from ROAD KILL, 

by 
Ken Kuhlken 
and 
Alan Russell

Actually, here's how our argument began. In Santa Maria. We had to stop there to pick up some books my publisher had shipped. They arrived late. I'd had them sent there because Alan was supposed to ride the Greyhound to Santa Maria and meet me where I'd been hiding out, bumming a room off my friend Steve. But Alan decided he was too big to ride the Greyhound. Meaning his legs wouldn't fit and he's a thrice published novelist. A hotshot. A distinguished man of letters. That's why he's hustling Jenny Craig.

    To wriggle out of the Greyhound he got the Carmel Valley Friends of the Library to invite us to give a talk. "We can sell a few books," he said. "Donate the profit to the library."

    "And make me drive all the way back from Santa Maria because you're too cool to ride the Greyhound and too cheap to take the airplane."

    "Did I tell you how much the plane costs to Santa Maria?"

    "Take it to Oakland. I'll pick you up there."

    "And disappoint Victoria?"

    "Who's Victoria?"

    "The woman with the sexiest voice on the west coast. Our contact with the Friends of the Carmel Library."

    "Oh, all right. I'll be there."

    I headed south the day before the books would arrive at Steve's place in Santa Maria, the morning of our library appearance. Early afternoon, I stopped in Thousand Oaks for gas, at a Chevron. I sprinted to the restroom. The door was locked. I paced and grumbled. After a couple minutes the toilet flushed. A guy started whistling. The water in the sink turned on, stayed on for several minutes, turned off. A paper towel rustled. Then another. Still another. Finally the door creaked open. A swarthy fellow appeared.

    "Sure you got your hands clean enough?" I inquired.

    He regarded me severely. I might've stayed and traded evil eyes, except I was set to explode. I bolted inside, slammed the door. Maybe too hard. When I tried to open it, the knob just spun. I shook and kicked for a while, then started pounding. At last footsteps sounded.

    "Hey, I'm stuck," I shouted. "Help me out of here, would you?"

    The footsteps retreated. Within the hour, two pair of footsteps returned. "We're going to get you out. Be patient."

    The doorknob spun a few times. The door rattled. "It's really stuck," a man said, then he and the other guy talked Arabic for about half the afternoon, probably discussing the price of various wholesale motor oils and now and then asking each other how long they should let the wisecracking infidel remain in the latrine.

    I was beginning to wonder if people ever died from claustrophobia when they finally used the screwdriver to bust me out. I staggered to the junkheap I'd bought three years ago when I had presumed that large advances were my destiny. A Ford Explorer. It was a gem until the warranty expired and I let Alan drive it.

    The only benefits in driving back to San Diego were that I got to play wiffleball with Alan's kids and meet Victoria. A sultry voice. A tall, sleek blonde. A rare single woman who looks that good yet makes time to volunteer for the Friends of the Library and a literacy project. Otherwise, the trip was a bust. I sold four books, and gave the profit to the library. Instead of offering to subsidize my gas, Alan fed me day old pesto and a couple of the cheap beers he keeps on hand. A Pabst and a Lucky.

    This morning we sped north. I was anxious to solve the mystery of the message that Laura, Alan's wife, took last night. I'd gotten called in Santa Maria, at Steve's number, by somebody named Brown. When I called back, early morning, Steve was already gone. His son tried to read the message. All he could decipher was "Brown." And "Call Joe."

    A week before, Joe Publicist from St. Martin's called to tell me that David Brown, producer of such literary classics as "Jaws," has asked for a copy of my new book, THE ANGEL GANG. So this Brown who called, I figure, must be the same guy, phoning to say that he's read the book and decided to make a blockbuster out of it. And Joe Publicist called to announce that St. Martin's, on account of the movie deal, has decided to sponsor our tour. Tonight, I told Alan, we dine, drink and sleep at the St. Francis.

    All the way to Santa Maria, I'm whistling, wondering who'll play Tom Hickey in the movie, if the story could adapt to accommodate a shark, whether my check would be six or seven figures, should I accept David Brown's invitation to write the screenplay. I'm feeling so lighthearted and secure, I wonder if my friend Stan Cutler's goddaughter Kathryn, who'd recently divorced Lorenzo Lamas, would care to spend an evening with me. Even driving through L.A. can't break the spell. Neither can Alan's grousing about our having to take 101 instead of I-5, which would get us to San Francisco about six hours sooner, the way Alan drives. On 101, there's traffic. Top speed's about 70. But in Santa Maria, Steve translates the note. It's Phyllis Brown from Grounds for Murder bookstore. Wearily, I call her, learn that she only wants me to write an article about Sue Dunlap. "Write it yourself," I mutter, then hang up and call Joe Publicist. He's out to lunch. At four P.M. New York time.

    I let Alan drive, so I can brood more darkly. All the way to King City, he tailgates and gripes. The one-hundred-twenty-third time he says, "If we were on I-5 . . . ," I roar, "Listen, I just drove all the way to (blah blah blah), and you just keep making a big (expletive) deal on account of we won't get dinner until eight o'clock when your dinner time is at six and your wife spoils you to death, and I don't see how she puts up with your . . . (and so on)."

    For ten minutes, heavy silence reigned. Alan weaved, chopped off semis, zoomed past two highway patrol cars parked on the shoulder. The officers wore dark glasses and must've been dozing.

    At last I muttered, "Sorry."

    "No problem," Alan said icily.

    Trying to lighten things up, I talked about my friend Steve. Alan had liked Steve, who's a warm, gentle, strange character. He owns a sign business and does pinstriping. His house is full of old gas pumps, neon signs, pinball machines. He made his new grandaughter a rocking cow, all out of wood, with wooden rockers, and pinstriped the whole cow. He drives a Harley Davidson.

    A couple months ago, Steve phoned me. "Ken," he says meekly, "I've got to confess something. You know, being a Christian, I'm supposed to set a good example, right? Well, across the street from my shop, there's a guy named Foster, does auto body work. A while back, I got this urge to moon him. So I did. Then he mooned me. And now there's not a day goes by when one of us doesn't moon the other. Well, yesterday, I'd just got back from a job and there he is, standing in the doorway to his shop. I didn't see anybody else around, so I mooned him. And a while later he comes over and he's howling, slapping his leg, you know. He says, 'Way to go, Steve. Didn't you see the old lady I was talking to?' She must've been in the shadows. 'We were checking you out, and she taps me on the shoulder and says, "Oh look, there's a homeless man going to the bathroom."

    Steve said he didn't think it was very Christian to be mooning people. But he kept doing it anyway. I suggested he find a mooners anonymous. If there wasn't one closer, I assured him, there'd be a chapter in San Francisco.

    Between the story and the traffic thinning so that Alan could floor the accelerator and drive fast enough to terrify me -- anything over 100 mph will do -- we put my tantrum behind us. Terrifying me pleases Alan immensely. So does abusing my Explorer. We were rattling over construction potholes, in the left lane even though the right lane was smoother, when a black Kenworth chopped in front of us. Brakes screamed. Smoke rose from my tires, steam from Alan's forehead. Cussing demoniacally, he tailgated the Kenworth until it finally changed lanes. Then he roared past, flipping the guy off.

    In the blur, I noticed the Kenworth driver wore a felt cowboy hat pulled low, a shiny blond beard. He was chomping a cigar butt. I knew he'd reappear, heavily armed, before the trip concluded. Maybe he'd conclude it.

    A couple hours put us in the shadow of Oakland Coliseum, where according to a sign, Grateful Dead fans clean litter from the highway. It appeared they'd last swabbed the area in 1964.

    Another sign pointed the way to Jack London Square. I convinced Alan we should make a pilgrimage there. It's a tourist village. We only stopped long enough for me to scribble graffiti on a few white walls. I wrote, "Jack London is dead. Buy our books instead. Ken Kuhlken and Allen Russel." Every time, hypersensitive Alan insisted I correct the spelling of his name.

    In Alameda, we saw the world's ugliest auto paint job, on a Volkswagen bug. Flat purple.

    Laura Russell's folks live in Alameda. Their house is full of books. They're gracious people who either enjoy Alan or pretend to in exchange for access to their grandchildren. They gave us each a room with a sliding glass door that opened onto an atrium. With the curtains open, we could see each other, on account of which I got unjustly branded with a nickname.

    I blame myself for telling Alan about Steve's confession. Not to be outdone, no sooner had Mike and Ann gone to bed than Alan knocks on his window. I look over, and cringe. He's mooning me.

    While recovering from that ghastly vision, I curled up snuggly, read for a while, inserted my ear plugs so I wouldn't wake up when Alan's snoring shivered the plate glass, and fell asleep. Sometime during the night, Alan had drawn a sketch of a moon -- not the heavenly kind -- and taped it onto his window, facing out.

    I woke early, opened the shade and there it was. Behind it, Alan stood cackling. What choice did I have but to moon him?

    Immediately, he branded me Mooner.

    The whole routine was a set up, I'll bet. He'd have mooned me from there to Seattle if necessary, until one time he got me to drop my guard and moon him back. Alan considers imparting nicknames as one of his vocations. Even over breakfast with Mike and Ann, he called me Mooner. I know it's going to stick. He'll see to it. Fifty years from now, at age 98, I'll have to explain to my great great grandkids why people call me Mooner.

    That is if we survive this tour.

    Alan's out strolling the bayside, staring at birds. I'm going to go remind him that a great author's desire should be to honor people, to paint them larger than life, to immortalize them. Not to slander them with nicknames.

    He'll say, "Good point, Mooner." I know he will.

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