Trek I November 1, 1969 It is All Saints Day; Rue is driving the van while deep in thought. Yesterday, Crystal, her agent and friend, gave her ten-thousand dollars in cash, a Halloween present. Her paintings were now starting to sell, “like hotcakes”, Crystal said. But are they selling because she is a notorious outlaw, or are they selling because she is an artist of the first rank? This is the question Crystal asks obliquely, and the question she now asks herself. Rue does not question the fact that she is a great artist. She does question the timing. If her paintings had sold five years ago, there would have been no need to become a criminal. Driving south, about ninety miles from the house in Morro Bay, Rue’s thought (she can have only one thought at a time) changed from the past, to the future, and as usual skipping over the present, because it is impossible to reason in the present according to her logic. Ellis is dozing peacefully next to her as she leisurely drives. It is dusk. The farmlands that surrounded her since Salinas have suddenly disappeared, replaced now by arid land. Her body requires a cup of coffee and a cigarette. These are the mainstay of her life, also the mainstay of her creativity. This urge is from the Truth of the Body, the closest link to the Truth of the Present. She flies past the small hamlet of King City and pulls into a truck stop. Truck drivers are filling their rigs with diesel fuel, eating dinner, checking in to the dorm, or farting while bullshitting with other drivers. The setting sun is dimmer than the floodlights, which have just been turned on. These sights create a thought of painting this scene; then a following thought of how she wishes she were a truck driver: A wisp of smoke, the smell of diesel, a good fart, and then poof! She would never be a truck driver, and she would never paint the truck-stop scene, or paint anything of lasting value ever again. And for the next two months, the profound thoughts which were her guide and guardian would be forgotten, dissolved, or lost in the fog of her own intuition. The thoughts that would return would be like a wisp of smoke. Poof! Gone like a fart in the wind. All Saints Day is the day Rue enters the Present on her way to the soul. Walking back to the van with a cup of hot coffee in her hand, Rue’s body becomes rigid before her mind tells it to. Out of the corner of her eye she can see a police car coming fast off the freeway off-ramp. To the left, coming across the freeway is another police car, both speeding toward the truck stop. “How could they have known?” is her first thought, then she whispers, “Ellis.” He is still asleep in the van. She throws the coffee cup down and runs for the van, “ELLIS!” she screams. Ellis jumps up in the seat. “They’re here.” She says this quite calmly, as though she is expecting guests. Two young Highway Patrolmen come screeching into the truck stop followed by a third older policeman from King City. All three are responding to a report of a van with a black man and a white woman, matching the description from an earlier report from San Francisco. The net, spread out more than five years ago, is now tightening. Hopefully, it will be filled with the catch of the decade. The police see the artist and the criminal and dive out of their cars. Ellis immediately reaches under the seat for the shotgun and instinctively begins firing, reloading without thinking. The two young policemen rush them. Ellis shoots one charging patrolman coming up on Rue’s back. He has to stand to fire the shotgun in order not to shoot Rue. The young patrolman he shot goes down quickly, the twelve-gauge knocking him down and out of the fight. Now Ellis is exchanging fire with another patrolman, farther away, not seeing what is behind him. “What the fuck?” Rue is pointing her pistol right at him and fires! Poof! The bullet slides by his ear and hits the other young patrolman not ten feet behind him. “Motherfucker!” The patrolman, hit badly, jumps behind the patrol car, out of the fight himself. The only one left is the King City policeman, crouched behind his car, shaking. Shoot motherfucker, shoot. I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. Yes you can. Yes you can. You have planned this your whole life. Shoot, motherfucker. No more, please, no more. Please. Please. He is old enough to have brains. Rue is firing back at the brainy policeman. She feels rage! Real rage and anger and hate! She had hoped to find purity, clarity, and simplicity in the stark Present. But she knows now that the Self, on leaving the Being, never really leaves. Something in the Being creates this Self, and it can be evil. Ellis is not thinking any profound thoughts. He is scared shitless. Rue looks at the frightened Ellis. “How can I be so cool? This is so easy. Just filling in the space with something to do. ART! Now that’s difficult.” While still returning fire, Rue motions to Ellis to get in the van. She starts the van with her left hand because her right hand is numb, or so she thinks. She knows where she is going because she always knows where she is going. She tries to raise her right arm to drive. It’s gone! Poof! “Where is my fucking arm, Ellis?” She finds it beside her on the seat. This puzzles her. She had picked it up during the firefight after she was shot by the Highway Patrolman who Ellis shot, but not before he shot her arm off. She is really pissed; she paints right-handed.
|