THE MOLOCH EATERS
By Charles Mitchell Turner
Chapter One
It is evening of a long, trying Sunday. Driven by insomnia, driven by my acute isolation, I spend hours walking on the beach after sunset, toiling like a bug over the deep Long Beach sand. A toenail clipping hangs over my shoulder. I ramble on to Toenail Clipping, about bad teeth and bad food, complaining that the rent’s too high, or my blood pressure’s too low. He makes a good companion, this sliver that is the moon. He never talks and never gives with heavy sighs when I go on too long about a particular subject. I suppose it’s rather mean to call him “Toenail Clipping.” He doesn’t mind. I call him anything; he sticks with dog-like loyalty. He just wants to hang. But, unlike a dog, he lacks the power to alert me should someone move up behind me.
I spin, alarmed, because I hear the padding footsteps of someone jogging toward me from the water’s edge. I freeze, weighing the situation for possible danger. We see a gangling figure of a male start to flail his arms as he plunges into the dry, soft sand. He gets in my face in the time it takes to slow and quit wind-milling those arms. By then it’s too late to throw up my hands to block him. He gets nose to nose and stands panting. I discern big square teeth, a great mustache, a swarthy grin. “I’ll be damned,” I tell Toenail Clipping; “it’s Doc Ramos.”
I first met Doc on the campus of Long Beach City College, with the initial attraction being that we both wanted the same girls. But, the politics caught us up. After only a few months we simply walked away from there, caught up in a quirky time. We were off to be two clowns playing the cosmic circus of the 60s - albeit clowns with sad overtones and urgent unfunny messages. We went East to base our operations in New York. There, we got tear-gassed and incarcerated, but life was grand and we did make our statement for brotherhood and ending the war. Along the way we blew a little pot, but prided ourselves on being clean otherwise. When the days of protest drew to a close we went our separate ways. He developed a passion for Mexico. I eased into the sediment here on the coast.
Doc draws me into an embrace. “I missed you, Denny the wizard,” he says through his teeth, looking into my eyes with eyes as black and bottomless as the holes of time.
“Me too,” I say stupidly.
We pause, each waiting to see where we go from here. Doc’s panting is slowly easing. He looks at me in an odd little way that says he’s heard of my doctor’s prognosis, but he doesn’t know whether to mention it. I catch my gaze on the great ship that’s moored directly behind him. It’s the Queen Mary, secured as close to the shore as practically possible. I see pensive, patient Toenail Clipping high over the Queen Mary, waiting in vain for me to rejoin him. I slide my eyes into Doc’s sad stare, feeling a bit sorry for him. “Don’t worry, Doc; I’m holding stable. I’ve a few alternative programs to sample yet.”
Doc shakes his head. “You’re going to lick it.”
“Yep; I am. Let’s go to my place. I’ve got to piss.”
“Hang it out here.”
“We’ll go to my place.”
“You writing lately? I don’t see a new book in nearly three years.”
“I have pieces of books in boxes. Hell, I’m no good for work anymore. I’m living on savings and dribbling-in royalties. What brought you to Long Beach?”
“Looking for you, Denny the wizard; looking for you.”
“Until the first of February I lived in L.A. How did you know to come here?”
“I wrote to your brother to find out if you’re kicking. He told me how you’ve taken to always walking this beach.”
“After thirty years, you just came to visit?”
“Well -” Doc stops in his tracks and jambs a cheroot between his square teeth. He chips a wooden match with a thumbnail until it ignites. My eyes ride the flame to the cigar tip and down the shaft to Doc’s teeth. I notice how stained those teeth are, and that there is a chip out of one. When I last saw them they were still white and clean, in gums that held them as steady as posts in concrete. I note the creased face, the loosening jowl, and I realize, he has aged, same as me. We are both sixty-plus. Two old fucks with broken teeth. I clap his shoulder as he moves ahead again.
We scale a grade that peaks against the gray wall of a sidewalk. We gain that plateau with its high street-side curb and go left to cross Long Beach Boulevard at the intersection.
“So; how’s Mexico?”
Doc chews the cheroot, meditatively. “Painful; desperate; beautiful; maddening; inspiring - It’s very spiritual.”
Doc flips his smoke into some palmettos growing in front of a stucco building. The building’s outside lights go on. Despite what Doc has said, I privately conclude that it’s something more than a simple visit that brought him here.
Doc goes on about Mexico. “Me? I don’t work. I am like an itinerant preacher. I roam the country, talking about the same things I did during the protest days, only adapted. At first it was hard. They thought I was a lazy hippy. They didn’t trust me. But I was running with Anglos so much I forgot how to be with my own people. So I told them that. I humbled myself to the most menial existence until they felt pity and began to like me. Now when I come to a town the poorest of the poor offers to share everything they have with me. There is so much need there. Sometimes I have to leave there and that’s the hardest part. I got to recharge the batteries, Denny.”
“Do the authorities bother you?”
“Oh, yeah. I spent ten months in jail. But they could never find me guilty of nothing. So, they let me out.”
“You’re the only one that hasn’t changed, Doc.”
“That is where you are wrong. That’s a bunch of bull. You’re still the same. You just got disconnected.” Doc takes a turn in front of me and stops. “Do you have a car, Denny?”
“I have a Taurus wagon.”
“You know, you don’t look too good. How do you feel?”
“Aw, I’m all right. There’s a certain strain to being alone in this. But I’m okay. I’m
strong.”
Doc digs in his shirt pocket, fishes out another cheroot and fiddles with it. It’s nearly too frazzled to be smoked.
“Doc; why are you really here?”
“Seriously - I have to get home, to be with Mama before she dies.”
“What are you planning to do; hitchhike?”
“I got on the phone with Dale and Carl. They want us to stop on the way to see them.”
Dale and Carl. Our two running buddies from the days in New York. Now they both are married to twin sisters from Fresno and are living there. I don’t know that we have anything in common anymore.
“Us?” I shake my head. “Don’t count on me, Doc. I don’t go anywhere. Anyway, I can’t think when I got to piss.”
“Yeah; let’s get on to your place. Now I got to piss too.”
We approach from the driveway, coming up to the Taurus. It sits, dappled by a mercury light that shines from above through a chinaberry tree growing too close to the house. Heavy dust hides most of its sheen. It appears in the darkness to be black, but in fact it’s indigo. It’s so neglected looking because it is. Doc runs a hand across the hood, streaking the dirt. “I got here by bus,” he says, wiping the hand on his pants.
My house is old, with falling gingerbread, peeling paint and crumbly shingles on the low pitched a-frame roof. Too much rain and humidity are ruining all that wonderful craftsmanship. The landlord seems not to care. Inside, the house meets one’s expectations, if they are not high. The sheet vinyl floor shows wear where the sub floor is loose. Dirty beige walls , low ceiling, with a fan light that strains to exude a yellow glow. I’ve furnished with gaudy furniture and outlandish do-dads to counteract the depressing pall.
Doc quick strides ahead of me to get to the commode first, unzipping and pointing in a fluid motion so that an unrestrained stream begins to flow into the pot.
Crap! My bladder’s sides strain like a water balloon. “Hurry, Doc; I can’t wait any longer.”
Wordlessly, Doc keeps pissing.
“Doc - Shit.”
I power walk through the kitchen. The doorknob rattles when I give it a violent turn. I throw the door open; then, in the fenced-in enclosure, where a barbecue pit is nearly lost in an overgrowth of weeds, and the nasty little mosquitoes whet their vampire noses, I hang it out. At last, the piss flows, to a chorus of warbling angels.
After, utterly calm, I’m zipping my fly, floating into the house. Doc’s rifling my books; says he’s looking for a road atlas. “I know the way, Doc. Just head out the Grapevine and keep going. By the time you get near, there are plenty of signs to guide you. And, I can get you to a safe place to hitch hike from.”
Doc leaves the books disheveled. He throws himself into the divine softness of the recliner, looking at me with eyes that proclaim his tiredness. “Denny, you big fucking wizard, you know you are going to do it. Each time you think of something else we waste more time. Get packed and les go.”
I move to the kitchen, stalling any further answer. At this point I’m really hungry. “Do you want something, Doc? I’m making myself a concoction of veggie juices. But I can fix you a juicy porterhouse. I’ve been saving that for something, but you’re welcome to it.”
“No, nothing. I don’t eat.”
“Organic carrot, spinach, apple and barley juice. One glass, three times a day. Since I’ve gotten used to this stuff, I actually look forward to it.”
There’s no reply. I return to the room, sipping a bit, seeing his sprawling form asleep in the recliner. “No wonder Doc’s being so quiet.” I pause in that naked moment to look upon my old friend, gratified that he’s come. I marvel that his mustache and hair are mostly black, while my own hair has blown away with the tumbleweeds. I smile. “Rest it; I’ll see you in the morning.”
After drinking my juice up a bit too quickly I find myself cleaning in the kitchen. Juicers are a real pain in the ass. As I put all the parts on the drainer and wipe up the counter, Doc begins to snore, becoming louder and louder. Amused, I stand in the doorway and watch him sleep. “I wish I could die like that.”
Then I spy the little packet of white powder, all but freed from his pocket. I continue to look on, now with moistening eyes, cursing the way life changes, where even the saints can’t remain saints. Suddenly weary, I go to the bedroom. Giving up seems the only option, as I lie on the bed with all my clothes on, shoes included.
A few hours later, Doc comes in and shakes the bed, not seeing that my eyes are still wide open. “Hey, fucking gringo.”
He shakes the bed again.
“Stop it, Doc.”
I look straight in his eyes with all the fury I can muster. But, I’m struck voiceless. Something in those black bottomless wells probes to the deepest core of my being; it fends away the anger, forces me to break off, teary eyed.
“You look like you’re struggling with some kind of emotional problem.”
“You look like some kind of cholo.”
“If you want to talk I want to listen.”
“No; give me time to hit the shower. We can bust some lances later, in the car.”
“You’re not going to take me, are you, Denny?”
“Doc, I can’t.”
“Okay.” Doc’s restless hands move over the content of his shirt pocket. He darts his eyes away, but they can’t evade me.
“I can let you out on the Grapevine, or I can put you on a bus,” I tell him, regretfully.
“Or you could lend me the car!”
“Out of the question,” I reply firmly. “I’m driving to L. A. twice a month.”
“But, you could give me the keys.”
“Or I could tell you to keep on traveling the same way you got here.”
Without any kind of warning, Doc attacks, growling like a demented bear. The instant his oversized hands wrap around my wrist and upper arm I cave. “All right, damn it. I’ll drive you.”
To my surprise, the assault continues. He slips his arm about my throat.
“Give me the keys.”
“A-augh - I can’t breathe.”
Doc turns my pocket inside out to wrangle away the keys. After, he flings me off to the side. I crash over a table, smashing a vase full of white flowers. His heels vanish out the door as I wrestle the table off of my chest. “Doc,” I plead, “don’t take my car.”
Getting myself up, I lurch outside.
The car engine revs and the lights go on. The back-up and brake lights work in unison as Doc positions the Taurus on the driveway. Once he rolls onto the street, I will have to consider reporting my car as stolen.
Inexplicably, he stops. The car shuts down.
I rush the passenger side and Doc obligingly unlocks the door. Scrambling in, as my ass hits the seat, I become aware there is a squad car parked near the driveway entrance. The cop face in the window is focused in this direction. Doc huddles, looking the way he did the first time we got arrested protesting, in 1965. “Let me guess,” I snarl venomously. “No license? A warrant? What are you guilty of?”
“Close your hole.”
“No. No, Doc. You practically stole my car. I want to know.”
“I’ll tell you later. Shit. The cop’s turning in.”
In surreal slow motion, the squad car inches near. The cop gets out. A lanky figure, he approaches from the driver’s side, darting a flashlight about the interior of the Taurus.
“What’s going on?” he says politely.
Doc feigns innocence, becoming wide-eyed in the hard glare of the light. “Come again, officer?”
The cop, jiggling his flashlight, bends to speak directly into Doc’s face. “I saw the two of you running. Why did you come out of the house like that?”
“It’s his house,” Doc says to shift the focus on myself.
“It is my house, officer. We were having a disagreement, so my friend here ran away from me. He wasn’t going anywhere, though; just teasing.”
The cop considers a moment, his intelligent brown eyes continually probing, registering, analyzing. “Should I call back-up? Any way they’re telling the truth?”
We hear his radio garble a short burst in cop language. The cop appears to ignore it. His curiosity about us remains unsatisfied. “Anyone inside the house?”
“No, sir. I could show you around. I have a photo of myself on the bureau and lots of personal papers at my desk.”
The cop radio spews a long unintelligible message. The cop turns off the flashlight. “You boys be careful.”
He strides to the cruiser and quickly backs it into the street. With flashing lights and blaring siren, he’s gone, leaving us stunned. I look at Doc, inquiringly. “Crazy fucker. What are you going to do next?”
“Still driving out of here. Still giving you the same choices.”
“Can’t you see I’m sick? I can’t take care of myself on the road. If I give you the car, that makes for a too grueling experience to get into L.A. every two weeks.”
Doc explodes. “God damn it, I got to save my own self. At least you got a chance. If I don’t go now, I don’t got no chance.”
“I’ll never see my car again, will I, Doc?”
Doc restarts the engine. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”
As I reach for the door handle, he acts on impulse, putting it in gear and gunning it. The tires spew gravel all the way to the street, squealing, fishtailing the car across the pavement. We race to the stop sign, where Doc taps the brake pedal, then continues around the corner, not affording me the chance to get out. The sun puts its first beam in our eyes as we begin the race toward Doc’s vision, our doom or our destiny.
Chapter Two
“This is the Ridge Route Highway,” Doc insists. “The Grapevine part of the Ridge Route comes when we pass Fort Tejon. At the end of it we get in the San Joaquin Valley.”
“Just another road to me.“
After I don’t reply for the hundredth time, Doc prowls through the glove compartment, picking out a short pencil. He chews meditatively on the eraser end, until the rubber taste becomes pronounced. Flipping the pencil out the window, he begins patting the steering wheel, singing up-tempo Spanish songs. Abruptly, he finds another topic to flip out at me. “What happened to all those great books you were going to write? Each time I saw your titles I said, ‘Maybe this is it.’ But they were always about chichachota Martians, space guys trying to get laid, monsters looking like flaccid dicks, slithering across beach sand. That’s crap, Denny, and you know it. You always said you planned to write The Great American Novels, a whole series of them, putting in the stuff the hacks like Mark Twain and John Steinbeck had to leave out. I never understood what that meant, by the way. What? What did they leave out? What did you perceive that I didn’t?”
Doc’s right, of course. When it came down to it, I didn’t measure up. The novels I’ve produced sell very well, but the audience they command couldn’t care less about literary standards. There are some fuck books that are better written. I look out over the Tehachapi Mountains as at some ghost terrain where the spirits of long gone writers blow about with the wind. I tip an imaginary glass of wine to their honor, as Doc rambles on.
* * * * * *
Dozing, unwilling to ponder any more - until he breaks through with a touchy subject we both had been avoiding. “My sister lives with some nuns, thank you very much for asking about her. She spends all her time praying and reading little Bibles. Her last guy really fucked her up.” Doc is quiet a few moments. “She always wanted you, you know. You didn’t give her the chance. You should have married her, fucking wizard.” Another pause. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”
I smile, involuntarily. “You know, Doc, I could have had this conversation with you this morning, before you went all Dutch Schulz on me. Now I’m just some object riding along in the car, like that air freshener dangling over the windshield. Wake me when we get to the next populated car stop. That’s when I’m going to turn you in and get my car back to Long Beach.”
“Fucking gringo. At least now you’re talking.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then, God damn it, I’m going to drive like a bat out of hell. If you’re lucky, the cops will stop me. If not, well, who knows about the car?”
“Drive away. We have enough gas to get twenty miles. My credit cards and my money are still in my desk.”
Doc chuckles. “Then we got Suicide Run. See you on the other side, vato.”
But of course Doc would do it. So, I throw in the towel. “Look; we’re nearly halfway there. If I promise to cooperate, will you be a good boy?”
“If it means you talk to me, yes.”
“Give me back my car?”
“Shee - I was never going to keep it.”
“Then pull over at the next town. I’m starving.”
“You got it. Damn I’m glad we’re going to be friends again.”
“Wrong, Doc. Friends level with each other.”
“Fuck it, then.”
That exchange leaves me grinning and Doc hunched darkly over the wheel.
I am wrapped up in my thinking when Doc pulls into a place off the freeway, so I don’t know where we are. I think at first it’s a Stuckey’s, but it’s better than that. I opt for a table, but Doc becomes fixated on the woman at the counter. He slides in to sit before her and I of course follow suit. The woman has a cowboy face, long braids to the sides and a crooked smile. Very Kerouac. I note how the smile never really goes away. She’s wearing a pink cafeteria style dress that says little about her figure, short-sleeved, so we see her arms have blotched skin. She pauses from wiping up something behind the counter. “Coffee?”
“Two,” blurts the old Docster
“I’ll have iced tea.”
“That hair natural?” Doc inquires playfully.
“Coffee for you,” she deftly slips the cup in. “What, honey?” She scoops ice in a tall glass and places it under the spigot.
“Your name Carol?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I was wondering, because you look like Carol.” Doc sugars the coffee, dumping in two creams. “I want a pack of them Mississippi Crooks to take with me. Two, I mean.”
“And a chicken salad,” I decide.
Duties fulfilled, the woman busies herself at the far end of the counter, wrapping silverware, while Doc sips and I eat. I’m studying the rack of pies, trying to guess at the filling in each one, when Doc slips off his seat, saying, “See you in a minute,” heading to the bathroom.
“First give me the keys, asshole. I’m driving if you’re doing what I know you’re doing.”
To my surprise he transfers the keys right away. Working on my salad, I continue to examine the pies, narrowing the scrutiny to blackberry. As I verge on ordering a piece, Doc breezes by and out the door. “Pay up,” he says in passing.
Disappointed, yet relieved, I forgo the sugary mouth watering concoction. I shove the remnants of the salad back and approach the register.
“Can I have a water to go?” I say down the counter, bending to reach in my sock for a credit card.
“Sure can, honey.” She hands the water, talking as she runs the card, her green cowboy eyes scanning the Taurus. “Big boy like you, kid like that; something’s not right here.”
“I’m the designated straight guy.”
“You be careful, you hear?”
“No promises; I’ll try.”
Her crooked little smile goes away for a moment. I go back and place a tip by my platter.
Doc is oddly silent as we hit cruising speed.. He follows my actions at first, then settles to watch the traffic, his eyes inexorably beginning to shut. All the way into the San Joaquin Valley, he’s still. I develop a tunnel vision, forgetting about him, barreling into a summer shower, the brief, heavy pelting kind. I ponder the cocoon-like state of today’s auto passenger, the smooth ride, how we climb in, then get out a thousand miles away, almost as fresh as we began. Not like the old days, when travel was an adventure. Yes, sir. That was when we were each and every one of us Indiana Jones. All of a sudden, I find myself free-wheeling. Who should drop into the seat between us but Salmon Rushdie! “Have you read my book?“
“Only a few pages.“
“Did those pages create for you anti-Muslim sentiment or corrupt your perception of my religion?“
“No; I didn’t get anything out of it. I was not mentally prepared to read such a book. I could not relate to the opening - found it boring.“
“I see.“ Wise, impermeable pause. “Do you think you will read it in the future?“
“Look, I’m driving a treacherous road here. Do you think we could postpone this to a later date? I’m busy. You understand.“
Wordlessly, Salmon continues his descent through the seat. He waves at me as he plunges out of sight.
Already, the rain is ending. Bright eye glare. I reach for sunglasses, noting Doc’s face as I lean over him. The thought hits me: “He’s dead; if not, dying.” Oh crap! Don’t let him be dead. What am I going do? Get him out of the car! Walk him! Flag someone down!
With the car wheels in the weeds, I fight like a wild animal to get him out on his feet. I end up dragging his body over twenty yards, but his dangling legs don’t move. We collapse on the gravelly shoulder. Weeping, I roll him on his back, repeatedly pressing on his chest. I won’t give up until help arrives.
The brightness of a large hubcap, the stepping down of booted feet and Wrangler clad legs, a deep voice.
“Heart attack?”
“Overdose. I think he’s dead.”
“Let me have a go at him.”
The trucker begins working Doc’s limbs and slapping him from time to time.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
He rotates his big head, tilting to see beyond a cowboy brim.
“Nope. Did you?”
“No. I hope you called an ambulance?”
“I did do that.”
We attempt to walk him between us, but Doc remains limp as a dead bullfrog. When the siren sound touches our ears we drop him, a bit hastily, grateful that the professionals can now make the call.
“Thank God,” the sweating trucker grunts, pulling the plug from his mouth, spitting. His beer belly in a Harley Davidson tee shirt becomes the focus of my attention for the moment. Then they arrive.
It’s like the beach at Normandy as the screaming vehicles swoop to the scene. Two rescue trucks, five cop cars, two or three VFDs. They swarm out, a highly trained battalion, each to their specific tasks. Paramedics go over the corpse. Right away, they strap it on a litter, then a lady cop asks me if the deceased belongs to me.
“No. I knew him from way back, but he just tapped me for a ride this morning.”
“Next of kin? Where’s his family?”
“Clovis. I forget the street.”
“Put your name and address here. They may get in touch.”
Surprised that I don’t have to follow the ambulance, I say my thanks to the trucker and hike, stumbling in the weeds, to my car. Luckily, we moved Doc’s body far enough along the road to not block it in. I look down the highway as far as I can probe, in a momentary wistful glimpse of the past, almost able to see a young man trekking up the road, thumb out, heart on the hunt. He vanishes like a good little apparition. Well? On to Clovis? Or what?
