From Issue Ten: The Straight and Crooked Path by Aldo Jonsson
(Aldo on Twitter and Substack)
In June 2008, I appeared to myself while driving a 1979 Mercedes-Benz 450 SEL from Salt Lake City to Albuquerque.
To clarify, my memory of this event is solely as that of the visited, as I currently lack the ability to project myself backwards through time. I suppose I will figure that out later.
I had just finished my penultimate senior year of college and I was presented with the opportunity to transport the vehicle from the dealership in Salt Lake to the buyer in Albuquerque. The buyer was a neighbor of my sister, so it seemed like a good way to get paid to make a visit. The deal included some walking around money and cash for a plane ticket home. I opted for a Greyhound ticket to Flagstaff. That’s another story.
After collecting the car from the dealership, I drove south on the interstate and then on Highway 6 into the winding canyon.
Spirits were high and the music was mellow as I descended into more open country. There, I found the road before me to be arrow straight for a good five miles. I started getting drowsy. I really shouldn’t have—it wasn’t even noon—but with classes out I had stayed up late the night before. The inside of the car was cool; the suspension spongy like angelfood cake that paired nicely with the car’s banana cream paint job.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr
The tires drifted onto the rumble track.
I forced my eyes open and vigorously scratched my head.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr
More rumbles, then a familiar voice.
“This music isn’t doing you any favors.”
I looked to my right. In the passenger seat sat a man: pushing fifty, bearded, mostly bald. He easily had fifty pounds on me; more muscular, but soft around the midsection. He reminded me of my mother’s youngest brother. To my surprise, I wasn’t startled. There was something familiar about him. I raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s not bad—I listen to it all the time—but it’s putting you to sleep. Don’t you have something more upbeat? Something you can sing along to. Let’s get the Led out.”
He looked down at the cheap flash-drive style mp3 player on the center console. It was plugged into a cassette tape adapter. The UI left something to be desired.
“So that’s what we’re working with,” he said. “Well, we can just talk.”
“Maybe we can start with who you are and then move on to how the hell you got in my car.”
“You don’t remember picking me up? Wow, kid, you really were out of it.”
Momentary panic tightened my shoulders and widened my eyes.
“Jeez, relax. I’m just messing with you. But it’s probably more believable than the truth.”
“What’s the truth?”
The man turned to square his shoulders with me. He dropped his chin until blue eyes peered out from under a primitive brow ridge. His voice was flat.
“I’m you. From the future.”
“Bullshit.”
I hit the brakes and pulled the car over. It dropped down over the raised edge of the asphalt crunching onto the oily gravel shoulder.
“Shake my hand,” I said.
“No you’re not hallucinating and no I’m not a demon.”
“Just shake.”
Our hands clasped, and in that moment, I could feel our sameness: the resonant frequency that is unique to everyone, but in this case was perfectly in sync with me. It was nothing I’d experienced before or since. I think maybe identical twins know the feeling.
I looked in the older man’s eyes. He felt it too.
“Satisfied?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Before you ask, I’m not sure how it works and I don’t have any stock tips. I’m really just here to get out of the house for a day and enjoy the sights. I’ve always enjoyed a low key road trip and they’re harder to come by where I’m from. I mostly want to take it easy. Maybe I can give you some advice, but I’m not holding out hope you’ll listen.”
“Why wouldn’t I listen?”
“Why indeed. Probably because you’re young, and the young are notoriously bad at perspective. But that’s okay. You have other redeeming qualities.”
We got back on the road.
“If you’re me, why wouldn’t you want to tell me exactly where things go wrong or how to become a millionaire?”
“Who says I’m not?”
My eyes lit up.
“Really?”
“No. But the reason why is that things are good enough, and I don’t know the implications of this little trip. I’d hate to make a kid disappear just so you can drive a Lambo.
“Enough about me, let’s talk about you. What are you up to these days? How’s college?”
“Good, I should be done next year.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not sure. Law school, maybe?”
“That’s right, that’s right. Planning to move out to DC and see how your buddy likes it?
“Sure, I thought about it. But I was starting to hit it off with this girl… Never mind.”
“Never mind what?”
“Oh. Nothing. I think DC will be cool.”
We sat in silence for a few miles then merged onto I-70.
“So, tell me more about this girl.”
“What? Shouldn’t you know? I thought you said you’d been here before.”
“Sure, but you know, you forget things after a while.”
“Then why bother? She’s obviously not meaningful in the long run. It’s not like I marry her or anything.”
“She’s not meaningful to me now, but that doesn’t mean she’s not meaningful to you. Go ahead, tell me about her. It might jog my memory.”
“Okay, well, her name is Nikki. She’s blonde, tan, brown eyes. Really fit. I think she played soccer in high school, you know? Ringing a bell?”
“Keep going.”
“Well, I met her after a show. Our band played in the courtyard at the condos behind ours. Maybe you remember that. She came up and talked to me after our set.”
“Oh yeah, I remember that.”
“Really? I guess that means it doesn’t go anywhere.”
“That’s right.”
“I knew it. Well, I’m probably moving, and she said she might transfer to Dixie State in the fall…”
“Haha.”
“What’s so funny? I know it’s not the best school. She wants to be closer to family.”
“No, that’s not it. In the future, they rename Dixie State. It’s Utah Tech now. You just reminded me of that.”
“Why’d they do that?”
“People get a bit oversensitive. ‘Dixie’ made people clutch their pearls.”
“I guess I can see why people might want to change it. Doesn’t seem like a big deal to me.”
“It will.”
“Why? Do I become an asshole or something?”
“Nice reference. But no. You just realize that the people most willing to share their feelings are the least worth listening to. Enough about that—enjoy your bleeding heart while it lasts—let’s talk about the real issue. You’re just going to let this girl move away?”
“Yeah, that’s what she said she was doing.”
“It’s a test. She wants you to make her stay.”
“Pfft.”
“She came up to you, Mr. Rock-and-Roll, and gave you her number. Then she let you take her out and wanted to go out again. Take the hint. You’re at BYU, kid. She literally wants to have your babies.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Fine, kid. This is why you shouldn’t get bent out of shape about a visit from the future. It’s not like you’re going to listen anyway. You really need to work on your confidence.”
I pretended not to hear that last bit and focused on passing a U-Haul that was determined not to exceed the speed limit.
“Need to make a pit stop?” I asked a few miles later, gesturing to the sign reading “rest stop: next exit.”
“I might hit up a vending machine, unless you’ve got something I can drink.”
I pointed my thumb at the back seat where there was a small red cooler with “playmate” written on the sliding lid.
“Grandpa’s cooler. Classic.”
He shifted in his seat and reached back. After rummaging around in the ice, he came back with a diet Rockstar.
“This stuff is awful,” he said cracking the can open and taking a sip. “But it does the trick.”
We passed the rest stop then turned off the interstate and toward Moab.
“What’s the next stop?” he asked.
“I thought about driving into Arches, maybe take a few pictures, then stop in Moab for some gas and more snacks.”
“I’m here for it.”
We drove toward the sun; hanging high in the blue southern sky. Behind us the book cliffs baked and crumbled.
***
“Pull over up ahead. I want to check out this historical site.”
“Seriously? We’re almost at Arches. Can’t it wait?”
“I don’t need to take a piss; I want to read the placard and see the ruins. Don’t act like you don’t want to. You wish you stopped at more places like this, you just feel self-conscious about doing it alone. Now you aren’t alone.”
We pulled into the gravel-covered parking lot and stepped out of the cool car into the desert heat. Yellow-flanked lizards lined the split-rail fence surrounding the stone foundation and chimney that remained unconquered by the savage surroundings. All but one of the lizards scattered as I approached the placard; the lone bull eyed me blankly as he did pushups. The bronze sign bore the dark patina that comes from blazing sun, blowing sand, and the unconscious touches of elderly travelers with open ended itineraries. My companion stepped over the fence to stand in the footprint of the cabin. I read out loud.
THE JESPERSEN HOMESTEAD AND BATTLEGROUND
ON THIS SITE, IN 1874, THOMAS JEFFERSON MAHONRI MORIANCUMER JESPERSEN AND HIS WIFE SARAH ESTABLISHED A HOMESTEAD AFTER RECEIVING A CALLING FROM PRESIDENT BRIGHAM YOUNG. THEY RAISED CATTLE, AND THEIR RANCH SERVED AS A WAYPOINT FOR TRAVELERS.
ON APRIL 20, 1889, THE JESPERSENS WERE ATTACKED BY A BAND OF BLOODTHIRSTY INDIANS WHO HAD COME TO STEAL CATTLE AND HORSES. THOMAS AND SONS JOSEPH AND EZEKIEL FOUGHT OFF THE SAVAGES FOR SIXTEEN HOURS, KILLING MORE THAN TWENTY RAIDERS, UNTIL THEY RAN OUT OF AMMUNITION. THOMAS, SARAH, AND SIX OF THEIR CHILDREN WERE SLAUGHTERED. THE ONLY SURVIVORS WERE BABY JANE, WHO WAS SECRETED IN A CORN BIN, AND EZEKIEL, WHO WAS SCALPED AND LEFT FOR DEAD.
EZEKIEL “ZEKE” JESPERSEN LATER MOVED TO MOAB WHERE HE WAS A MEMBER OF THE TOWN COUNCIL AND SERVED AS THE BISHOP OF THE 3rd WARD FOR TWENTY YEARS.
PLAQUE DONATED BY THE DAUGHTERS OF THE MORMON PIONEERS.
“Man, that is a trip.”
I looked up to see him lying down among the ruins his head inside the chimney looking up to the sky.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be in there.”
“It’s okay. I checked for snakes.”
“No, I meant…”
“I know what you meant.”
He sat up.
“Can you imagine what it was like back then? Scraping a living out of sandstone and dust. Only here because the man that you believe talks to God said you need to be. You raise a family and make it work, then it all gets wiped out.”
“It didn’t all get wiped out.”
“True. But Brother Jespersen didn’t know that when the red man was scraping his skull clean with a knife. He thought that he had failed. That everything he had done, everything he had sacrificed had been in vain.”
“Or, he thought that within a few short moments he and everyone he loved most in the world would be embraced tightly in the bosom of the Lord.”
“Maybe.”
Without another word he stood up, brushed his pants off, and returned to the car. I noticed he favored his right leg.
I joined him and started up the engine; the cold A/C beat back the heat.
***
It wasn’t much longer before we reached Arches. We paid our admission at the booth and then crept up the winding road into the park, the cliff faces looming, striped like a bloody barber’s pole.
I hadn’t planned to stop for anything in particular, so I just drove; slowing down to put some distance between us and the line of slow-moving vehicles ahead.
He looked out the window, taking in the otherworldly mix of dusty green sage brush and pink terrain. Through the haze, the distant pine-skirted La Sals still had snow clinging to otherwise bare peaks.
The desolation was beautiful.
As we drove through the park, traffic cleared out; the other drivers pulling over along the way. We reached the end of the main road, where it looped around at a handful of trailheads. The parking lot was full with cars and buses, so that made the decision to keep going easy.
For a way, the return road was empty. But rounding a curve we came up on a single pedestrian standing in the middle of our lane. I slowed down as we approached and got a better look.
“It’s a kid,” he said.
Sure enough, the person blocking the way was a fat little Asian boy, oblivious to our presence. The boy wore a yellow shirt and floppy red ball cap. He was throwing rocks at something on the side of the road. His form was atrocious.
“How did he get all the way out here?”
I stopped the car and looked around. There wasn’t another soul in sight.
“We should help him, right?”
Decisive action was not my forte. At that age I still expected the adults to handle things, as if there was a vice principal hiding behind every blade of grass.
I looked at my companion, but he was staring at the boy quizzically. He hadn’t heard me.
“What the hell is he doing,” he muttered.
There was movement on the side of the road, and his eyes widened.
“That little shit is throwing rocks at a rattlesnake.”
“What!?”
I looked again and saw the snake. The front half of its body was raised up and tightly wound, ready to strike.
I rolled down my window and stuck my head out.
“Move, move! Get away from the snake.”
The kid laughed idiotically and said something in Chinese. He threw another rock that got close enough that the snake’s rattling sped up.
“That bastard almost hit out national reptile!”
He leaned over and laid on the horn.
Honk! Hoooooooonk!
“Get out of here!”
Hooooooonk!
The kid kept laughing and throwing rocks that he picked up off the road.
My double opened his door, muttering curses under his breath. I was relieved that he was doing something, but concerned about what that might be. He stomped right up to the kid, disregarding the viper that he walked past, and boxed the kid’s ear.
“Get out of here!”
The kid put a pudgy hand up to his reddening ear and cried.
“Jeez,” I said to myself.
“Go on! Get!” I heard from outside.
The kid walked on, pausing only to look back and curse at the defiant middle-aged American standing astride the road. Once the boy was a good forty yards away, the man turned to the snake that had now relaxed from its defensive posture and bowed with an exaggerated flourish of the arms. He got back in the car.
“What the hell was that?”
“I know, right? Someone had to teach that kid.”
“Yeah, his parents.”
“Do you see any parents around? They’re probably down at the visitor center trying to figure out how a toilet works. I should have let the rattler teach him a lesson, but I didn’t want it to get food poisoning.”
“You’re unbelievable. What happened to you?”
“You live and you learn, kid. You need to look out for your own family, your own community, and your own land. You’ll never run out of people to help, I promise. Don’t bend over backwards for foreigners who treat the West like it’s Disneyland.”
“That’s unbelievably unchristian. Do unto others.”
“Maybe. But sometimes someone has to sin a bit so that everyone else is safe enough to stay on good terms with God. And I think He understands that. Times change.”
“We’re in my times not yours.”
He held his hands up in surrender.
“Fine, fine. We can flag down the next ranger we see and let him know about the kid. Happy?”
At each packed parking lot we passed, I kept an eye open for a ranger. I finally saw an NPS vehicle.
We pulled into the Balanced Rock parking lot just as a big tour bus was pulling out. The loud engine and cloud of diesel exhaust seemed out of place, offensive even.
I parked at the end of the lot.
“I’ll find the ranger,” he said. “You go stretch your legs and collect yourself.”
I walked over to the head of the short trail that circumscribes the iconic rock formation: a massive sandstone boulder perched atop a triangular plinth. It looked like a primitive ancestor of the moai of Easter Island, as if it once had a face eroded by the rains of a bygone epoch.
I looked back to see him. He was waving his hand animatedly at a ranger who leaned against his truck. The man alternately nodded and shook his head in agreement with my older self. The ranger keyed the radio at his shoulder.
Moments later, joining me where I stood admiring the tower, my companion spoke.
“Well, I told him about that dumb kid. Says they’ll send someone out to collect him. I made sure to let him know that I thought the rattlesnake was okay. We both agreed it was important. He was telling me about the crazy stuff that they’re starting to see. I tried to tell him about how much worse it’s going to get, but he just gave me the old smile and nod.”
Talking to the ranger did not appear to have scratched his itch.
“Okay, future man, how much worse does it get.”
He grinned.
“Let me tell you about it. In a couple of decades, the park service will make some major changes about how people can visit. Between overcrowding and foreign tourists too stupid to live, they closed the parks to private vehicles. As you might imagine, the most popular parks had the wildest stuff.
“At Zion, not a week went by that someone didn’t fall off of Angels Landing. There was one particularly grisly incident when the first person in a line of Chinese tourists lost his footing just before the summit and went over the edge. Seven people went off the cliff before the eighth considered it a bad omen. People kept drowning in the Narrows. Now they don’t even let you get off the shuttle. They just drive up and down the canyon and people take pictures out the windows.
“I heard that before they finally closed Yellowstone to private vehicles so many people were falling into the hot pots that it smelled like pulled pork throughout the whole park. It drew every bear and wolf in five states. People were getting mauled left and right. They’d get out of their cars and walk right up to a mama grizzly. Morons.
“Yosemite was another. To say nothing of the people falling off cliffs and waterfalls, the valley turned into an open-air bazaar. Vendors were setting up shop on the side of the roads and in the parking lots. You could climb to the top of Half Dome and find a Bangladeshi selling plastic ponchos and souvenir t shirts. Scenic overlooks were infested with pickpockets and gropers. Mariposa county had the third highest number of unsolved rapes in California.
“It never got too bad here at Arches. Every few weeks someone would tumble off the bluff at Delicate Arch or someone would go missing in the Fiery Furnace. But even without the added danger, it just stopped being worth it. Take this place for example. Last time I was here the parking lot was jammed full of tour buses. People were chattering in twenty different languages, Bluetooth speakers were blaring and fighting for supremacy, the whole rock formation was swarming with people climbing up to get the best photo. It looked like ants devouring a melting popsicle.
“Enjoy it while it lasts. Your kids are going to miss out, but maybe your grandkids will be able to return.”
We drove out of Arches and into Moab to refuel. Many small towns in the west cater to the tourists out to experience the raw natural splendor, those places hold the dual energy of carefree vacationers and resentful locals.
In Moab the feeling was something else; it was as if the people there were fleeing something in the name of adventure. There was an ancient restless spirit there, driven on the wind and oblivious to human joy, beckoning to give yourself over to the ATV trails and microbrews.
We both could feel it and we didn’t linger.
***
I had planned to turn east in Monticello, maybe check out Mesa Verde if I made good time, but he was quite adamant that we not drive down Highway 491, formerly known as Route 666.
“There’s bad juju down that road. Plus, Mesa Verde is kind of out of the way. There won’t be time to see any of the good stuff, not if you want to get through the rez before dark.”
We drove south.
Somewhere on the jagged roads of the Navajo nation, the grey thunderclouds appeared suddenly; conjured into being by Indian magic. One moment we were cruising down the two-lane highway, the sun shining off the crumbling red cliffs of the mesas, the next minute the sky was black and thick raindrops were falling dusty on the windshield. The storm grew in intensity until the rain was so heavy that the wipers struggled to keep up.
“Pull over up ahead, by that break in the guardrail.
I pulled off the road and onto the hardpacked shoulder. I turned on the hazards.
“Turn those off. Just because we had the good sense to pull over doesn’t mean everyone else does. The last thing we need is to get rear ended by some cranked out trucker. I’ve seen it happen.”
“They’re hazard lights. This is what they’re for.”
“You going to tell that to my widow?”
“If you’re here, then that means I won’t have to.”
“I’m dispensing life lessons, pal. Ignore them at your own peril.”
I turned off the lights.
The rain came down in sheets. Water flowed across the road, spilling over into a revivified creek bed. The heavy stream looked like liquid sandstone. On the high ground on other side of the stream was a hogan with splintered plywood walls and an asphalt roof. A slick black wire ran from the roof to a slanted pole and from there it ran off to the modern world lost somewhere out in the storm.
“I can’t imagine living out here. Middle of nowhere. There’s just rocks and sand, nothing to do.”
“Well, they’ve got TV out here too. So it’s not much different than Phoenix.”
I scoffed.
“And I thought I was cynical now.”
“Seriously, think about it. Most people out here are on some kind of government assistance. How could they not be? And a big portion of them are elderly. You’ve known old poor people. What do they do all day?”
“Watch TV.”
“Yup, watch TV. And if you’re poor and watching TV all day, what difference does it make if it’s on the rez, or in Phoenix, or New York City? Out here they probably even see their family more. They die in the house they were born in instead of some god-awful nursing home.”
“I don’t know. Still seems pretty bleak.”
“Some men are destined for bleakness.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Take it up with the bard: Some are born bleak, some achieve bleakness, and some have bleakness thrust upon them. This is a universal principle. The only time it’s a tragedy is in the last case, but that’s a distinct minority.”
“You don’t think it’s more tragic to be born bleak?”
“No, in that case, ignorance is bliss. And sometimes the bleakness can be overcome. It’s far worse to have everything going smoothly and then have God beat you down into the dust to teach you a lesson.”
I looked out the window and said nothing more.
The pounding on the roof diminished until the storm passed us by completely, sliding along the highway like a giant black snail freshly salted. For the first time since the storm fell upon us, I heard a sustained roll of thunder. But even as the shifting veil of rain receded into the distance, the thunder grew louder. I looked in the rear-view mirror.
Behind us steam rose from the tarmac, thick clusters of white wisps moved in the breeze like spectral prairie grass; echoes from the last ice age. Through the mist black forms coalesced.
At first, I thought it was a herd of stampeding cattle, but as they drew near, the rumble of engines made the mirrors blurry and the dashboard buzz.
The pack of bikers drove by, seeming not to notice us. They looked haggard and unwashed. Their hair and beards were dull and dusty. There was no light in them, only darkness either innate or cultivated.
He whistled quietly, then spoke.
“A regular legion of horribles, those hombres. I tell you what, those are still the gnarliest bikers I have ever seen.”
The motorcycles were unnaturally loud, and the cacophony challenged my sanity. I sank down in my seat hoping to escape the notice of the procession. They rode on, driving the storm before them, the road already dry beneath their tires.
I waited ten minutes, put the car in gear, then drove back onto the road.
***
He fell asleep somewhere around Farmington. I half expected him to disappear when he did; thinking that the tether keeping him in my world was related to consciousness. Instead, he snored and grumbled.
“Worthless cocksuckers…” I heard him almost whistle between heavy lips. He whimpered the way a dreaming man does: the way a waking man secretly dreads and tries to forget.
“…right flank… RIGHT FLANK!”
His brow glistened with sweat. His head tossed. He awoke.
“Wow man, you were really out of it,” I said.
“Sorry about that.”
He wiped his forehead.
“I’m surprised you’re still here.”
“You and me both, brother.”
A big green sign slid past the window.
“We’re coming up on Albuquerque, you’ll be arriving soon. Time for me to head out. Any last questions before I go?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few.”
“Shoot.”
“Why here? Why now? I’m guessing you could have gone just about any place or time, and you chose to go on a road trip with yourself? You didn’t even give me some important message. I don’t understand the significance.”
“Not to make you feel less special, but this is just a stop on a longer journey. I don’t know the science behind it, but you can’t just pick a time and place and dial it in. They say that you can never step in the same river twice, but what you can do is find stepping stones to get across.
“I’m on my way somewhere else, and this moment in my life is like bedrock for some reason. So, maybe there is no significance for you. Maybe there is, but you’ll only figure it out years down the road. Either way, it was a good drive, man. It really took me back.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, one thing. A few years ago, I had a dream. But it didn’t feel like a normal dream; there was something about it that made me think it was a vision: of things to come or maybe something that once was, like in another life. I was back in Ukraine but I was a soldier. I lay in a ditch, or maybe a trench, and I’m bleeding out. I know I’m dying. It was the strangest dream. Do you know anything about it? Do you remember that?”
He shifted in his seat, rubbing his stiff leg.
“Yeah, I think about that one a lot.”
“What does it mean?”
“I wish I knew, but just to be safe, don’t join the army.”
“Okay, sure.”
I waited a moment, then asked: “Are you coming back for the drive home?”
“Sorry, man. I don’t do Greyhounds anymore.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll see.”
In the east, the big mountain overlooking the valley was watermelon red, limned by the final rays of the setting sun as it slipped below lingering evening clouds. It was a magnificent sight. I looked away from the mountain and at my passenger. He was gone.
I haven’t seen him since. Sometimes I wonder whether I ever did. Maybe someday I’ll look in the mirror and there he’ll be.