Roads From the Ashes. Megan Edwards
only one thing really mattered. The Phoenix was ours.
Four Cats in Santa Cruz
Wait a minute. Did I really say, “I was free” back there? I may have felt that lovely lighter-than-air ebullience as I drove back to Pasadena behind our new set of wheels, but it was fleeting. We’d just gained a car payment as big as a mortgage. Freedom? Maybe it really is a word for nothing left to lose. Maybe it’s only a tantalizing abstraction to sing about on the Fourth of July, or to enjoy for a moment when all your worldly goods are gone, and you haven’t had a chance to fill the vacuum.
The Phoenix filled a good chunk of the vacuum, and gradually, we were acquiring its contents. New stuff. Different stuff. Stuff I never knew existed.
Insurance companies are organized to make sure you replace all your old stuff with stuff that’s as similar as possible.
If you had a couch, you pick out a new one. You work your way down your list, putting everything back. As long as you stick to the footprint of the stuff you lost, everyone is happy. Pretty soon, you can start forgetting that the fire ever happened. It fades like a bad dream at daybreak.
If, on the other hand, you decide that the fire wasn’t so much a disaster as a chance to reinvent yourself, you’re on your own. If you decide that in place of a couch, you would like a black box that will make a cellular telephone work with a modem, don’t expect an insurance agent to understand. It won’t make sense to anyone but you.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but as I look back, most of our decisions about stuff revolved around keeping in touch. We could live happily without a dishwasher, but we couldn’t leave town without a modem. We had no yen for a dining room table, but we couldn’t depart without a computer, a printer, a telephone, and a fax machine.
Nearly half of the living space in the Phoenix One was dedicated to communication. The entire “back room,” space which in most motor homes is filled with a bed and wardrobes, was an office, complete with desk, filing cabinet, slide-out shelf for the fax machine, and storage for computer equipment. One cabinet was reserved to hold all our clothes. Our bed was a bunk over the cab.
Now that the Phoenix really existed in three dimensions, our plans for departure began to solidify, but we still didn’t know exactly when we’d actually climb into the cab and drive away. It’s a funny thing when you plan to set forth on a journey of your own making. You can plan and plan and never quite get around to leaving. You need a deadline, or you can keep planning forever.
A deadline appeared at precisely the right moment. Mark’s brother in Santa Cruz called. “We’re going to Hawaii at the end of March,” he said. “We need someone to house sit for us and feed the cats.” Suddenly there was no more time for dreaming. The Phoenix One had a mission, a focus, a drop-dead date. Four hungry cats were counting on us to hit the road.
Meeting the Roadman
While we were in the midst of preparing for our departure, we received an invitation to attend an Indian meeting. The meeting was to be held at a friend’s house in the mountains just north of the San Fernando Valley.
“It lasts all night,” explained Catherine. “You should bring pillows, and Megan has to wear a dress. Also, bring food to share with the group.”
An Indian meeting. My only knowledge of such things came from Carlos Castaneda, and lots of people said he made things up. “But why not?” said Mark. “It seems like a perfect way to start an adventure.”
We arrived at the house around five-thirty and parked in front. A pick-up truck was parked in the driveway, and two men were sharpening a yucca stalk to a point in the front yard. A handful of other people were sitting on the porch. Catherine was in the kitchen, “just bring whatever you brought on in,” she said. “Things will be starting pretty soon.”
Two men were moving furniture out of the living room. A serious man in a leather jacket seemed to be in charge. He said, “Let’s build the altar now,” and a thin teen-ager wearing combat boots and chains carried in four two-by-fours and dumped them on the floor.
“What are we supposed to do?” I whispered to Mark as seemingly random activity continued around us. Another man entered with a bag of sand over his shoulder. He dumped it on the floor. Another man arrived with a load of firewood. “I have no idea,” said Mark. “I guess we just watch and see what happens.”
The man in charge walked into the room. “What are all these pillows doing in here?” he demanded. “Get them out of here.” He was pointing at our pillows, the ones Catherine had told us to bring. We stuffed them back into a corner, and shrank back on top of them.
A blonde woman in blue jeans arranged the four two-by-fours into a rectangle. The man who’d brought the sand arrived with another bagful and dumped it inside, right onto the floor. He added the other bag, and the rectangle was full. The woman used a flat stick to smooth and flatten the sand.
More people arrived carrying food. Catherine came to tell us that one of the women was the organizer of the meeting. “She’s the one who called it,” she said. “She’s the one who will tell the Roadman why we’re here.”
The Roadman. The man in the leather jacket. I’ll be very curious to find out why we’re here, I thought. And why we’re staying all night. It’s going to be a long one.
What looked like chaos continued to swirl around us, but out of the seemingly random activity, an altar took shape in the middle of the room, a fire was laid in the fireplace, the women changed into dresses, and people arranged themselves in a circle, kneeling or sitting cross-legged on the floor. We were about thirty in all, a large group for a small living room. The roadman took his place directly across from us. The room was slowly filling with smoke.
The ritual unfolded before us, and much of it revolved around smoke and fire. The roadman had a beaded leather bag full of tobacco and cedar. He laid talismans on the altar. He filled a pipe, and we all smoked in turn. He talked to the woman who had called the meeting.
Our knees were already hurting, unaccustomed as we were to sitting immobile on the floor. We had at least twelve hours to go, maybe more.
“I’ll pass the medicine,” the Roadman was saying. “I want each of you to take four spoons.” Catherine had told us about the medicine. “It’s a peyote tea,” she’d said. “And yes, it can make you sick. There are containers to throw up into, if you need them.” Near us was a plastic gallon-sized milk jug with a hole cut in it, just big enough to hold a face. “It tastes horrible,” Catherine had warned us. “In fact, I think it’s the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
The bowl arrived. I downed my four spoons quickly, before I could change my mind. It’s not so bad, I thought. It was bitter and herbal and odd, but down it went. I eyed the milk jug, but nothing happened. Piece of cake.
The room was smokier now, and darker. The only light came from the fireplace, where a young man with black, waist- length hair was tending the fire.
The ceremonies continued. There was chanting and praying and drumming. I saw demons in the embers. The Roadman across the room had a devil’s face. A woman in a black dress had snakes in her hair. I watched and watched. I must have slept.
Three times during the night the Roadman passed the medicine. The rituals continued, the praying, the chanting. A bucket of water was passed around, and we drank in turn from a tin cup.
Dawn peeked in around the edges of the curtains, and the ceremony seemed to trail off. We found ourselves again surrounded by aimless activity. Some people lay on the floor. Others walked outside. The fire went out.
Somewhat dazed, we decided to put our belongings into our car. “Maybe we should just leave,” whispered Mark. “Not a bad idea,” I whispered back. It was already mid-morning, and there was no way of telling how long people might stay. A small group was chatting with the roadman at the other end of the living room. Catherine seemed to have disappeared. “No one will ever miss us,” I added.
We picked up our pillows and walked outside.