180 43 The next day I saw Jimmy cru cified in a church in a town named Day ville. It was dark in there, and I mis took the J-man for sweet Jimmy up on the cross. One more skinny, put-upon man, out to save my soul. Day ville was a swell ruin of a town in every way, in a lit tle glen of cot ton woods where the road jogged up and over a small hil lock be fore twist ing down into the one-street burg, past a de funct and over sized Odd Fel lows Hall, and a couple of four-story brick for mer banks or hotels, much too grand con sid er ing the town’s size. But more im por tant, there were those giant bough-heavy cot ton woods, splat ter ing shade all over the road, and prom is ing the lit tle river that flowed some where be yond. I knew Jimmy’d been here be cause he’d cir cled it in red on the map and writ ten a poem about it too called “Places Named for Time”: Not a where, but a when. The sweat cooled on my face as I hit the shady spots be cause East ern Ore gon was all sun in Sep tem ber—three days run ning of cool morn ings and blasted hot after noons. I ate at Ellen’s Diner com ing in and going out. In pass ing. Through. Where I tripped the bell that hung from the top of the door as I en tered that hot after noon of my ar ri val, jo nes ing for pan cakes, which I was now eat ing for din ner as well—al beit with Coke in stead of cof fee on ac count of the heat. There was a coun ter and stools and four or five 181 ta bles lined up on the op po site wall. The sin gle cus tomer, a husky man in his mid for ties, was drink ing cof fee on one of the stools. He put his cup down and said, “Howdy there,” while a woman I pre sumed was Ellen said, “Good after noon,” ex pertly pro duced a full smile, and thrust a menu across the coun ter at me where I’d de cided to seat my self, two stools down from the man, who then barked, “Where you from?” I had that sink ing feel ing that he was going to be one of those small-town char ac ters in tent on get ting the skinny on me as if that were his and everybody’s busi ness. I didn’t mind so much, but he wasn’t giv ing me a ride, and I was tired and had a bad shoul der ache that day and a crook in my neck. I took a deep breath and an swered that I was from Cal i for nia, which was al most as shame ful as being queer to some of the Or e go nians I’d over heard in the past few days. “I was in Sac ra mento once and Frisco too, back when I was in the ser vice.” I looked at him to gauge his age, so as to place him in what ever par tic u lar war be fore re spond ing. He looked to be my father’s age. “Were you in Viet nam?” “Yup. You ride that bike all the way from Cal i for nia?” “Yup.” “What are you doing a fool thing like that for?” I wanted to an swer that I was a fool so it was in char ac ter, but I re strained my self, say ing in stead, “It’s the best way to travel—not too fast, not too slow.” “Not too slow?” he raised his brows in cred u lously. Then he craned his neck to look out at my bike parked at the plate glass win dow under Ellen’s arc ing red name. It arced the op po site way that her smile did when she looked at you, and I won dered sud denly if she were a sad woman. “How fast can that thing go?” he per sisted, again in cred u lously. “Fif teen miles per hour max, I’d say. I move along at about ten or twelve most of the...