Becky sat in the corner chewing her nails. If Tom takes the car, why don't you ride to the dentist tomorrow? asked Myrtle. It's fifteen miles, said Becky. Don't bend the spoons! Myrtle told her harshly. Eagle Star can take you thirty miles, easy, she said. Becky straightened the spoon. How far to Vegas, asked Rick. A ways, said Myrtle. Becky laughed.
They drove down to the beach where a bonfire sent shadows gliding across the sand. I don't like shadows, said Rick. Sammy said nothing. Somebody called out from the bonfire. Sammy couldn't hear so he moved closer. Want some wine? came the voice again. They moved down closer. No wine for me, said Rick. They stepped across the sand until the fire warmed their faces. So this is California, Rick smiled. Don't spoil it, snapped Sammy.
Rick didn't want to sleep on the beach. The sharks come out at night, he joked. They ambled back to the car. Let's go to the party! cried Sammy. They drove back along the cliffs, turning in finally until they arrived back among the canyons. They parked behind a Porsche and changed clothes. Sammy put on his shades in the night. Rick wore a windbreaker and cutoffs.
Want some coke? asked a man at the door. The music pounded loudly out by the pool. Inside, a different record played soft rock. They sat on a fat leather couch across from a blonde woman who drank her champagne in gulps. What do we do now? asked Rick. We mingle, replied Sammy.
Sammy stood and talked to a dark-haired woman in a paper jumpsuit. He told jokes. You tear me up, said Ronnie. I see where you're coming from.
They came from New York.
Sammy did not think about the city. Rick had his pictures but did not develop them. Streets melted into highways, and palm trees gasped in the night air. Sammy put down his drink. Let's go, he said to Rick.
In Sausalito they slept on a creaky fishing boat, waking at dawn. Is that why they call it golden? wondered Rick, staring off through a misty prism at the bridge. Two eggs and bacon, said Sammy to the waitress. They drove away from the high-way, on a wispy road through craggy moors. The road ascended, then dropped to beach level. Sammy felt sick. Is this it? he wondered, staring out the car window into the fog. Rick stopped the Dodge and they shuffled across the sand. All these beaches, muttered Rick. Sammy watched the ocean caress his feet, walking until the water washed his knees. He took off his shades. What is profound? he called out Rick laughed. Rick found Sammy funny. Sammy did not mean to be funny.
You have to laugh a lot, said the guitarist as he picked at his C. Rick wished he would stop plucking. The house in Malibu needed paint and new walls. Tomorrow we'll go to Venice, said Sammy. That will make you laugh, said the guitarist. His string broke. I can't play the guitar anyway, he laughed.
The belly dancer at Venice yelled something to Rick. Don't I know you from somewhere? she asked. Sammy giggled. Rick talked to her about dancing. Rick did not dance. You have to try, said the dancer. You have to try everything. Sammy and Rick looked at each other. They looked down the boardwalk, past the electric skateboards, past the nude roller skaters and the Swede who juggled machetes. God, thought Sammy. He felt hungry so they bought cotton candy, chocolate chip cookies and papaya juice. On the beach, a bearded vendor offered a backrub to anyone who bought his bagels. I would like to try tightrope walking, said Rick as they watched the great whoever tiptoe through the air. But I would not like to try everything. Sammy contemplated the weight lifters in their pen. He eyed the girls, their tiny bathing suits disappearing in his squint. Another sunset, he thought.
Only moose roamed the Badlands when they turned into windy cliffs under a full moon. Look at the moonbow, said Sammy, counting the colors. I wish we had a tape recorder, said Rick, shivering in the silence. Grotesque elephant rocks lumbered into view. Sammy looked at the road, the dotted center line, but the shadows crept across the windshield. I don't want to sleep, said Rick. Tough, said Sammy. They fought.
They stopped fighting for four minutes in Yosemite. Look, a deer, whispered Rick. Don't take a picture, whispered Sammy. Look, a baby deer, whispered Rick. No pictures, whispered Sammy. I'm thirsty, whispered Rick.
They drank cokes and played pinball in Hollywood, treading on the bronze stars, looking for glamor in a hot dog. Why'd we come here? asked Sammy, putting on his shades. It was you idea, replied Rick.
Sammy stuffed his clothes into his duffle. I don't want to go back, said Rick. They watched the sun set beyond the ocean, beyond Malibu. Tomorrow, said Sammy.
Sammy peered at the odometer. Ten thousand, he told Rick. Rick looked back and smiled. The Dodge coughed. Rick turned on the radio and they slid home.