before and never wish to hear of again left a dozen garage mechanics fi nancially fixed for life. But except for the sheer agony of it all, our trip was unmemorable. There was no nice weather, no pretty scenery. The cats were miserable, cooped up in the back of the car; Bill must have been a physical and nervous wreck at the end of each long day's driving. As for me, I felt more lost, more depressed, and more unsure of myself with every mile.
I was so mad at Bill for getting me into this Godforsaken place, and he was so mad at me for being mad at him, that our conversation was limited to an icy but chill ingly polite series of exchanges, each leading exactly no where.
Around mealtimes, when we were both ravenous, our gay banter would go something like this:
he : Hungry?
me : Mmmmm.
(Long pause.)
he : Well, do you want to stop somewhere and eat?
me : Just as you wish.
he : Well, do you want to eat or don't you?
me : Whatever you want— dear.
he : It makes no difference to me.
me : Nor to me. You seem to make the decisions in this family. .
he : Well, are you hungry?
me : Not esss-pesshh-yully.
he : All right, then, we won't bother to eat.
me : Just as you say.
{My stomach rumbles loudly.)
he : What did you say?
me : ( Icily ) Nothing!
Great fun, that motor trip!
It was Friday, March 13, when we finally reached New Mexico. "Land of Enchantment" is the motto stamped on all New Mexican license plates, but at that point I found it about as enchanting as the Jersey Flats. True, the sun was shining and the altitude and the dry ness made me warm for the first time since we left New York, but I felt wan and lost, like some of those pioneer women who had starved along the way or been scalped by the Indians. I looked surreptitiously for sun-whitened skeletons along the roadside. There weren't any. Probably carried off by vultures, I thought. However, Santa Fe—and a more or less permanent roosting place—was within reach, and that meant a lot to me.
Nightfall fell and we were within fifty miles of Rancho del Monte when the station wagon again took sick. Al though the climate of New Mexico is said to be splendid for respiratory ailments, it did nothing for our station wagon. In fact, before we reached the town of Santa Fe, the poor car started coughing and gasping and choking like an Italian diva in the final act of La Traviata.
Bill pressed down harder on the accelerator, firm again about showing the car who was boss. The car was. In a final consumptive spasm, it shuddered and heaved over to the side of the road with a death rattle that shook loose the suitcases and the cat carriers in the back. I was all for administering the last rites and taking the next plane home. Not so Bill. He persevered and, by means of a se ries of fits and starts—caused by the onset of rigor mortis, I think—our caravan lurched into one of the nastiest little motor courts it has ever been my hard luck to visit.
Everyone knows that over the years motels have be come respectable, comfortable, and, in many cases, even quite spiffy—everyone, that is, except the proprietor of this motel. Roach Haven, as I called it, was simply squalid. In a land of perfectly wonderful adobe houses, which are miraculously insulated against heat and cold, Roach Haven had chosen a crooked line of prefabricated wooden army barracks to serve as its guest accommoda tions. The wind howled eerily through the building and the place fairly rocked with each breeze. There was a dripping wash basin in every room, but nothing more. Toilets and showers were located at the far ends of the barracks—ladies to the north, gents to the south—so that after a numbing cold shower, it meant a fifty-yard dash through the freezing New Mexico night.
Nor was it cheap. In fact, it was ruinously expensive, plus a dollar deposit for the key—when a hairpin worked much better. "Be here long?" the proprietor asked us.
"No longer than I can help it," I said.
"Just for
I was so mad at Bill for getting me into this Godforsaken place, and he was so mad at me for being mad at him, that our conversation was limited to an icy but chill ingly polite series of exchanges, each leading exactly no where.
Around mealtimes, when we were both ravenous, our gay banter would go something like this:
he : Hungry?
me : Mmmmm.
(Long pause.)
he : Well, do you want to stop somewhere and eat?
me : Just as you wish.
he : Well, do you want to eat or don't you?
me : Whatever you want— dear.
he : It makes no difference to me.
me : Nor to me. You seem to make the decisions in this family. .
he : Well, are you hungry?
me : Not esss-pesshh-yully.
he : All right, then, we won't bother to eat.
me : Just as you say.
{My stomach rumbles loudly.)
he : What did you say?
me : ( Icily ) Nothing!
Great fun, that motor trip!
It was Friday, March 13, when we finally reached New Mexico. "Land of Enchantment" is the motto stamped on all New Mexican license plates, but at that point I found it about as enchanting as the Jersey Flats. True, the sun was shining and the altitude and the dry ness made me warm for the first time since we left New York, but I felt wan and lost, like some of those pioneer women who had starved along the way or been scalped by the Indians. I looked surreptitiously for sun-whitened skeletons along the roadside. There weren't any. Probably carried off by vultures, I thought. However, Santa Fe—and a more or less permanent roosting place—was within reach, and that meant a lot to me.
Nightfall fell and we were within fifty miles of Rancho del Monte when the station wagon again took sick. Al though the climate of New Mexico is said to be splendid for respiratory ailments, it did nothing for our station wagon. In fact, before we reached the town of Santa Fe, the poor car started coughing and gasping and choking like an Italian diva in the final act of La Traviata.
Bill pressed down harder on the accelerator, firm again about showing the car who was boss. The car was. In a final consumptive spasm, it shuddered and heaved over to the side of the road with a death rattle that shook loose the suitcases and the cat carriers in the back. I was all for administering the last rites and taking the next plane home. Not so Bill. He persevered and, by means of a se ries of fits and starts—caused by the onset of rigor mortis, I think—our caravan lurched into one of the nastiest little motor courts it has ever been my hard luck to visit.
Everyone knows that over the years motels have be come respectable, comfortable, and, in many cases, even quite spiffy—everyone, that is, except the proprietor of this motel. Roach Haven, as I called it, was simply squalid. In a land of perfectly wonderful adobe houses, which are miraculously insulated against heat and cold, Roach Haven had chosen a crooked line of prefabricated wooden army barracks to serve as its guest accommoda tions. The wind howled eerily through the building and the place fairly rocked with each breeze. There was a dripping wash basin in every room, but nothing more. Toilets and showers were located at the far ends of the barracks—ladies to the north, gents to the south—so that after a numbing cold shower, it meant a fifty-yard dash through the freezing New Mexico night.
Nor was it cheap. In fact, it was ruinously expensive, plus a dollar deposit for the key—when a hairpin worked much better. "Be here long?" the proprietor asked us.
"No longer than I can help it," I said.
"Just for
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