Some things do come back: we stopped in San Juan Bautista and tried to call Luis Valdez from a pay phone (long before the days of cells). I barely knew him but this was his town and we were passing through so— A woman with a heavy accent answers, says he’s in Oaxaca but try later, he might be back later. She says this as though he’s just down at the Quik Stop buying cigarettes. Later? I say. What do you mean, back later? Oaxaca’s a long way off isn’t it? Oaxaca’s in Mexico, we’re in northern California. She hangs up as though I’m some kind of prankster. John now is talking nonstop and has been for the last two hours. Part of the reason I wanted to stop and make this call was just to get out of the car and away from his ranting, but here he is, still carrying on. Now it’s about Ansel Adams and his light meter techniques. As though I gave a shit. Just running off at the mouth about apertures and stops, regardless of the immediate situation; the fact that we’ve stopped the car now and we’re out in the light of day in this bright town and something new might be just around the corner. He just keeps right on yakking about Ansel Adams. I, myself, was never a huge Ansel Adams fan if you want to know the truth. Too precious about the landscape for my taste. I mean I respect the landscape as much as the next guy, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not going down on my hands and knees to it. I’m more into faces—people; Robert Frank, Douglas Kent Hall, guys like that, but John, he can’t stop gushing. I think he’s on speed again is what I think. In fact I’m sure of it. Unmistakable behavior patterns: dry mouth, smacking his lips all the time, twitching his neck around as though trying to adjust something; hunching his shoulders up and scratching both forearms at the same time. These are dead giveaways, if you ask me. He promised me and Dennis he wouldn’t bring any of the shit along but I’m sure that’s what it is. What else could it be? He’s got a hidden stash somewhere in the Chevy. He’s done this before. No honor. Another telltale sign is the constant switching of subjects with little or no regard for what’s just come before or what might follow. As though he doesn’t even need a listener. Just willy-nilly random whacked-out associations, shifting blithely in midstream like we’re a couple of tourists walking through his inner landscape. Just as an example; now he’s talking about lying—that’s his subject for the moment: the Art of Lying, he calls it; the myriad forms of self-deception on the liar’s part. A liar who doesn’t even realize he’s lying as opposed to one who does. Ultimately, he says, there’s really no difference between the Intentional Liar and the Unintentional one since neither of them is capable of seeing the entire context in which their lying takes place. And then he says this: “They are blind to the repercussions of their fabrications.” He actually says that. I stop dead in my tracks and look into his twitching eyes. I have the urge to kick him in the ass but I don’t want to start this trip off on a sour note.

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