Trip: v. to stumble or fall; to make a mistake
It's not that I mean to stay at the Royal Hawaiian Motel. But I got a late start out of LA, I'm not feeling great, I can't fight my eyelids any more. So, although I have just 93 more miles until home, I pull the plug for the night. Besides, it's a Friday, and I don't feel like slogging through all the LA-to-Vegas traffic, so I get off of the I-15 and head into Baker.
Baker, California—"Gateway to Death Valley." Home to roughly 600 citizens, the Alien Jerky Store, overpriced petrol—and, of course, Baker's claim to pop-culture immortality, the world's largest thermometer. Thrilling as these trappings sound, I'm too tired to indulge. I find a room at the Royal Hawaiian Motel for just $35 that night. It's a bargain, the clerk informs me, because this is the height of the winter tourist season.
I'm happy with my room—as long as there are no infestations and I can't see exposed pipes, I'm content. Well, OK, the bar of soap by the wash basin is unwrapped and has a hair on it, but I just ignore that, brush my teeth and go straight to bed.
Next morning: time for breakfast. I head out on the main drag and see an endless array of fast-food places: Arby's, Burger King, Jack in the Box, Taco Bell, Del Taco; but also Bun Boy, the Mad Greek Cafe and Denny's. At Bun Boy, numerous tourists are having their pictures taken by the thermomemter. That's out. At the Mad Greek, the forced atmosphere of Greek music, statues of Greek gods and photos of Greece strikes me as a little incongruous for the Mojave Desert. Denny's wins by default. As I walk in, I note happily that this is the first Denny's I'd ever seen that has a bar. Judging from the well-worn upholstery, many a lonesome trucker has perched on these stools. As my luck has it, something is wrong with the credit-card machine. I overhear an exchange between a middle-aged waitress with a foghorn voice and a husky trucker in coveralls and tweed blazer:
Her: "Sorry Vern, our machine's out, I gotta take cash."
Him: "I'm a little short, but wait for me, and I'll just go to the ATM at Texaco."
Her: "Oh, Vern! It's not like I won't see you again."
Vern has the luxury to run up a tab. That won't be the case for me. Having blown my cash I on the motel, I go back to the grill-grease stretch, all those fast-food chains right off the I-15.
Let's see. Only $4 in my pocket, so I'll have two breakfast burritos at Del Taco. I'll ask for a free water cup, one of those transparent ones that they cleverly give to the customers to ensure we get only water. But wait! I'll get some Sprite when no one is watching, and I'll have beaten the system!
There's only one other car in the parking lot. I walk in and see two employees: a short girl with strawberry-blond hair and a boy, tall and gangly. They're staring out the window, observing a grocery bag caught in a windy updraft.
Girl: How long do you think it'll stay up there?
Boy: I dunno, it's damn windy today.
Girl: You don't have to tell me, I just got new contacts, and I've been gettin' crap in 'em all day!
Boy: You got new contacts?
Girl: Yeah, but somethin's wrong with 'em. I keep rubbin 'em, and they feel dry!
I interrupt. "Just put some rewetting drops in them and see what happens."
A voice from the outside has penetrated their conversation! Immediately she runs behind the cash register, and he picks up the broom.
"I'm sorry about the wait, sir!" she says
There's another customer in the place, a middle-aged man, probably in his late-40s, dressed in youth-rebel gear: black T-shirt, torn jeans, Doc Martens and a black leather jacket. The only other car in the lot is a silver BMW. He picks up his Macho Nachos and walks to the dining room.
I wait patiently by the counter for my order.
Me: You go to high school.
Girl: Yep, Baker High School. I'm graduating this year.
Me: How many in your graduating class?
Girl: I think 12.
She must have noticed my facetious expression.
Girl: I know, everybody knows everybodys' business at that school.
Me: Well at least Baker's got the Alien Jerky Store.
Girl: That's true. I love their salmon jerky. You should try some before you leave town.
Me: How do you know I'm from out of town?
Girl: Like I said, everybody knows everybody's business here.
Meanwhile, the other customer has started his own conversation with the boy.
Customer: You're doin' a hell of a job!
Boy: Thanks, sir.
Customer: Keep workin' hard, and you'll be runnin' this town.
Boy: Sir, have you ever gone to Monster.com and looked under Baker, California, for job opportunities?
Game, set and match to the kid.
I pull into the Texaco. The prices are a little higher than I'd like, around $2.40 for regular, but my frustration isn't as desperate as that of the young couple nearby.
Her: They know you have no choice but to pay their prices. We should have filled up in Barstow!
Him: I told you, we're pressed for time. Check-in at the San Remo is at noon, and I don't want us to be late or they might give our room away!
It's the winter tourist season, after all.
Inside the Texaco, there's a line to use the washroom. There are no male or female designations, just one unsex bathroom—pretty Ally McBeal for Baker, California, but I doubt the man fidgeting impatiently in front of me appreciates the progressive attitude. He turned to the cashier.
Man: Why you only got one bathroom?
Cashier: We get a lot of Japanese tourist who stop here by bus, and them people are used to just one bathroom with everybody sharin'
Them people. Being part Okinawan, I could have taken offense, but I'm just 93 miles from home, so I just let it go.
As I head home on I-15 north, Baker takes on a faintly surreal quality, the kind that sticks in your mind in a minor key. It has the feel of a David Lynch movie, where a tranquil surface conceals an odd undercurrent. But not the Lynch of Blue Velvet, where "odd" means a nervous menace, but the Lynch of The Straight Story, where "odd" means, well, odd. And I'm not even thinking about the damn thermometer.