Desire’s Journey

Desire’s Journey

Everybody was saying goodbye to Mick. He had come to the RV park three years before, fresh out of jail. A burly, barrel-chested man, he had, for twenty-five years, made a precarious living with his hands and his fists. His previous “job,” before his incarceration, had been as a bouncer in a blue-collar bar; as long as he remained sober enough to control the crowd of “serious drinkers,” he was given pocket money, his meals, a place to park his live-in camper, and all he could drink.

He had been the target of gunshot, a few times, in his “work,” and in his last skirmish he had exacted a painful toll from his antagonist, to the extent that he was imprisoned. Now, a free agent once again, but humble, sober and hungry for the first time in his adult life, he was given a job as the RV campground’s handyman. Not long after, he married one of the single women there. His brother, who lived in Arkansas, had been a carpenter; he suddenly came into a handsome sum of money, due to an accident. For his vacation, Mick and his wife took their camper, and their dog, and visited the brother. Shortly after their return to California, the brother phoned: “You remember that piece of property you were admiring, the one with the big motor home on it? I bought it for you!” “Jesus Christ! Why the hell did you do that?!” “You’re my brother, and I love you, and I want you to be near.” He paused. “Three years ago, I never thought I’d be saying that.”

“Me neither. But you’re way out in the boonies; I’d need a four-wheel-drive to live there, and I’d be snowed in for a whole month during winter. How the hell would I make a living?” “You remember meeting Graham Parker? He said he likes you, and you can work for him. He cuts firewood, all year around. And there’s a four-by-four that goes with the job; all you have to do is buy your own gas when you go into Redway to shop.” “I’ve got to finish out my month here, to get my pay. Tell Parker I’ll be wearing my new work boots on the first day of next month!”

Mick’s wife was on the way out to walk the dog, when the phone had rung. She had sat down next to him on the sofa, and had heard the conversation. When Mick hung up the phone, she said: “I ain’t going.” Mick lit a cigarette. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!”

“And a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do,” she said, following the dog out the door. “I ain’t going.” Mick stubbed out his cigarette, and said aloud to himself, “She ain’t going! She ain’t going!” Now Mick was packing his tools in his camper, and various people at the campground were coming by to shake his hand and wish him well.

He set out that night, so as to cross the desert quickly. At 2 a.m., he wanted a cup of coffee; the only place he came to was a roadhouse.

“We ain’t got no coffee made,” the barkeep said, “but I can brew a pot. Take probably ten minutes.” “I’m in a hurry.” “Then how about a glass of beer?” “Shit! Okay.” Leaving the roadhouse an hour later, Mick was arrested for driving on the wrong side of the road, speeding, and drunk driving. He was also in violation of parole. He returned to the campground humble, sober and hungry. His brother had wired the bail money, and Mick was again working at his old job—but now as “assistant” care-taker— until his court date and return to jail. And everyone was stopping to say goodbye to Mick.