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I loved my muddy Slip'n Slide when I was but a grungy kid, ambitions never satisfied until my mom would hence forbid my setting foot inside the door. My friends and I would slide until you couldn't fathom who was who, our clothing drenched in turbid swill, green lawn became a viscous slough that wasn't grassy anymore. In summer when the rain's lukewarm, with sewers threatening to flood, I long to chase the surging storm, and search for sidewalks filled with mud, to slip 'n slide like years before. 
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Faster, the rider willed, the rushing air not yet in his nostrils. Faster, he spoke aloud, the mail won't deliver by itself. Faster, the cheat grass blew, leaning, pointed to the east, against them. Faster still, into the dusk, the coming change of horses, soon enough. Faster, nearly finished, can't break off to rest, until then. Stop! He has arrived, the next rider grabs the bag and is off... 
The "Route 66" sign, though weathered and bent, attracted adventure, a side-trip to take. Beginning in Texas I started descent, I drove through New Mexico, tired, but awake. In one of the miles between hovels and towns, with nothing but desert and tumbleweed brush, I stopped at the rest stop and noticed that sounds were missing, a breathtaking hush. When "resting" was finished I made the next sprint to hot Arizona, sun racing me west, and then California, eyes fighting their squint, I made it to Baker with mounting distress. Beyond an old trestle on the 66 trail was nourishment, boarding, a pleasant motel, with palm trees and neon, a fence of split rail, as daylight was fading, and what is that smell? I followed the scent of a kitchen retreat, a menu that offered a barbeque meal, and soon I was full, but my quest incomplete, I rented a suite for its rate was a steal. The Royal Hawaiian lived up to its name, or maybe fatigue had enamored my view. The lounge of bamboo and a tiki torch flame were the last things I saw as I finished my brew. I woke at first light with a head-pounding pain, and hoped I had made it to bed on my own. I crawled in my car and continued on Main, but still 66, as the signage had shown. By noon I would stand on a Hollywood star, a Walk of Fame placard inlaid with its gold. The hundreds of miles with a whim and a car, the account of my drive would be often retold. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
June 2019
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