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217 49 From the map, I knew that Cra ters of the Moon Na tional Mon u ment was twenty miles fur ther on, and in the set ting sun I de cided to press on through the chap ar ral to reach Jimmy’s red hoop, know ing there’d be camp ing there. I left Carey to its lively American rev er ies—no place for the dead, or a wacked fag got. Though I knew there were both every where. And I looked for them. The dead were fairly easy to spot, lined up in rows in ce me ter ies—and I’d read in a book by Bal zac once that some thing like the top twelve inches of all the dirt on earth was ba si cally just the dead: an i mal, plant, and other. But queers were a lit tle trickier to spot—the liv ing ones, that is. More of a game. Like spot the ghost, be cause like ghosts, only some peo ple could see them. That guy at the ser vice sta tion loi ter ing, for in stance—he hadn’t quite fit, had he? A tad too James Dean. And he thinks the bul lets can’t get him if he paints him self “straight,” strikes that pose and dances “straight.” The sun went fast and the shad ows length ened out big and om i nous below gnarled ju ni per trees, twisted and for lorn—and even below the squat sage brush and chap ar ral. I pushed on be cause there was clearly noth ing between Carey and the park. Then the black scar of it ap peared on the ho ri zon, like a big splat of burnt black berry from some enor mous pie. A pie in the sky that had fi nally fal len. Be fore long, I was wind ing through one of the strang est places I’d ever seen, though it was so black I could barely see it as dusk rolled into 218 night. It was just a solid scab of lava, miles in every di rec tion, with a gray road run ning through it like a gray stripe on a black rock (good for wish ing, as I re call). There were lit tle sec tions where grass grew, a few bushes, even squat trees near the bath room, which was noth ing more than a glo rified con crete out house, but sub stan tial all the same be cause it was the only build ing any where in sight. I pulled in at the rest room, as it was the en trance to the camp ground, and plopped my bike and gear down when I found a flat patch of dirt. It was warm out still, so I dug around for my flash light and climbed among the rough black rocks to see if I could get up high and see a view. Even tu ally, I reached a lit tle prom on tory and was able to see the road and the run ning lights of trucks way off in the dis tance, and even Carey, a faint glow on the ho ri zon. But I was more inter ested in the stars, look ing for Jimmy and Eu gene and the pie shop neb ula where this black rock must have been long ago hurled from. It wasn’t until morn ing—the birds sing ing me awake—that I saw the blue truck. Up above, parked at an angle, up on a dirt patch full of shrubs and flow ers, right in the mid dle of that chunk of black stone. I couldn’t be lieve it. And I thought that must be some shitty truck if I’m keep ing up with it. I sat and stared at it for a long time, anx ious to spot Eu gene. But I was hes i tant to ap proach on ac count of the other guy. So I watched and waited, and fi nally I scur ried up the hill side to their camp, where I found only the rem nants of a fire in a pit full of ash. Nei ther of them were in sight any where, but I could see the dirt roads now that led to the other lit tle brush and dirt camp sites among the rocks, and my eyes fol lowed them, search ing...
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