East by Tony Wallin-Sato

As the sunlight peeked through the half-shut blinds and patterned the table booth, I grew warm, like an electrical surge was vibrating throughout my body. I hadn’t had time to really find solid ground since hopping that freight train. The red refraction from the clay dirt, adobe styled villas, and street lined cactus carried a sort of optimism I wasn’t used to. I took it as a sign I was doing the right thing. My father wrote me a letter while I was in prison. I didn’t respond but he left an address. My grandmother says spontaneity is sometimes the best response. I’m not sure if she meant this as impulsive, but I figured if I was going to start listening to her advice, I might as well take it to excess. One of the old timers told me trauma is harbored deeper when it goes unnoticed, if I wanted to lose the weight of it I’d have to face it head on.

I left the diner after a few refills and made my way towards the highway. Since I was unfamiliar with Albuquerque, I thought it best to follow traffic. I threw out my thumb while I hiked parallel to the white line. After a mile a cop car blurted me. I wondered if it was the sign hanging from my rucksack: OKLAHOMA: BOUND FOR GLORY. I heard the cops in southern states don’t like one another.

Where you headin, son? I hated being called that.

I turned around slowly with my hands visible. You never know in such an occasion.

I’m headed east to Oklahoma the police officer nearly buckled when I answered, as if he couldn’t imagine someone ever travelling to the sooner state.

There aint nothing there. Anyways, you cant walk along the freeway, it’s illegal. 

There probably isn’t anything there but I’m hoping there is. I could see he was perplexed by what he was looking at: A young 20 something with a few visible tattoos but overall clean cut and carrying a heavy travelling pack. I didn’t know it was illegal. I was just following the white line. I’ll take the next off ramp and find another route.

I could sense he wanted to ask me more questions but a voice called out on the radio that carried more urgency. I took it as the working of Benten.

I’m not one to ever say I had pleasurable experiences with cops, but getting kicked off the freeway did work in my favor. I soon found a path that led me to highway 66, which allowed for me to walk adjacent to the on-coming cars with no hassle. An older gentleman and his grandson picked me up not long after I made it to the infamous highway. 

Where you headed?

East 

We’ll go as far as Santa Rosa

I nodded and climbed in the back.

I haven't seen a hitchhiker in 40 years. Used to do it back in my college days. That was a different time then. Hell, I was part of the Tlatelolco Movement my junior year in Mexico City. Both these countries are going to shit.

I nodded in agreement and took a swig of water from my bottle. His grandson was drawing abstract mountain ranges and disfigured birds soaring through the air. Although to him they were realism. The old man and I talked about his days protesting in the 60s while Mexican radio was on low hum. He had a thick handlebar mustache that looked as if he had an albino Microbiota fern glued below his nostrils. His grandson never said a word but filled at least 20 pages from his sketchbook. I envied his discipline. I was dropped off at a Love’s Travel Stop. The old man got gas and disappeared as if the sun swallowed them whole. 

I asked every truck driver around for a ride through the panhandle. Not a single person acknowledged me. I even offered gas money, but no luck. I decided to walk through town to another truck stop. Same problem, so I took a nap behind a dumpster. When I awoke the sky was a palette of sea purple and rich magenta.

While walking back through town to another truck stop, an 80s white Datsun flipped an aggressive U-turn after passing me. It was dented all over and nearly rusted shut. A big goofy boxer was in the bed drooling into the wind. The Datsun parked right in front of me.

You travelling through? The voice was friendly. When I walked around the front, I saw an equally goofy man wearing a baseball cap with the bill folded up. His hair was shaggy with bits of purple and blue dyed in.

Yeah, headed east

This place is hard to get picked up in. Jump in the bed and you can stay with me, my wife, my daughter and father-in-law. I’ll bring you back to the truck stop in the morning.

So, I did what any sane and level headed person would do. I jumped right next to the boxer and road along a few dirt roads with a stranger promising shelter.

My name is Dizzy and that there is Dynamite. He was yelling through the small window that separated the back of the truck and the inside.

Dynamite? I yelled back

Named after my childhood friend who passed away a few years back.

We made a sharp right turn down an even dustier dirt road full of tire sized potholes. We were just close enough to see a few blinking lights from the town, but other than that nothing distinguishable. The sun was just a semi-circle beneath the red clay earth. After a few bumps Dizzy took another sharp right through an open gate. I could see little markings on both sides, as if kerns for a vehicle. 

We’re here he stopped, banged twice on the door and jumped out. Dynamite followed after. When I jumped out of the bed and I saw a big house sized dome connected to a warehouse looking building without a fourth wall.

This is an Earth home. Made of completely recyclable material. We grow our own food and collect the rain for water. The house’s structure is made of used tires, believe it or not.

I was amazed at what I was seeing. Dizzy guided me around the house and pointed to the found material he had used to help as a foundation for the dome. When we walked around the entire home, his daughter ran out and jumped into his arms. His wife was at the door entrance with some kind of green root vegetable and a butcher’s knife. Beside the door mat was a wooden broken plank. I walked over to it and dusted it off. The sign read Oklahoma.

I had never been to Oklahoma, so who am I to say this wasn’t it.