, even if their coming to his aid meant that his quiet martyrdom would be harder to sustain. They worked in silence, assembling the frame and laying down the flysheet, then pulling over and securing the tent. They took the sleeping bags and some clothes in from the Dodge. As they finished constructing their camp, the storm began to subside.
— I wonder how long we’re gonna be out here? Scott asked. Then he quickly added, although he was aware that Eugene’s behavior had shown this not to be judicious, — I’m sorry, but I gotta say it, buddy: I’m really pissed about the fucking vehicle. I got it for the band. I told my old man that it was my goddamn livelihood and he fronted me the twenty grand. It’s eating at me. I have to say it. I have to speak about it.
Eugene gave his old college buddy a measuring look. He saw a thin, wiry guy with a crew cut and girl’s hands. Scott had never done any kind of work in his life. Worse, thought Eugene in some bitterness, he probably never would. He was just sitting around, ass plonked on the stools of various North Beach bars, telling the diminishing number of bodies who cared to listen about the various bands he was planning to get together, while he waited on that trust fund kicking in. Swallowing down his anger, Eugene realized there was nothing to be gained by blowing up at Scott now. Besides, he was tired. — Sorry, dude. I’ll sort things out. Tommy at the garage in Potrero Hill will be able to fix this.
— So now we just, like, wait here?
Eugene sat cross-legged, looked around the parameters of the orange tent. — Look, man, I thought this was for the best, he yawned, feeling his body start to relax again, the way it had after the yagé. — I’m pretty pooped. I gotta get some sleep. Somebody will come by. This is America, he smiled, — you’re never more than a mile from somebody trying to sell you something.
Scott and Madeline quickly looked at each other, a flashbulb consensus that this was the best course of action. They began to bed down in their respective sleeping bags. Yep, somebody would come by, Eugene thought. Kick back. Rest. Relax. Repair. Get strong. It sounded so good.
The old 1982 blue Chevy pickup truck had been the first thing that Alejandro had bought when he came to America. It had cost him two hundred dollars, most of it borrowed from his sister Carmelita. It was a rusted wreck, but he had talent as a mechanic, and had lovingly resurrected the vehicle. He knew that a truck could always earn you extra money.
Now it was holding up well, the engine ticking over nicely as they cruised down a back road through the desert, Alejandro and his younger brother Noe, who sat in the passenger seat, silently completing a crossword-puzzle book.
When he contemplated their flight from home, Alejandro couldn’t think of Phoenix, although they had now lived there for almost three years. That city was only Carmelita’s home; the place she’d dragged them to.
Not that he held his native town in any higher regard. It was an old fishing village, south of Guaymas on the Pacific Coast. It had survived, and indeed, for such a poor part of Sonora, could even have been said to have thrived, as a transport hub. It was close to Highway 15 and was also a stop on the coastal train route. The main town centre, an ugly 1970s series of poorly maintained low-rise buildings, sat uncomfortably next to an old village that had grown up around a small harbor, which held fewer brown-rusted boats every year.
They were simple people, Alejandro thought in a cold rancor; fools who had fished for years when there was nothing left to fish. Some of them in the village seemed to have barely noted their slide from poverty into destitution. They believed the fish would come back. Then, when they started starving, they moved north, then across to America.
The place Carmelita had taken them to.
The town had nothing going for it. On the highway you would see luxury air-conditioned coaches full of wealthy norteamericanos bypassing it, heading for the foothills of the Sierra Madre occidentals and historic Alamos with its beautiful Spanish colonial architecture. Those tourists would never come near his home town.
On leaving school, Alejandro sweated at menial work in a garage and its attached shop. It was owned by a wealthy, aggressive, fast-talking chilango, named Ordaz, who had promised that he would train him as a mechanic. Eighteen months later, Alejandro was still stacking shelves in the shop, and cleaning the garage and washing cars. He had yet to hold a spanner in his hand.
Alejandro had confronted Ordaz about this. His slick city-boy boss had simply laughed in his face. When Alejandro grew vexed, his employer’s expression took on a sinister hue and he told the youth to gather up his stuff and leave.
So there was nothing to keep them where they were, save their mother’s grave in the old cemetery at the base of the hills above the town, and the local prison, some 150 kilometres away, which held their disgraced father.
It had been Carmelita who had sent for them after she herself had obtained a job through a friend who was working in Phoenix. She was offered employment by a wealthy family following the professionally prepared CV she had sent them, and the smiling photograph, Alejandro recalled with distaste.
She had found them a place to live and got Alejandro some gardening and landscaping work and also enrolled Noe at a local school. Now they all cleaned up after the guero. Did his gardens. Watered his lawns. Looked after his spoiled children. Served his food.