These last couple of months have been busy preparing for the imminent publication of Tapes from California. Progress has been going very well, as we eagerly anticipate a late autumn release. Presently, the book is in the capable hands of BearManor's expert layout man/ typesetter Brian Pearce (John Holmes: A Life Measured in Inches, Golden Goddesses:25 Legendary Women of Classic Erotic Cinema, 1968-1985) who is crafting the final work. Please stay posted for news about the book's release date, pre-orders, and review copies. In the interim, I hope you enjoy the following excerpt from chapter 49: Loopy in Kamloops. Peace
We
could hardly believe our good fortune when André, the crazy Frenchman
from the Kamloops hostel, drove past in a dusty Chevy riding shotgun, one of
the first vehicles to emerge after more than a one hour wait. Having
almost given up hope of leaving Golden that afternoon, Jan and I’d started to
suspect we’d fallen under the Wawa curse. Already beyond our location, the
Chevy pulled a quick U-turn and eased toward us, slowing to a stop next to our
packs. Motioning to pull the handle to get into the car, I was shocked to
discover the burly individual behind the wheel who introduced himself as Tim,
had a broken left leg. Stretching from his left hip all the way down to his
ankle, a cast revealed swollen toes sticking out through a jagged plaster
opening. It was the required foot if you’re driving a stick.
Tim was driving a stick.
Eyeing Jan warily, I was unsure what to
do. Reading our concern, Tim threw back his head and started to laugh
uproariously. “I was in a car accident a few weeks ago,” he mused. “Don’t worry
though. The accident wasn’t my
fault.”
Boasting about his competency as a
driver, Tim told us he’d cruised all the way from Vancouver with the broken
leg. No trouble.
It wasn’t much of an assurance, but the
afternoon was wearing on. We didn’t want to be stuck in Golden forever. Sensing
our reluctance, André suddenly went overboard in praise of Tim’s “crackerjack
driving skills,” and stressed how safe he
felt under the big man’s command. As if it would clinch the deal, André threw
in a lone “Jesus Christ!” followed by
more laughter. Convinced of having pulled off an affecting sell job, leaning
into the back seat, André rearranged his and Tim’s packs next to a gargantuan
tent, obviously stuffed into the vehicle in a pinch. To make room for our gear,
gathering a handful of strewn-about clothes, he went about redistributing the
items, and tossed some camping paraphernalia into the trunk.
Nervous about the fucked up situation
we might be getting ourselves into, aversely, Jan and I climbed inside the
Chevy and yanked on the weighty passenger door. Behind my back, two fingers
were crossed.
Sometimes you gnash your teeth. Abolish
all reservation.
True to his word, André’s friend
was anything but cavalier about helming the road. Notwithstanding his temporary
disability, Tim proved to be an exceptional driver. Reminiscent of the
fictitious character, Luke Moriarty, the unofficial ‘driver’ in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road inspired by Kerouac’s real
life pal, wild man Neal Cassady, Tim handled his automobile like a pro, as if
gliding a precious vessel over glass. Not once did he compromise the safety of
his baby or his cargo.
***
1976: Tapes from California © 2017 Jill C. Nelson
