KennethJCrist

Nostalgia Trip

It is one hundred forty-four miles, from Las Vegas to Barstow, California. Somewhere in that stretch of the Mojave Desert was where the Event occurred. At the time, I didn't even realize that anything had happened, but over time it has come to haunt me, to rule my life.

I crossed that stretch beneath the brightest full moon I had ever seen, riding a restored 1962 Harley Davidson Panhead that I had bought as a wreck from a man in Mt. Vernon, Missouri.

I had spent three years restoring it, and when it was finished, I decided a road trip was in order. I invited my wife, but truthfully, I was just as glad when she declined. I was still telling myself I loved her then, and that there was nothing wrong with our marriage. That has changed, also.

It was late May when I left, and knowing the weather could still hold some surprises for travelers in the Rockies, I opted to go the southern route, across the Oklahoma Panhandle and the Texas Panhandle and into New Mexico.

Three days of riding and sightseeing found me in Las Vegas on a 99-degree day. I pulled a few slot machines and took a nap in my motel room, waiting for dark to do the crossing into California. My reasons were simple. Mainly, I didn't want to fry my brains. After dark, I gassed the Harley and set out, enjoying the coolness of the desert at night and just daydreaming my way along. Traffic was light and the old Hog was running perfectly. Some say the Panhead was the best of the Harleys and I would have to agree.

When I got into Barstow, I pulled into the first gas station I saw, and I remember thinking at the time that it was weird that the guy actually came out and pumped my gas. I didn't pay any attention to the gas prices, and when he hung up the old mechanical-style pump, I just handed him a five. I didn't even count my change.

As the evening progressed, I marveled at the lack of traffic. It seemed I almost had the road all to myself. By the time I got tired, I was nearing Bakersfield and, not wanting to deal with staying in a city, I turned off onto a secondary road and soon found a motel near the town of Arvin.

The guy on the desk sold me a room at a price that I thought was way too low, but what was I going to do, convince him he should charge more? As I was starting for my room, he came outside and admired the old Harley.

"Is it new?" he asked.

"It's a '62 model," I told him proudly, thinking that would surely rock him back on his heels.

"Sure build 'em big anymore, don't they?" was his only comment.

I agreed with him, thinking he was just another old fart that didn't know beans about motorcycles. I went to my room and sacked out.

The next morning was Sunday and I was up with the birds. I wanted an early start so I could ride for a while before all the old Grannies got out of church. I needn't have worried. I'd chosen highway 58 to cross to the Coast and I soon found out that it had been built wherever the cows walked. There was little traffic and I spent most of the day shifting the old Harley up and down and cranking it through low-speed turns. This was all right, though. I was in no hurry.

As evening approached, I was coming into San Louis Obispo and I was starving. Ahead on the left was an old diner, art deco to the max, right down to the stainless steel front and pink neon blinking "Charlie's". I pulled in, noticing a slick '57 Chevy, an equally nice '62 Ford and a Nash Metropolitan in the lot.

Inside, there were about ten stools along a counter and a few booths on the opposite wall. A Wurlitzer juke stood in the corner by the door, bubbling merrily away and playing "Peggy Sue" by Buddy Holly. I slid my tired bones into a booth and picked up a menu.

Hamburger and fries, a dollar twenty. Cheese, 5 cents extra. Soft drinks, small, a dime. Large, a quarter. Yeah, right. What bullshit! This was carrying the nostalgia bit a little too far. The waitress cruised on over and I was still staring at the menu and without looking up, I said, "Sure would be nice if these prices were for real."

A soft voice said, "Those are the prices. The boss had to raise 'em last week."

I looked up into the deepest brown eyes I have ever seen in my life, along with a spill of honey-blonde hair, framing a face of an angel. I let my gaze travel downward in a frank inspection, taking in a crisp white blouse, barely containing what I imagined to be curved perfection, a trim waist, small hips and muscular legs clad in some shiny, stretchy, black pants that fit like skin. I looked back at her face and I knew she had caught me checking her out, but I didn't care. The nametag on her left lapel said "Gina."

"What're ya gonna have?" she asked, smiling at me, as I felt myself starting to melt.

I stammered out something having to do with food and whatever I said, she seemed to understand. She turned and left, saying, "I'll have that out to ya in a minute." It seemed to me that there was more twitch to her fanny going away than there had been coming toward, but maybe it was just my imagination.

She returned shortly with coffee and silverware and gave me a peek when she bent over the table. Beautiful cleavage, with a tiny gold heart on a thin gold chain dangling there, against a backdrop of smooth, tanned flesh.

As I waited for my food I got to wondering what time it was here on the Coast and that was when I dug out my watch and got the first big shock. I found myself staring at a gold-colored Benrus with one of those magnifier things in the three o'clock position that shows the date through a little window. I had never seen it before in my life. I had started the trip with a Casio Databank with a busted strap, and I hadn't looked at it since Las Vegas.

This watch was very freaky and I began to add things up in my mind. All the old cars.(And no new ones!) The prices on the menu. The old guy last night at the motel, admiring the Hog and asking, "Is it new?"

I took out my wallet, just to see if anything else had been switched, thinking perhaps somebody might have been in my room the night before. In the wallet there were no longer any credit cards at all. I looked at my driver's license. It said it would expire on my birthday in 1966. I still had all my money, but when I began to examine it, I found there were no bills with a series later than 1964. Now I was nearly shitting myself and I frantically dug all the change out of my pockets and dumped it on the table. No "sandwich" coins, the kind of crap we use now for money. Everything was honest silver, copper, and nickel. No dates later than 1964.

I was in a full sweat now and I carefully put everything back, closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply and slowly, as I tried to regain some composure.

Gina set my food down in front of me and asked, "Honey, is everything okay? You look kinda sick or somethin'."

I looked up into that lovely face again and asked, "What day is this?"

"Sunday, why?"

"No, I mean what's the date?"

"Um, let's see," she said, "May the thirtieth."

"And what year might it be?"

She was looking at me pretty strangely now and she said, "Well, it might just be 1965. Look, do you need me to call someone for you?" There was concern in that voice and I got the feeling that Gina had seen a lot in her life, not all of it good.

"No," I said quietly, swallowing a lump of fear, "I'll be fine." I unfolded my napkin and started to eat.

Doubtfully, she said, "Okay, let me know when you're ready for more coffee."

I had more coffee, that evening. A lot more. As I sat and wondered what I was going to do next, I think I drank a whole pot, by myself. Gina continued to be friendly, although wary, as though I might turn into a raving lunatic at any moment and start climbing the walls or running across the ceiling. I felt as if that assessment wasn't far off. Finally, I just had to get out and move around. I paid my tab, just over two bucks, and left a 1990's tip for Gina and went out cruising. I thought this might be just a localized phenomenon and if I got away from that diner, there might be a chance that everything would come back to normal.

After two hours on the streets of San Luis Obispo, I had to conclude that I had indeed, somehow, wound up in the sixties. In my travels, I had seen no vehicles newer than 1965 models and had even looked in dealer's showrooms. I saw more Edsels that evening than I had seen up to that point in my entire life and Corvairs and VW Beetles were everywhere. I saw bell-bottom pants, hula hoops and psychedelic microbuses. On a TWA ad on a billboard, the jetliner was a Boeing 707. Through living room windows, I saw the flicker of lots of black and white TVs and I saw at least three drive-in movies. Oh, yeah. It was the sixties, all right.

By ten o'clock, I was back at the diner and again met the lovely Gina.

"Hey, it's the guy who doesn't know what year it is. Feelin' better now?"

"I'm fine now, Gina. Hey, what time do you get off?"

"Are you askin' me out, or what?" She was behind the counter, glancing at me coyly, over one shoulder.

"Thinkin' about it. I need somebody to talk to, pretty bad."

"Yeah, talk. I know you motorcycle types. Most a you guys scare me to death."

"No, seriously, Gina. No funny stuff. Something really strange has happened to me tonight and I'm having trouble getting a grip on it. Can you just meet me after you get off and we'll talk? Maybe you can help me."

"Well, I'll think about it. What's your name?"

"It's Max. Or at least it was. Now I don't know...."

I waited on Gina for an hour and a few minutes after eleven, she came out to the lot. She had changed into jeans and she had a light jacket with her. She decided she wanted a ride and I was more than happy to oblige. I took it easy, because the last thing I wanted was to scare her, or piss her off. She asked me if I liked the ocean and I told her I'd never been there. With her pointing the way, we rode the twelve miles to Morro Bay and parked at a public parking area and walked down to the ocean. My first impression of the ocean was that it was loud and it was huge. Again there was a bright moon and we took our shoes off and walked the sand, still warm from the day's sun.

I told her the whole story, or everything I knew up to that point. I'm sure, at first, that she thought I was crazy, or just feeding her a line of bullshit, until I began to tell her about some of the things that would happen, that I saw as the past. I told her about Vietnam and Nixon, about the moon landings and cars with computers. I told her how Ronald Reagan would one day wind up as President and at some point she became fascinated with my ramblings, I guess, and she actually began to believe me.

Long after midnight, we wound up back at the diner, to pick up her car. As she unlocked the white VW, she asked, "Where are you staying, Max? Will I see you again?"

"I haven't taken time to get a room yet," I replied, "I guess I'd better do that and I'll come by the diner tomorrow."

"Why don't you follow me home and stay at my place for tonight? I've got an extra room. The motels will all be full or closed by now."

"Are you sure? I don't want to impose and you really don't know me, Gina."

"I think you're trustworthy. I'm a pretty good judge of people and if I was afraid of you, I wouldn't have gotten on your bike."

Gina tended to drive like a maniac, revving the piss out of the little German car and hurling it around corners. I was soon lost, not being familiar with the town, and I had my hands full just trying to keep up with her, until at last she pulled into the drive of an old, two-story house in the south part of town. She stepped out of her car and told me to put the bike in her garage and shut the door. That done, we went inside. She showed me the spare bedroom, the bathroom and told me to help myself to whatever I needed and she went off to bed. I took a good, hot shower and turned in, too.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of frying bacon and I bounded out of bed. I dressed and went to the can and cleaned my teeth, then sought out the kitchen. Gina was in blue jean cut-offs, and a black halter top, at the stove. Her back was to me and her hair was pinned up off her elegant neck. I stood in the doorway, just checking her out, admiring what there was to see, then she just turned and looked at me, no surprise at all in her expression.

"Good morning, lazybones," she said, "Sleep well?"

"Like a rock," I said, "hey, was last night a dream, or is it still 1965?"

"Still. Sit down, eggs're almost ready."

"Can I help with anything?"

"Oh. Yeah, you can pour juice, glasses are up there," she said, pointing with her spatula, "and you can do toast. You can do toast, can't you?"

"I can do toast. Never fear."

During breakfast, I asked her what time she had to go to the diner. She told me she had called in and taken a few days off. "I thought we might spend some time together. Get to know each other. Who knows? Maybe we'll even solve your problem."

We spent that day riding the coast highway, stopping often to view the ever-changing panorama of the ocean and nightfall found us near Monterey. We found a small motel, right on the beach and checked in for the night. I tried to buy two rooms, but she insisted I was being silly and told me if I was shy, I could hang a blanket between the beds. We went to supper and picked up a six-pack on the way back and sat on the porch of our unit, talking and watching the stars and surf. I don't remember at what point she took my hand, but she had been holding onto me in a comfortable, familiar way, as we rode the coast highway, all day long.

We moved our chairs closer together and I kissed her, burying my hands in that thick, honey-colored hair and a few minutes later we went inside for the night.

I really thought I had known pleasure in my life and I really thought I had been around, but Gina....Well, Gina was just Gina. She was the lover I had waited all my life for, without even knowing I was waiting. Once we started, she was as uninhibited as any child, yet as wise in the ways of loving as the oldest Madam on Earth. For the next five days, we became inseparable, sharing rides, meals, baths, and beds, going to movies and the beach, watching TV and reading together.

Of course, she knew that I would have to leave. Somehow, I had to know if my life in the nineties was gone, or if it still existed. I had to go back. I'll admit it-I was stupid. I couldn't leave well enough alone and just enjoy being with her. I had to Know.

On June ninth, I packed and before I left, she asked me to take her to the ocean one more time. We walked on the beach, like we did on our first night and I held her, breathing in the smell of her hair and the tangy salt smell of the ocean. We kissed again and again, making believe, I guess, that I didn't have to go. But in the end, I did.

I remember the tears clinging in her lashes when she turned away from me and I pulled out of her drive. I turned to wave, but she was running back into the house.

It's 1998 now. When I left California, it was again at night, but there was no moon, that night. By the time I got to Vegas, I was nearly run off the road by a Dodge Viper and I knew I was back. The rest of the trip was an exercise in self-loathing and an epilogue of regret.

You see, when I got back from California, I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind for a while. And after a few months, it became easy to doubt that it really happened at all. I was getting the old Harley ready to sell, thinking maybe the aged machine was the cause of all this, that maybe when I rode it, it had some influence over me that wasn't healthy. Maybe there was something about that bike that caused me to see things, hear things, and experience things that weren't true. So I went down to the storage place where I kept it and when I opened the overhead door and walked around it, the late afternoon sun caught something shiny, something that was out of place. I looked closer and saw, caught between the Corbin seat and the passenger pad, the tiny gold heart and the fine gold chain that Gina had worn.

I divorced my old lady seven months ago. She had a boyfriend and I caught her once. She swore it was over, but it wasn't and when I caught her a second time, I filed. I sold my Sportster last week and this evening I packed all my stuff and set what I can't take with me out at the curb for the Salvation Army. The '62 Harley is as ready as I can make it and tomorrow's three days before the full moon, the eleventh of May. I'm hoping that the phase of the moon is more important than the date, and that the old motorcycle is, in fact, the key. I'll take no chances. I'll start at the same time, and I'll follow the same route. I'll do everything the same as I did two years ago, except that this time, I'll pray. And I'll have that little gold heart with the fine gold chain in my pocket, near my heart.

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