The
Continuing Saga of:
”ICICLE BILL and Tommy Two-Head”
Chapter Eight: The Indian
It seemed like Tom and I had been traveling through the desert for a very long time. I’d lost track of exactly how many days since I’d been car-jacked in L.A. and thereby forced into this journey. I hoped I’d buried G deep enough, there were buzzards out here. I don’t know how many days it had taken me to recover from those snake bites. How many nights had I stayed with that mysterious Gypsy woman? Even now I carried the memory of those fathomless eyes with me. Lucky for me Tom knew enough to get me to her. The sun was peeking over the mountains in the distance and the highway ribboned off towards the horizon and disappeared in a mix of blue, gold and green. It appeared as a Van Gogh painting might, swirling and bright and confused. Ever since Tom had asked me about the car being registered to Elena Chang a dread had fallen over me, like a cloud that looms over a new day, one which you fear to face for you can’t bear to think of what will come, of what must come if I go on. The sputtering of the engine awoke me from my thoughts. A quick gauge check revealed that gas was on E. With everything that had occurred I guess I’d forgotten to check. We coasted to a slow stop and Tom and I looked at one another as if to say, ”What now?” About a mile off the highway through the morning haze I could make out what appeared to be a shack. There wasn’t any road but the desert floor was level and drivable. We pushed the Lincoln down the slope from the pavement and let it coast to a stop as far as it would roll.. I left Tom with the car and set off walking. The shack was probably abandoned, but I needed some time alone anyway, a little walk before the sun got too far up might not be a bad thing. As I neared the shack it was beginning to get hot already. Heat waves were radiating off the sand and I wondered if this was a good idea.
I’d
pretty much given up hopes that anyone would actually be living out here in
this treacherous hell when to my amazement, sitting on the porch of the shack,
staring off into the distance was an old Indian man. When I say old I mean ancient.
This guy could have known Custer, personally.
”Morning.” The Indian nodded. I explained my predicament and the Indian sort of smiled and nodded again. ”Sit and rest yourself.” He offered. ”You’re out here all alone?” I asked. The Indian paused and showed a toothless smile. ”To outsiders I might appear alone. But I live with and among all of nature. I carry with me all of my memories and experiences and the memories and experiences of all of my ancestors. To consider myself alone would be a lie. The truth is, I’m surrounded by and a part of all I see and feel and all anyone can or will see and know, same as you.”
I didn’t quite get all that, but he certainly had my attention, he continued. ”To arrive at a great certitude is to arrive at great strength. Truth not only clears the head, but arms the will. It is not only a light to our feet but is itself a force in the blood.”
I’ve known a lot of people in my life. Some of them rich and successful and famous. Some of them really intelligent and wise. But honestly, there was something about this weathered old Indian that seemed infinitely wiser and nobler than any of them. I felt compelled to open up to him and at least try and get some idea of the why’s and how’s of the events of the past days. If anyone could help, maybe this was the guy. I ran down the occurrences from L.A. to the Mesquite tree to the Gypsy and Tom and everything else I could remember that had brought me here. It came rushing out in a rambling diatribe of sentences and words that seem foreign to me. As if I was relating the experiences of someone else. It all sounded so strange to have it laid out like that in words. It sounded, insane.
Maybe that’s exactly what was going on here. Maybe I’d get back to the car and there wouldn’t be any Tommy Two-Head. Was there even any Indian man standing before me. I’d heard about things like that, a guy makes up a whole world and people and places in his head. He goes through the circus of weird happenings and it turns out the whole thing was only happening in his imagination. Looking down at the fresh snake bite wounds on my arms, it sure didn’t seem illusory. If felt extremely real. And the heat rising up from the sand surely was real, just as real as the deep lines in the face of the old man. He’s listened patiently to my story. He paused and considered for a few moments... then began to speak thoughtfully.
”Getting carjacked represents your escape from intolerable circumstances. Being able to befriend your carjacker shows there’s good and bad in everyone. The gun is the violence in your heart, G’s death is your blood sacrifice and his burial is your attempt to bury your past. Finding and rescuing Tommy Two-Head symbolizes new beginnings, the midget girl is your attachment to bodily identification and the base sexual urges. Bumperjack Joe is the misguided evil in your nature. The snakes that bit you while burying G are old issues and demons rising up to bite you when you least expect. The Gypsy woman is hope and faith and represents unresolved mother abandonment issues. Your dreams and realizations of your past are to warn you to face problems before moving on. The money is a symbol of greed and longing for material things and of what bad choices will lead to. The coma was a time to quiet the flow of thoughts and rest your mind. Traveling into the desert is your path of sojourn through a purifying cauldron. The journey the Gypsy spoke of isn’t to a place so much as within to discover your own self, your own true nature. Running out of gas means there’s always sidetracks, taken for good or bad as long as they lead back to the main road, and every step is taken with noble intent, you know you’re on the right path.
The Indian’s quick insight was astounding. I asked, ”So you’re saying that everything that’s happened to me, has a purpose and reason?” ”Not only everything that’s happened, but everything that will happen. The important thing is in not allowing your situation dictate your response, but letting your beliefs dictate your situation and how you react. The journey of life is not to accumulate riches or fame or foolishly waste a life seeking pleasure, but it is to find what kind of man you are, to discover your own true nature, your own noble character, your place as a part of the greater whole.”
”Meeting you wasn’t an accident?”
”I am reason and conscience. And always remember, never allow yourself to become a victim of your own past by letting it ruin the present and thereby losing the wonder and opportunity of which the present contains. Every morning is a fresh birth, a new chance to be the one we wish to be, not merely a continuous copy of the previous days.”
The
Indian handed me a five-gallon can of gas he had stashed in the shack. He refused
payment and I realized he honestly had no use for money, but I wasn’t
quite on his level as of yet and I slid a hundred in a crack in the porch railing.
I’d never before much considered the whole spirit, soul, consciousness
thing. Now I felt there wasn’t anything more important to ponder upon.
I hoped I was up to it. As I made my way back to the car, I began to understand
the course I had to take. It dawned on me with such clarity that I was surprised
I hadn’t recognized it before. It was as if I’d been standing on
the precipice of a deadly gorge and the fog lifted to expose a bridge right
in front of me to allow me to cross safely.
A new found strength of conviction and determination arose within me, the kind the Indian had spoken of when a great truth becomes known. I’d never been so sure of anything in my life. With such inspiration, at that particular single moment in my life, I truly felt that nothing could stop me. I knew what I had to do. I didn’t know if it was too late to do it, but I had to try.
As I approached the car I was excited to share my thoughts with Tom. Out of the corner of my eye, way off in the distance and back down the highway, I noticed a throng of motorcycles headed in our direction. In the lead the sun shone off a massive bald head. On the back of the leader’s bike was a tiny figure of a girl with flowing thick hair. A sickening chill flooded my veins and flowed throughout my body and being. I glanced into the car at Tom, he’d also seen them coming and his face was ashen gray, ghostly and horrible. I immediately knew why... Bumperjack Joe.
As they neared the spot where we’d turned off I silently implored my, Tom’s, and the Indian’s ancestors to please let them keep going. Sweet, Holy Mother of the World, let them keep going.
