This post recounts a particularly low point for me, tho not, as it turned out, as low as I was soon to go. In the grace of the end I think that Dante’s Inferno and the enumerated rings of Hell through which the Texas tourist can descend is a rather too hopeful & positive conceptualisation that implies in counterpoint the exact same grades of ascension (“salvation”) if you get to the last ring then start climbing back up. That is to say, the first ring of hell is also the top ring of heaven. The pessimist’s alternative prospect is that the worst torture possible can not be physical, and there is no end of hell. If indeed God or Bog has physically constructed hell like a puzzle-box, or a stage full of trapdoors and levers, you still never know just how far you can be dropped; but instead of ever scraping the bottom of the barrel understand there is in fact no bottom of the barrel to scrape, the abstract rings of hell go inward for infinity.
I had a long time to refine this theory on the merciless stretch of Billy Bob’s fine company between Amaraillo and whereveritwas we were supposed to be trucking; the highway signs blinked past, a few of note: 1, 000, 000 miles to Nowhere, Last Toilets for 30, 000, 000 miles, and some charlatan trying to sell rattlesnakes to pregnant teens.
At the same time it occurred to me that “right” and “wrong” were hazy concepts that had been arbitrarily conflated with the Apollonian man-made notions of “legal” and “illegal”. Now Billy Bob thought because I was an Oz-zy and a young girl he could trust me so he showed me he had sixteen packets of Marlboro Lights and about a kilo of methamphetamines in his glove box. You see where I am going with this.
We had stopped at a gas station outside of Nowhere. That is a blustery desert place. Billy Bob was filling up and smoking at the same time (true). In Texas they show stunning disregard for personal safety. He was on the right side of the semi, so I got the Marlboros and the methamphetamines out of the glovebox and climbed out down the driver’s side and ran away behind the gas station. There was a cyclone fence there and some prairie horses grazing, they have gone quite wild in Texas since the cowboys stopped using them and killing them for dog food.
All you need to tame a wild ungelded stallion is to hold out a cube of methamphetamine in your palm toward it. As he eats it you grab his mane, kick him in the nuts and when he buckles you jump on. By that time the methamphetamine will have kicked in and the horse will start bolting in the first direction it thinks of and won’t stop.
So we ran like the wind for two days until it actually dropped dead underneath me. I am such a fucking idiot, it didn’t even occur to me this might happen. (Obviously I’m a tourist but I still should have known that you can ride horses to death since I’ve read it in so many crappy novels). Anyway by the time it died we had galloped – I like to say galloped – for about 200 miles in a line straight as a shotgun blast without stopping and I was right in the middle of the desert.
I think I would have starved except the juicy horse carcass attracted carrion birds – a Texas prairie chicken and a wood pigeon. They had eaten the eyes first, laid an egg, and were just ripping into the horse and drawing out the intestines with their beaks when I chucked em a couple of Panadol. It blew their brains so I ate them and made a bit of an Indian headdress with the feathers.
So then I had to start walking. I just picked a direction and stuck with it, I still had fifteen packets of Marlboros, that is 15 x 25 and I smoked them all in a row, let’s see, that’s about fifteen minutes each, I don’t know how many miles you can walk in fifteen minutes but by the fourteenth packet I must of gone a fair way and it must have been a few days later. By that time I was feeling well rank and I was maybe sunstroked but I was fairly certain there was a coyote on my tail following the trail of fag ends I’d cast into the desert as consistently paced as telegraph poles.
Now I have loved almost every minute I’ve been in Texas but as you can imagine this was a pretty low point for me. I started to think what in the fuck am I doing in the middle of the desert with a kilo of methamphetamine and no horse? The truth is I only bought a one-way ticket to Texas because, I had no money but also I thought I’d find an oil well pretty quickly and wouldn’t have to scab my way home or get deported. I did not think I wouldn’t need a return ticket because I would die in the desert. Seriously Texas is fucking big. In fact I had begun to suspect that everything is bigger in Texas.
Anyway, as I said it was a low point, such a low point in fact I really fell to my knees and I actually cursed NASA, “Oh NASA, oh NASA why have you abandoned me?!” Because I was fairly certain I read somewhere that as a community project NASA had scattered NASA phone booths and Coca Cola vending machines all throughout the desert, and I was bound to come upon one eventually. (But maybe I just saw that in the Monkees movie, “Head”; in fact I did.)
At this point I would like to say, travel is not for the feint hearted, I have found such deep wells of strength and faith in myself since then I can only now look at the prairie and I see it stretching out in all directions, you see the prairie and sky and even the hard bastard Texas sun and then oil wells silhouetted like extended middle fingers pointing up and all you can think of is the glory, the magnificence, the greatness of Our Lord God. This is sarcastic.
But I digress.
I was lying in the desert and had smoked about 600g, I reckon, actually I have no idea, of the meth. I was crying and talking to myself and stuff and there were carrion birds gathering and the coyote was probably not far off.
And then, would you believe it, all of a sudden a semi trailer came out of nowhere and stopped.
No, it wasn’t Billy Bob, he hadn’t chased me. It was a Texan called Hunter. He was trucking six tonnes of Evian to Dallas when he looked out across the desert and saw something flashing – on off, on off, like a mirror in the sun or a diamond. By that time with the meth and the sweat and the walking my jeans had basically crusted onto my legs and I actually had the legs of a pretty woman, and the TRIANGLE, like a beacon, had been flashing in the desert for all of this time. This is a throwback to a previous post, “Texas desert sunbloom chic“, which my site stats inform me you haven’t read. Too bad for you. I told you anyway that Texans are like dogs in a Springful of bitches when they see the triangle. So Hunter had turned his truck off the highway and driven straight for me as madly as he could.
That is how I ended up in Dallas with nice legs & 0.8kg of methamphetamines to my name. I have to end here but next post I will tell you how I finally made it to Shitsville.
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