Mile 15

Chapter 6: In Which Marty Recalls the Good Old Days

They bid farewell to Banjo-man Joe outside of a small saloon about an hour later. It was a run-down old relic from a forgotten time, nestled at a crossroad between four very deep cliffs. There were no other cars in the dirt parking-lot, nor were there any other human beings in sight, despite it being the early afternoon already. However, Banjo-man Joe showed no sign of concern, and happily let himself out of the car.

"Well thank'ya boys for givin' this old man a ride," he said, leaning against Marty's door. "And remember, where there are devils hidden in the dust, cover your nose so you don't breath them in,"

"What on earth is that supposed to mean--?" Bill started to ask, but Marty cut him off.

"Thanks, Banjo-man Joe!" he called out the window, "We'll remember that one!"

With the tip of his hat, Banjo-man Joe flashed his gap-tooth smile one more time. Then he turned towards the rickety saloon.

"See you two 'round!"

Bill and Marty watched as Banjo-man Joe and his banjo disappeared through the swinging wooden doors. After a moment or two, Bill started the car and resumed their trek ever onwards.

"Wow, what an inspiring man." Marty let out a sigh.

"Interesting, definitely," Bill replied with a nod. "Inspiring? I'm not so sure,"

The cliffs of the great ravine were now shrinking beside them as the highway angled upwards. Both Bill and Marty were pushed backwards into their seats slightly. The early afternoon sun was just beginning to dry the air, causing dust to stir and blow about in the wake of the climbing car.

"I can't believe the cool people we've met out here on the road. Like, we haven't even been driving for twenty-four hours, and already we've talked to two of the most fascinating characters," Said Marty.

Bill pulled his eyes off the road for just a moment. Scab's forgotten trench knife had since migrated up to the front cup holder where it sat: an instrument of death in a place where instruments of death should not be. As Bill held it up, the suspiciously clean blade flashed with the reflection of sunlit rocks.

"What are we supposed to do with this thing, anyway?"

"Keep it! To remind us of all the incredible memories we've made out here!"

Just then, Bill's stomach let out a loud rumble.

"God, I'm starving," he said, absentmindedly, "Where's the nearest place to stop and eat?"

Hearing the question, Marty dutifully returned to his role of navigator. With a light flump, he whipped the map open and traced his fingers along the squiggly line of the Diablo Highway. After a moment, he glanced back up at the road.

"About an hour away, sorry..." He folded the map. "Banjo-man Joe's saloon should still be open. We could turn around and stop if you'd like."

"What do we have in the car?"

Taking advantage of the g-force, Marty tangled himself up in his seatbelt once and reached into the back seat yet again. When he resurfaced, he only held one souvenir from the depths of the wheel well. It was the Tupperware container of home made chocolate chip cookies.

"Is that it?"

"Yup,"

Sighing, Bill reluctantly accepted the cookie.

...

Right around six o'clock, Bill and Marty pulled over to a rest area for a stretching break. They had long since left the red canyons behind. Now, only the dry desserts and great forests of western California stood between them and the legendary City of Angels. Although they still had quite a bit of driving ahead of them, Marty could physically feel the proximity in his soul, filling him to the brim with excitement.