EXCERPTS FROM THE BOOK
“Peyote?”
We leaned in closer.
Kurt asked, “What do we do with peyote?”
A smile danced on Rob’s lips. “It’s cactus. Apaches use it in ceremony, drink it in tea, or eat it raw. Your stomach gets upset, and you vomit. After that, you feel great, see colors, and hallucinate. It’s like your hang-ups make you sick. But once you throw them up, you experience a beautiful clarity. The Indians use it for visions and wisdom. . .”
My Cherokee ancestry kicked in. I saw myself standing atop a mountain in moccasined feet with discovery fluttering like leather fringe in a wind at sunrise. Life spread out clear and bright before me.
Rob patting my hand brought me back to the present, and I heard Kurt say, “Yeah, around noon would be good. I’ll come over to Sylvi’s, and we’ll do it.”
“What are we doing at noon? I must have missed it.”
“I noticed you kind of spaced there for a minute.” Rob leaned close to my ear. “We’re going to trip tomorrow at your place. Okay?”
“Sure, as long as I’m included.”
He laughed. “You’re the first one I thought of when I saw that pile of peyote buttons on the floor. But it’s just you, me and Kurt,” he cautioned. “Best with only two or three.”
Rob looked up. “Hey, it’s the champagne man.”
Jake filled our glasses. Almost midnight. The crowd was building to a ringing-in-the-New crescendo. The waiter waltzed between the tables playing Auld Lang Syne on his accordion. We linked arms around our table, swayed back and forth, and sang along.
When the bedlam subsided, Deb proposed we move the party to her place.
“Sure, why not?” I responded out of habit.
Jake said to count him in and asked Rob, who declined with thanks. I suggested he crash at the house. “Take my car. I’ll catch a ride home with Jake.”
Within a couple of hours, Deb’s party dwindled. Jake had passed out on the sofa. I sipped orange juice and listened to voices, first, from the bathroom where Mary and Kurt lounged in a bubble bath. Mary tells him how she loves him like she’s never loved anybody else. He tells her he knows she’s drunk and doesn’t believe her for a second. Then coming from Deb’s bedroom, I hear Rex telling her how much he wants her. She tells him she’s sick of life, she’s done it all, and getting it on with him wouldn’t mean anything.
Panic crept into me as I listened. For the past several years, I’d been trapped in similar scenes. But there in the wee hours of January 1, 1968, I had no desire to be a participant or an observer. I had to get out, to shed the hopelessness hanging in the air, threatening to suffocate me.
Jake snored on the couch. I scribbled a note saying I’d found another way home and tucked it between his belt buckle and pants. He’d find it when he woke up to pee. Then grabbing my jacket and purse, I walked out the door in pursuit of the sunrise, a brand new day, a brand new life.
Fear caught in my chest. My high heels clicked against the pavement of downtown El Paso. Is it safe to walk home? Better my body to perish in the street than my soul to die in Deb’s apartment. An hour’s time, and the darkness will flee, I’ll walk into a sunrise, into a promise of new life with nothing to fear.
The air, cold against my face, energized me. I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked east into the predawn gray. Pale violet lined the horizon and spread translucent purple across it. Glancing over my shoulder at the black night behind me, I welcomed the hope in the light ahead.
Tall buildings gave way to houses—everyone asleep but me. I clicked along the sidewalk watching lavender melt into coral. Coral morphed into delicate peach and pink, streaked wisps of clouds with gold. Then the sun, a ball of yellow flame, rose above the Guadalupe Mountains, infusing me with life.
The breeze bathed my soul in peace as I turned north on the last leg home. The sun climbed. I breathed it in until I stepped onto my front porch. Excitement propelled me through the door.
Startled, Rob put his guitar aside. “How did you get home? I didn’t hear Jake’s car.”
“The sunrise brought me.” I laughed. “I’ve just taken the most incredible, inspiring walk of my life.”
#
An hour after dinner in Chihuahua, I watched thunderheads gather against the evening sky ahead. Then, noticing the squat adobe houses scattered on either side of the road, I asked, “What town is this?”
“Meoqui. There’s a lake out there somewhere.” Z waved his hand toward the west. “We’ll see it another time. This weather looks bad.”
As we passed through Meoqui, the clouds grew darker, slammed together, and spit fat raindrops against our windshield. Loud claps of thunder rolled across the empty desert. The night and pounding rain swallowed us.
“How can you see to drive?” I yelled above the water hammering the roof of the VW. Grabbing Z’s shirt from the back seat, I wiped the fog from the inside of the front windows and glanced at him. His white cut-off jeans interrupted the deep tan running from his bare toes right up to his tousled brown hair. I watched him, fascinated by the way determination tightened every muscle in his long, lean frame. He slowed down and studied the situation.
“There’s lights up ahead, Sylvi.”
The wipers slapped uselessly back and forth. Through the rain-drenched windshield, I made out fuzzy headlights. Z leaned forward squinting past the halo of oncoming lights into the wet darkness. “Holy shit, taillights.” He came to a full stop behind a line of cars and shouted above the storm, “The fucking bridge over the Rio Conchos is flooded.”
Our headlights illuminated the cars in front of us awaiting their turns to cross. After one made it over from the other side, we moved ahead a car length as each vehicle ahead of us proceeded across. Four moves forward and I could see a torrent of water roaring over the bridge.
The pickup truck in front of us started across. The current hit it hard, shoving it sideways, but the truck straightened and made it.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I watched the next car from the other side start toward us. Would it make it to our side of the bridge? Perhaps in some other lifetime, not tonight. Tonight cannot be happening. “Volkswagens are watertight, aren’t they, Z?” He did not hear me. I kept talking anyway. “If this flood carries us to the abyss below, can we count on its being watertight? How about if we hang a ‘U’ and wait until morning?”
Z gripped the wheel, his jaw tight, his entire frame wired. His eyes gauged every possibility as the oncoming car washed ever so slightly toward the edge of the bridge. I couldn’t see a guardrail but prayed there was one to prevent the car from plummeting into the river below. I wiped the fog from our windshield. The lights of the oncoming car shone right in our faces.
Our turn.
Z renewed his grip on the wheel and revved the engine. No turning back. I grabbed the chicken bar on the dashboard and hung on. Please, dear God, let us make it. The floodwaters crashed against my door. Rain pounded on top of us, rushed in front and behind. He gunned the motor, propelling us forward to escape the water’s sideways shove as the car slid to the left.
An eternity passed, but Z did not flinch. His determination did not falter. Should the motor die, should the entire exterior of the car wash away, one thing became completely clear to me. The sheer force of McKenzie’s will would move us across that bridge.
Lights from the line of cars opposite us snapped me from the slow motion of our crossing into the relief of arriving on the other side.
Safe.
“Guess we were meant to live and fight in the revolution, baby,” he yelled.
