What's the place I hate the most? Not marooned on Long Island with our shipping blankets spread like carpets in the shade of the underpass. Not Newark where the corner cafe has grilled goat in a Brazilian sauce. Especially not the Manhattan park where our truck dog, in equisite ecstacy, humps non-stop, every small, coifed, male terrier. I hate Phoenix where I burned the palms of my hands trying to pull the metal racks out of the trailer. One fat-girl-store after the other in endless shopping malls. That night, the rain in the truck stop parking lot falls hotter than the air. The rain spreads like grease against my skin. Get out of Phoenix, Hwy 17, head straight North for Flagstaff where the air is light enough to rise and take Phoenix with it. Little America, out in back the deep green lodge pole pines, the trail curls around this way and that and finally peters out down below at the creek. Inside the store they sell Annie Oakley oil and lotion. When the dark sets in, climb into the extra deep bath tub filled with cool water. Look inside the shower, there's a bench. Ask for two extra big, white towels. Take a long time.
No comments:
Post a Comment