After I got out I just couldn’t manage to settle down again. Nothing seemed to fit. I’d think I was settling down in one place and then one night I wouldn’t be able to sleep and my blood would be rushing through me and I’d get in my car and drive, and I wouldn’t stop until I was someplace new.
In Dallas I was in the newspaper because I caused a traffic accident when I stopped short to let a family of ducks cross the street. About six cars played a little bumper-bump but no one was hurt. No one’s car was wrecked. They took me to court for vehicular something-or-other, but then a bunch of nature ladies showed up in court to say how I’d done the right thing trying to save the ducks. Everyone had a lot of fun with it and the judge let me off after the nature ladies convinced him. They even put a little thing in the paper—“Duck Lady Has Day in Court.”
But then a few days later, who knows what happened, but there was another little bit in the paper: “Duck Lady California Con Girl!” Someone even said the judge should reconsider in light of who I was. So then the paper went to the nature ladies to see what they thought and boy, was I surprised—not one of them had a bad word to say. One woman even said that considering my “background,” what I’d done was even better than it had seemed. I don’t know why but I just couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t get over how nice that was. Even if it was kind of a silly thing to say, she’d meant it to be nice. Just imagine if everyone thought like that. By then I was in Galveston, which suited me much better. I liked that part of the country, all around the Gulf there. Easy to live down there. Easier, at least.
I married my third husband in Sarasota, Florida. He was associated with a group called Quest for Wisdom. They were okay, the Quest people. I never got into it; there was a lot of health food and things like that. No smoking. The best part of our marriage was when he was with them. Then when they all fell apart, the Quest people, that was when he got mean.
Eight years later and I was back on the road again. I bought a good car, a Ford, that I was very fond of. Back then, Ford had a bad rap. All the better for me. I got a good price on the car, and I took it with me when I left.
I drove around the South for a while trying to get something going work-wise, money-wise, happening-wise, but didn’t have much luck. I wasn’t young anymore. Money was harder to come by every year.
After a year and a few more days in lockup, this time for simple larceny, I eventually found myself back in Southern California. I hadn’t been there in many years and it didn’t seem very different at all. Just more crowded. That same big sun.
I had arranged to stay with an old acquaintance but when that fell through on account of another friend getting involved and making a problem, I had nowhere to go.
I drove around awhile thinking about what I ought to do. I always loved to drive. That’s always been my best friend. I started before they even gave me a license. As long as I had a car I was okay. I certainly prefer a bed, and I don’t mind flying first class, but you don’t need any of that. All you need is a car that runs and a full tank. Then the world really is yours. You can go anywhere you want, driving that car. You got gas in your tank and the car runs, you can be anyone. You can make the story up as you go.
So I’m driving and driving and after a while I see a motel. I need a place to stay and it looks okay, but as I pull into the parking lot, it begins to look familiar, and after I get out and start heading to the front desk, I realize, Well, fuck me. This is the place. This is the same fucking place.
So I go to the desk and I tell him I want a room, cash, just tonight for now, we’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow. He gets the paperwork out and says, “Sure. What’s your name?”
So I say, “Well,” I say, “I guess it’s Hannah Martinez.”
APACHE YOUTH
Ace Atkins
JAMMED UP IN traffic on the 405, Jeff’s sister turned to him and said, “You really need to get your shit together.”
“I like your husband’s Bronco,” Jeff said. “If I made a million, it would be exactly the kind of vintage ride I’d buy.”
“He doesn’t have a million yet,” she said. “It’s a talent-holding deal, not a series. You know how much money he’d be making if he wasn’t tied to the network? He just turned down a guest spot on NCIS: New Orleans.”
“He do all this refurb himself?” Jeff said, touching the leather wheel of the Ford. The near-perfect smoothness of the dash. “Damn. Or did he pay someone?”
Jeff’s sister snorted, crossed her arms over her new and improved boobs, and slunk down lower in the passenger seat. The Bronco was a beauty. Completely restored, show quality, coated in metallic gray paint, and given a brand-new Cleveland 321 engine with dual exhaust and header. The truck was jacked up with a Pro Comp lift kit, Pro Comp wheels, and big, chunky Goodrich tires.
“LA hasn’t been good for you,” she said. “What you came here for, you haven’t found. You can’t live your life jacking into free Wi-Fi at Starbucks or holding down the corner booth at Bob’s Big Boy. You’re going to be forty this year.”