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us who isn't in that bag.
But finally we left. Our little caravanserai moved out onto the road with all
the glee and aplomb of a New Orleans funeral that couldn't find a Preservation
Hall Dixieland band.
We turned onto the Hollywood Freeway and sped straight down Route 101. Santa
Ana Freeway, Pacific
Coast Highway, El Camino Real; past Downey and its used car carnivals, past
Disneyland and its ludicrous Matterhorn rising out of the surrounding squalor,
past Tustin and the art bookstore that faces out on a highway going too fast
to give a damn. San Juan Capistrano, and I've never seen a swallow yet, going
or coming. San Clemente, Del Mar, Pacific Beach, and we were in San Diego. I
once asked a resident if they minded the Navy calling it "Dago," and that
worthy responded he didn't care if they called it dog-whoopee, as long as they
kept spending their money. That, I
feel, sums up the beauty and glory of San Diego, a helluva way to end a
beautiful state. It is not, I hasten to add, a coincidence that Dago appears
at what might metaphorically be termed the backside of the state. We pulled in
at a one-arm joint on 101, just before National City, the other side of San
Diego, and while Jenny went to phone, Rooney and I had cups of coffee; I
worked my neck around, trying to unkink it.
"What's the matter with you today?" she asked, over the lip of the cup.
"What do you mean: what's the matter? Nothing. Why, does something look the
matter?" I could feel my nose growing, like Pinocchio's.
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"You've been awfully quiet the last forty miles or so."
I shrugged. "Tired. My back aches. That's all."
She didn't answer, but she knew I was lying.
"And this isn't really the pleasure trip of all time," I added. Keep talking,
schmuck, I told myself. Dig it a little deeper.
"Well, it'll all be over soon enough," Rooney said, trying to cover her own
awareness of my mood.
She knew me too well. I knew we'd be splitting up soon. I couldn't let anyone
get that close to the core of me; as long as it was froth and foam it was
safe. But the encystment was too marked in me, at age thirty. I smiled across
at her reassuringly.
Jenny came back. "Have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie," I told her. She
shook her head no.
"I'm not supposed to eat before the operation. His girl told me not to eat for
about six hours beforehand. I haven't eaten since last night. I'm starving,
but you know you're not supposed to eat before this kind of thing."
I hadn't known, but I saw no reason for her to make a big who-struck-John of
the whole matter. I
mumbled something about oh yeah, I knew. And that was that. She sat down next
to Rooney, staring at me with open malevolence. Like I was the guy who'd
knocked her up. In a philosophical sense, I
suppose I was as guilty as Roger Gore, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to
eat that particular humble pie. I had a feeling too many strange Jack Horners
had already had their thumbs in it.
"Well, what did they say?" Rooney asked.
Jenny pulled her eyes away from me with difficulty. There was actually
physical violence in her expression. I chalked it up to her fear and the fact
that I was a man the same as Roger Gore, only he wasn't handy for hating.
"She said to drive across the border, into downtown Tijuana, and park behind
the Woolworth's at
4:30, there'd be a fellow to meet us. She said his name is Louis--"
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"Luis," I corrected her.
"So Loo-ees," she snapped back. "So what?" Then she went on, addressing
herself to Rooney. I
couldn't have cared less. "She said to dress poorly, not like tourists--"
"Turistas," I murmured, under my breath.
"Why don't you just shut up!" Jenny was screaming. A man at the counter turned
to look at us, and the waitress paused on her way through the swinging doors
to the kitchen.
I reached across and grabbed her wrist as hard as I could. "Listen, you little
asshole, I've had about as much horseshit from you as I can take. I've had to
listen to your miserable bellyaching and whining and complaining for the last
week; you may not appreciate the fact that aiding someone in getting an
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