Wendell & Tyler: On the Road! Open Road Series, Vol. 2

By James R. Kincaid

This all originated with my mom, who had this idea that I should launch a voyage of discovery (my cool way of putting it) and spend the entire summer exploring the world outside me and the world within (whatever that means) by driving a luxury camper from Los Angeles to my Uncle Marshall’s in Atlanta. I am supposed to “court the unpredictable,” she says, “travel into the uncharted, the mysterious, even the frightening.”

So far, the most uncharted, mysterious, and frightening has been my traveling companion, Tyler, who is beautiful, smart, and (I sometimes think) homicidal. To say she’s not too fond of me would be like saying foxes are not too fond of chickens. But you can find all you want to know about that in that first book, Were Off! Also, you can find out there all about our first weeks, where we bounced back and forth across California, Arizona, Mexico, and almost into New Mexico, facing hardship and danger. None of that’s true except where we’ve been. We’ve had some hardship and danger, but lots of what’s happened has been more embarrassing than exciting, to tell the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Jun 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781613863459

Book preview

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Wendell & Tyler: On the Road

Open Road Series, Vol.2

By James R. Kincaid

© 2015 James R. Kincaid,

First E-book Edition, June 2016

Published at Smashwords, by Write Words, Inc.

ISBN 978-1-61386-346-6

Dedication

For my Children

So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote:

Miss Watson your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send.

Huck Finn

[But] I got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me, all the time; in the day, and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a floating along, talking, and singing, and laughing. . . . [And] somehow I couldn’t seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. And then I happened to look around, and see that paper.

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a trembling, because I’d got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:

All right, then, I’ll go to hell— and tore it up.

Prologue

The Part Before the First Part

Hi! This is me again, Wendell.

You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of Wendell and Tyler: We’re Off!, but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Tyler and me, and we told the truth, mainly. There was things which we stretched, but mainly we told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was my mom. But that’s all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Like you knew, that’s all just fooling around with the opening of Huckleberry Finn, which is my favorite book, which isn’t a good reason to throw it at you right up front, unless you’re a dork, which I am.

To make matters even dorkier, that book, which I mentioned, and this one, too (and the one to come, the third one), all originated with my mom, who had this idea that I should launch a voyage of discovery (my cool way of putting it) and spend the entire summer exploring the world outside me and the world within (whatever that means) by driving a luxury camper from Los Angeles to my Uncle Marshall in Atlanta. I am supposed to court the unpredictable, she says, travel into the uncharted, the mysterious, even the frightening.

We’ve had plenty of all three so far, the most uncharted, mysterious, and frightening being my traveling companion, Tyler, who is beautiful, smart, and (I sometimes think) homicidal. To say she’s not too fond of me would be like saying foxes are not too fond of chickens. But you can find all you want to know about that in that first book, like I said.

Also, you can find out there all about our first weeks, where we bounced back and forth across California, Arizona, Mexico, and almost into New Mexico, facing hardship and danger with courage and cunning. None of that’s true except where we’ve been. We’ve had some hardship and danger, but lots of what’s happened has been more embarrassing than exciting, to tell the truth.

Anyhow, we pick up the story — me, Tyler, and you — just as we’re leaving Tombstone, Arizona, and entering New Mexico, The Land of Enchantment. I don’t really think you’re going to find what happens enchanting, but maybe interesting. And maybe not.

Chapter 1

Tyler had just lit into me, hard and serious. I didn’t for sure know why, though I was thinking about it like crazy, trying to figure it out. I knew it was important, but I didn’t know in what way. Thinking wasn’t helping me any, since I didn’t have any starting place, not really.

After the storm, she went into the bathroom and stayed there a long time, plenty long enough for me to get cleaned up. I was all in a muddle, but I did know enough to keep quiet and wait. When she came out, she sort of glanced at me. I smiled, thought she was about to say something. But she didn’t. We both undressed and went to bed. It was the earliest we’d gone to bed, but that’s what we did.

Thursday—Ciudad Juarez

Day 21 —

Next morning, she was up first, making breakfast. I was awake and pretending not to be, trying to come up with something to say. No matter how long I stayed there, though, I wasn’t going to think of anything that was right, since I had no idea what that’d be. So I just went ahead and got up. I fixed the blankets on the bed, so we could press the buttons and slide in the back of the camper, just prancing around in my underpants like I never do. I guess I was trying to show Tyler everything was as usual — and I was doing what was never usual.

Hi, Tyler. Stupid thing to say, but somebody had to say something.

Hi, Wendell. There was no expression in her voice.

I figured it’d be best if I kept going, and it wasn’t like I couldn’t think of anything to say. Problem was I could think of about thirty things to say.

Tyler looked so nice — a T-shirt, cut off short so her skinny belly showed, and ridged-material jeans. She was working at breakfast, serving things up. Ordinarily, I’d help, but I just sat there at the table. I suppose I was worried about touching her, though I also considered hugging, which would either be exactly the right thing to do or exactly the wrong thing to do, like everything else I thought about.

I was casting back over our whole trip, wondering whether I’d touched her before, accidentally and all, and was pretty sure I had, was absolutely sure I had. And then there was that time at the boulder park, where she’d made a joke of it.

I wasn’t supposing this was altogether something I’d done, not completely, figured it was only partly about me, and that part maybe not even important. It wasn’t me at the heart of things; it was Tyler. And, even after three weeks, I knew she wasn’t a mean bitch. I don’t know how I knew that, since she sure acted like a mean bitch a lot. But I remembered how kind she was to Jenny and to Mike and to my mom, and to almost everybody we met, about how she’d worried when I got hurt, about how interested she was in stuff, even in me. She wasn’t a mean bitch.

You’re not a mean bitch, Tyler. Jesus on a stick! That just came out.

She was in the middle of dishing up some kind of egg and corn bread mixture, stopped right in mid-serving, looked over like she might throw it at me, then like she might cry. But she didn’t do either. She just stood there staring at me for the longest time. Then she started laughing, real hard, like she wouldn’t stop.

She didn’t collapse in grief, like they say in some bad novels (porn) I’ve read. Like you know and like I’ve said, Tyler wasn’t the type. While she was pouring out the coffee, she put her hand on my shoulder. I knew enough not to return the touch or say anything. Finally, she sat down and started eating.

I don’t think we can ignore all that, you know, pretend it didn’t happen, Wendell.

We can if you want to. What got me was Tyler saying, you know. She never did that, hated it.

Now listen to me, Wendell. I don’t mean I want to explain it, ask for your understanding. I don’t mean that.

Okay.

I have to leave, go back to LA. It’s just not right for me to do things like that.

Go back to LA? I hoped I wasn’t whining.

It’s the only thing.

No.

It’s not safe being around me, Wendell. She was looking at me different now. Her eyes were real pained. I bet mine were, too.

I don’t care, Tyler. Don’t go.

I’ll see if I can rent a car, but I doubt it, so maybe you could drive me up to Albuquerque and I’ll get a plane. That way....

I cut in: You think I mind getting beat up, Tyler?

Jesus, Wendell!

I know it’s not that you’re mean, Tyler, and it’s not like you’re — you know, mean.

She didn’t say anything.

I know it’s not all me you’re mad at, Tyler. I know that. It is me, but also it’s not. It’s okay.

She looked at me real funny. I couldn’t tell if maybe she wasn’t going to laugh again. I was wishing she would.

It’s okay, I said again.

Wendell, it’s not okay, not at all.

Then an idea finally did hit me, so I blurted it out.

My mother told me this thing that’s what you should do when you can’t think what you should do and are going to mess stuff up and don’t really want to at all, mess everything up.

What?

I don’t know if she didn’t understand what I said or if she didn’t understand what I said, if you see what I mean.

Give it another try, Tyler. My mother always says that when you’re about to give up on something only you really don’t want to or will be sorry you did, give it one more try. Sometimes, for no reason, the next time it’s different. Sometimes you can do what you couldn’t before, though to tell the truth that didn’t work for me with things like algebra or playing soccer. Yeah, but even so, I’m sure it works sometimes, don’t you think, Tyler?

She didn’t say anything.

Please, Tyler?

She still didn’t say anything. Stood there with the same hurt expression on her face.

Please? I’ll sleep with a loaded pistol under my pillow, Tyler.

She didn’t laugh.

I’ll carry mace.

She still didn’t laugh, got teary. Then she said, Okay.

* * *

Later on I had another impulse. I have just the plan that will re — what’s that word, Tyler?

Re-fuck things up?

Restore.

Like furniture. My mom does that. Takes weeks of work to make an old piece of shit look like a worse old piece of shit. But what the hell, Wendell, you got me. I’m for restoring or anything else you want right now.

How about another trip to Mexico?

She looked at me real odd. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I was about to amplify the Mexico suggestion when she finally said, The only reason I’m not apologizing, Wendell, is because nothing I could say would be enough. You’re right that it isn’t you, not that that makes it any better. Please don’t respond. Restore only. Mexico it is!

And it was. We got in our camper and headed right off for Ciudad Juarez, which happened to be just a skip across the river from El Paso. As we were waiting to cross over, this car next to us rolled down its windows and started talking. Since we were stalled there together, we didn’t have much choice but to join in.

Hello! Are you youngsters going for a Mexican vacation? Part of a school trip?

Yes, ma’am. We’re meeting up with our Spanish Club to help build a school and an orphanage, Tyler said.

What a fine thing to do, she chirped.

But the old shit driver sang a different tune. He leaned across and growled, Maybe that’ll keep some of them there at home, where they belong. You think? Build ’em prisons, I say!

Yes sir; I couldn’t agree more! Tyler said. I knew we were in for it.

Now, Larry, the woman tried, but there was no stopping him.

You kids know that this is one of the main crossing points for these illegal greasers? You know that? They float over on tortillas!

And they live on welfare, sponge on us! Tyler prodded.

Goddamned right. And take our jobs. Our major problem, by god!

Yes it is, sir. You are so right. My companion here, Pedro, is Mexican, by the way. His mother is on welfare and his father takes jobs away from decent white people. His sister — well, I can’t say what she does. Pedro pretends to sell Chiclets, but he’s really a pickpocket.

He’s Mexican? This guy was beyond stupid, in case you’d missed it.

One-hundred-percent beaner, sir, just as sure as I’m a full-blooded Negro.

The woman was trying to make sounds, opening and shutting her mouth.

Now, I think— the asshole started, but Tyler was waiting for him.

You don’t think. I hope the Mexicans you admire so take your SUV and play darts on your ass.

That sort of ended the conversation.

But the line still didn’t move, so we stayed there, hip-to-hip with these people. They mostly looked away, but now and then glanced over, Tyler blowing kisses at them. I was about to resort to prayer to get us moving. When we finally did, after what seemed a week, and made it across, we found nothing but dirt, skinny dogs, and places that didn’t open until night.

We went back to the campground, swam in the grungy pool, played some cribbage, and read. Nice time. Then we made a second crossing, without the entertainment from Republicans, and right away saw a sign for a wrestling arena.

Naturally we went. It was only $5 dollars for the finest seats, but the event itself was nothing to write home about, writing home being something we weren’t doing, though we made irregular phone calls to lie about things. There were Americans on both sides of us at the arena, explaining in stereo how different this wrestling was from the crap in America.

"This is an art form, Lucha Libre, as it’s called, pure and authentic. Notice how it is filled with drama, more like opera than that low-class thing in America."

You probably haven’t seen the best American examples, said Tyler, who I am sure never came within five states of a wrestling match.

They didn’t bite, just kept lecturing, so we beat it out of there and went to a bar, having heard it was easy to get served in Mexico. We’d had little trouble getting served in the U.S., but it still seemed like something we should do now we were across the border. Looking for, but not finding, a place the guide book recommended called The Kentucky Club, where Marilyn Monroe once got drunk, we settled for The Patti-Coat, whatever that meant.

It was not a usual sort of bar, more a saloon, like in the old west, with round tables and a bar you could belly up to and drink boilermakers, which we both tried and which Tyler said she liked.

There were only women in the bar, but we didn’t notice that at first. After my coughing and choking routine with the boilermakers, we both ordered beers and went to a table, where there were dominoes, which we didn’t know how to play. We fiddled with them some, stacking them, treating them like little-kid blocks.

You hownees want to know thee domeenoes?

It was a pretty girl sat down with us. A little girl, very young. She had a friend with her who also sat down. The friend wasn’t maybe as pretty as the domino instructor, but she was still a contest winner, I’d say. Neither was wearing much.

So, sweetees, you want to know thee domeenoes?

Maybe she wasn’t paying attention, as we’d both said we really were anxious to learn the game. She looked at us like a lunatic, grinning and making no move to begin the lessons. I initiated a nervous grab toward Tyler’s hand under the table but caught myself in time and clutched the underside of the old wobbly thing, which probably wasn’t real sanitary.

So, you hownees want to huv some foon?

What kind of fun? I don’t know if it was me or Tyler said it.

You hownees want to huv some foon? They were both touching us now, on the elbows, suggesting we go someplace, I guess, and have some foon.

I was beginning to guess what was up, and I’m sure Tyler had figured it all out much earlier. I looked around then and right away noticed a man, who’d suddenly appeared from somewhere behind the bar and was standing there looking none too friendly. I sure didn’t want to go into some back room. Better to cause a ruckus out here, close to the door, and be embarrassed and not get hurt, at least probably not get hurt, or probably not real bad.

Somehow, though, we damn-it-all ended up in a back room. I think it was the look in the eyes of the little girls, which is all they were, grabbing at our elbows. They weren’t grabbing hard, and they looked so scared. Though they had on tight sleazy dresses, cheap I guess, and too much makeup, you could tell they were still real young and basically beautiful.

What did it, I’m sure for Tyler, was when they said, Please, please. Pathetic. Of course, maybe they put on an act because it worked to get people into the back room. But I suppose most people probably don’t pick out a prostitute because they feel sorry for her.

Anyhow, this room was closed off by what looked like a 5000-year-old bedspread. For a minute, we all stood there, doing nothing. All that was there was a bed, a disgusting sink, one wooden chair, and some hooks on the wall, along with, I finally noticed, a framed picture of George Washington, the one I thought when I was a kid was him in the clouds and turns out just to