The very first time I stopped my car on my Great American Adventure was the stunning and glamorous Barstow, California. Stunning, because you just can’t believe that people purposely choose to live in the middle of nowhere, and glamorous because the only excuse for its habitation you can conceive is that it must be a big step up for someone who has been living in a Detroit sewer, or in a particularly bad neighborhood in Haiti. If you’ve heard of Barstow, it’s because it’s that place you stop for gas and cigarettes midway between Los Angeles and Las Vegas when you’re just starting to realize that your idea for a spontaneous weekend at the tables might not have been worth the 6 traffic-snarled hours of driving through 110 degree desert and you don’t really know how to play craps anyway. Sin City didn’t make my roadtrip itinerary, so I’d be breaking straight east on U.S. 40 from Barstow, rather than northeast to donate money to the casinos. Having been to Las Vegas several times already, I am confident that there is really no need to go more than twice in your life without benefit of a special occasion. You go once to bathe in the sheer marvel of such a magnificently decadent spectacle and promise yourself to celebrate every milestone of your life there, and once more to realize what a cheesy money pit it is and be embarrassed at how much you loved it that first time. So the Barstow pitstop wasn’t a real Stop stop for me, so much as it pulling over to take a leak and deliver a message.
Only a paltry 2 hours into the roadtrip, there was no real need to stop. I was still high on the excitement of anticipating the untold adventures that lay ahead and suffused with delici
ously self-righteous indignation from having just ended a long-time close friendship after one painfully petty betrayal too many. My dromedary-esque bladder wasn’t even making more than token demands despite the Super Big Gulp I’d christened the trip with, for lack of a bottle of Dom Perignon. I wouldn’t have even slowed down to check the evening’s temperature on Barstow’s claim to fame, “The World’s Biggest Thermometer” (a site that typically causes me to wonder what hypochondriacal giant had created it, and hope that it was intended to be oral) but before I left, my excellent buddy David had asked me to give the town his regards. Anyone else might have assumed David had a friend in town or at least a favorite haberdashery, but I’ve known David for over 15 years now and I know him to be a man who maintains passionate relationships with a variety of locales. I was very aware of exactly what kind of regards he intended from the presence of the rakish grin he’s spent the majority of those years perfecting.
The first time David and I had ever been to Barstow was early in our friendship and I hadn’t noticed any strong opinion of the town from him. That may have been because he was saving it up for when we got to our destination – the absurd pinky ring in the desert’s gaudy costume jewelry that is Las Vegas – the Luxor. We weren’t two steps through the front door when we were faced with a gargantuan statue of some long dead Egyptian Pharaoh or deity of the non-animal-headed variety. Without missing a beat, David stopped in his tracks to stare up at the towering plaster mockery of an ancient faith and with all the calm malice he could muster, he said “So, Luxor… we meet again.”
I knew that David had never been to Las Vegas before, but he’s just quirky enough to pull that kind of thing off and leave you wondering if you should laugh openly, ask what the hell he’s talking about or just keep walking and let him explain in his own good time. I chose the latter, if only to have something to look forward to.
It was while nursing hangovers the next day over plates laden with an inordinate amount of debatably “prime” rib at the Pharaoh’s Pheast Buffet that David explained that the statue was just too damn creepy not to be someone’s archenemy, so he had decided to fill the role. He’s generous like that. Through a mouthful of julienned potatoes older than my car, I suggested that a true enemy might prove it by spitting in a statue’s eye. I learned then and there, as David climbed atop our iridescent purple pleather booth and shimmied his lanky frame up an inclined wall to offer a token gob to Horus or Ra or somebody, that David was a man who committed to a bit.
That same year, back when we didn’t know each other well enough to forget to get each other birthday presents, I had given David a new briefcase for his birthday in honor of a new job or a promotion or something. Being hilarious, I put a couple tighy whities in the case as a joke. “Brief” case. Get it? David committed to that bit too and put the briefs on his red head and made goofy faces and even let me take his picture, a mistake I expect he’s about to regret. He gushed at the thoughtfulness of the blue nylon and Velcro case that I thought bespoke a certain efficiency and professional insouciance he could pull off. It was some days later when we were walking into a movie that I noticed the fancy pigskin leather briefcase David was toting to carry in the newspaper or books he always kept handy for when conversation with me became too dull to bare.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked innocently.
“Oh, this?” he asked, even more innocently.
“Is that a new briefcase?” I replied, just to be sure it wasn’t an old backup he used because the one I’d given him was far too fine for every day use.
He didn’t even have the good grace to be ashamed. “Yeah.” He said. “I brought yours back to Macy’s and used the refund to get this down in Venice. Nice, huh?”
“Very nice”, I assured him. “Leather scuffs though, so be careful.” I left it unsaid that blue nylon rarely scuffs.
I wasn’t especially mad that he didn’t like the briefcase I’d gotten him, or that he’d returned it without mentioning it, or even that he’d gotten a refund rather than a store credit an
d bought himself a more expensive one someplace nicer than Macy’s. We were relatively new pals after all, and our friendship hadn’t yet been elevated to the point where either of us deserved anything from the other that was nicer than Macy’s could provide. No, I wasn’t mad, but I did tuck the memory away in my mental revenge file to await an appropriate moment to get him back. Over a decade later, this photograph of David wearing my underpants on his head is that revenge.
I should note that they may have been less “fresh from the package” than I led him to believe at the time.
So now, these many years later when David and I have evolved past Macy’s to that comfortable place where one could just pick up the tab at a dinner and call it a celebration of some event or occasion for the other, I understood exactly what regards he meant for me to give to Barstow before he even added “Spit on it for me.”
Barstow seems a harmless if meaningless town on the surface, so David gave it significance with his enmity. Always happy to help a friend, I went above and beyond his request and saluted Barstow in the form of roadside urination. I didn’t even go into The Mad Greek to feign interest in their dubious billboard borne boasts of the “World’s Best Gyro” to get to use their toilet. I pulled into the dirt beside the US 40, pissed on an anthill and was back in my car so quick that my taillights faded from the spot before the steam did.
Maybe not the most elegant first pause on the journey, but my departure had reminded me that plans, like friendships, tend to evolve, just not always for the better.
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