Chapter Eleven

On The Road Part One

We’re on the Thruway by 9 am. Sky is heartbreak blue. Even with the windows closed, March breeze carries hints of spring. I drive, and Raeven sits next to me. Murky clouds in the distance. Don’t have a good feeling about this trip.

Don’t have a good feeling about anything these days. Can’t focus. Sick of stand up. Maybe I’ll quit. Feel old when I see what’s out there. No one’s funny. Spotlight is on twenty- six -year olds. No themes, just rambling narratives. Throw in something about a dick and vagina and audience howls.

Where do punch lines go to die?

How come my daughter has no sense of humor?

Need a teeth cleaning. What if I need a root canal? Check my face in rearview mirror. Where did those jowls come from?

Raeven is on a conference call with her office. Something about one of their biggest clients, CEO of a mammoth chili hot dog chain out west. Managed to chew up other businesses along the way, running them into the ground. Now he’s on his way to a perp walk. Looted a pension fund and committed mail fraud. Facing time in federal prison.

Five hours stretching ahead of us, and then what?

Haven’t thought this through.

Made a reservation at some rinky dink motel last night. One room for the three of us. I’ll sleep on the floor, in front of the door, in case Minnie tries to bolt in the middle of the night.

Raeven’s knees are gonna buckle once we head into the mountains. No cell signal, no internet. Every mile brings us closer to our wild child. Not sure Raeven has what it takes to get through this. Not sure I do.

Reach into a bag of dates and start munching. Have gone back to strictly vegan diet. Sharing space with Eugenia during Minnie’s derailment wreaked havoc with my colon. My mother is Orpheus to depressed plant eaters. She could charm Gandhi with a sizzling sirloin.

Once Minnie went off the rails, my insides were roiling but I barely noticed. Eugenia blew a few bars on her lute and I was quaffing her meatloaf like it was green juice. Now I’m making up for lost time. Reach for some almonds.

Can’t believe I’m thinking this: wish my mother were here. Could use her stream of non-sequiturs to keep me from focusing on the Adirondack smack down ahead.

Glance over at Raven, who’s just ending the call. She looks at me and mouths the word “caffeine,” and I know it’s time to pull off at the next rest stop. It’s been years since we’ve taken a road trip together, but memories come back quickly. This is how it will go down: first a stop for black coffee and the rest room. Another stop for a little yoga, mind clearing and a quick call to her psychic. She’ll grab a sandwich, some sugary pastry, more caffeine and make a final visit to rest room. Last stop will be to call the office before she loses her signal.

She sighs. “I just need this Minnie thing to go down smooth and fast so that we can get back to the city. Shareholders are already starting with the civil lawsuits. Too much ka-ching ka-ching on the line.”

Go into my You are There in History Mode.

May, 1846. Independence, Missouri. You, Raeven, are there. It’s Westward Ho for you and the Donner party.

You’re a young single woman who’s been toiling for years as a clerk in a law office. You don’t have a law degree, but you are a quick study, and you see how things work.

In your spare time, you regularly go to seances in the parlor of a local medium named Estella. One evening, while you’re waiting impatiently for your great grandmother to tap on the table, you spot a book in the corner of the room: “The Emigrants Guide to Oregon and California” by Lansford Hastings. Estella says you can borrow it, and you’re hooked.

Head to California, Hastings urges. And and get there quick. Take the short cut.

You like the way this guy thinks.

You’re pulled by the promise of burgeoning economic opportunity. The belief that the land between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans contains multitudes of ka-ching ka-ching. Within the year, you’ll invest in land. You’ll build and expand. Exploit.

You pack your belongings, hitch up your wagon, and off you go. You and the group have about 120 days to travel 2,200 miles before October. There’s an urgency to the trip because you all should have started out earlier. You are racing against the elements to beat the snows that come early out west. But you like the leader, George Donner, and you trust his instincts.

The trip is harrowing. Mostly, you keep to yourself, steering your own wagon over inhospitable terrain. In spite of the hardships, your spirits lift in Wyoming. The vast expanse of prairie with its sagebrush, wheatgrass and endless horizon allows you some time to daydream. Bumps in the trail are from the ruts of the thousands of wagons that came before you. You know you made the right choice. As you follow the meandering of the Sweetwater River, you plot your future.

Then comes that fork in the road. You’re all behind schedule. Most of them choose the longer, established trail and they splinter off. It’s a safer bet. You and the Donners opt for the quick way. The route that Lansford Hastings promoted.

The Rocky Mountains and the Great Salt Lake Desert are desolate and perilous. There are canyons to navigate, boulders to move, brush to clear. It hits you that you may not make it to California alive. In October, the snows come and by November, you’re trapped in the worst winter in the history of the Sierra Nevada.

Supplies run out, horses and oxen die, people turn on each other. And then they die off. For five months, you’re stuck in makeshift cabins with 87 other people you can’t tolerate. You nibble on some dead oxen hide while others turn to cannibalism. Even murder.

By February, 1847, the first rescuers arrive. There are only 47 of you left. As you and the others stumble towards the wagons that will carry you safely to the Sacramento Valley, you gasp: “Wait!”

Survivors and rescuers stop in their tracks and stare at you, confused.

“We need to talk about a class action suit against Lansford Hastings,” you inform them. “He shouldn’t make another penny off that book.”

You’re alive and you are gunning to navigate California law.

Maybe you’ll even name names.

“And, while you’re all here,” you tell them, “ I’ve got some NDAs for you to sign…”