hope I did not sense a certain sadness at my innocence.
“They say you didn’t cross the line.”
“That’s what I told you.”
“May I see your passport?”
“Why? I haven’t left the country. I’m not about to leave the country.” But I handed over my passport just the same. He leafed through it, pausing at the entry-and-exit stamps of other journeys. He inspected my photograph, opened the yellow smallpox vaccination certificate stapled to the back cover. At the bottom of the last page he saw pencilled in a faint set of letters and figures. “What is this?”
“I don’t know. Let me see. Oh, that! Why, it’s a telephone number.”
“What’s it doing in your passport?”
“I guess I didn’t have a slip of paper. I don’t even remember whose number it is.”
By now he had me on the run and he knew it. “Don’t you know it is against the law to deface a passport?”
“I’ll erase it.”
“You should not write anything in your passport. That’s the regulation.”
“I won’t ever do it again. I promise.” And I wanted to promise him I wouldn’t lie or steal or associate with persons of loose morals, or covet my neighbor’s wife, or anything. He closed my passport firmly and handed it back to me. I’m sure he felt better having found that telephone number. Suppose after all his trouble he hadn’t found me guilty of anything, and on a slow day.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “May I proceed now?”
He waved his hand kindly. “Go ahead,” he said.
And that’s why I went toward Erie, Pennsylvania, and it was Charley’s fault. I crossed the high iron bridge and stopped to pay the toll. The man leaned out the window. “Go on,” he said, “it’s on the house.”
“How do you mean?”
“I seen you go through the other way a little while ago. I seen the dog. I knew you’d be back.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Nobody believes it. Go ahead. You get a free ride one way.”
He wasn’t government, you see. But government can make you feel so small and mean that it takes some doing to build back a sense of self-importance. Charley and I stayed at the grandest auto court we could find that night, a place only the rich could afford, a pleasure dome of ivory and apes and peacocks and moreover with a restaurant, and room service. I ordered ice and soda and made a scotch and soda and then another. Then I had a waiter in and bespoke soup and a steak and a pound of raw hamburger for Charley, and I overtipped mercilessly. Before I went to sleep I went over all the things I wished I had said to that immigration man, and some of them were incredibly clever and cutting.
From the beginning of my journey, I had avoided the great high-speed slashes of concrete and tar called “thruways,” or “super-highways.” Various states have different names for them, but I had dawdled in New England, the winter grew apace, and I had visions of being snowbound in North Dakota. I sought out U.S. 90, a wide gash of super-highway, multiple-lane carrier of the nation’s goods. Rocinante bucketed along. The minimum speed on this road was greater than any I had previously driven. I drove into a wind quartering in from my starboard bow and felt the buffeting, sometimes staggering blows of the gale I helped to make. I could hear the sough of it on the square surfaces of my camper top. Instructions screamed at me from the road once: “Do not stop! No stopping. Maintain speed.” Trucks as long as freighters went roaring by, delivering a wind like the blow of a fist. These great roads are wonderful for moving goods but not for inspection of a countryside. You are bound to the wheel and your eyes to the car ahead and to the rear-view mirror for the car behind and the side mirror for the car or truck about to pass, and at the same time you must read all the signs for fear you may miss some instructions or orders. No roadside stands selling squash juice, no antique stores, no farm products or factory
“They say you didn’t cross the line.”
“That’s what I told you.”
“May I see your passport?”
“Why? I haven’t left the country. I’m not about to leave the country.” But I handed over my passport just the same. He leafed through it, pausing at the entry-and-exit stamps of other journeys. He inspected my photograph, opened the yellow smallpox vaccination certificate stapled to the back cover. At the bottom of the last page he saw pencilled in a faint set of letters and figures. “What is this?”
“I don’t know. Let me see. Oh, that! Why, it’s a telephone number.”
“What’s it doing in your passport?”
“I guess I didn’t have a slip of paper. I don’t even remember whose number it is.”
By now he had me on the run and he knew it. “Don’t you know it is against the law to deface a passport?”
“I’ll erase it.”
“You should not write anything in your passport. That’s the regulation.”
“I won’t ever do it again. I promise.” And I wanted to promise him I wouldn’t lie or steal or associate with persons of loose morals, or covet my neighbor’s wife, or anything. He closed my passport firmly and handed it back to me. I’m sure he felt better having found that telephone number. Suppose after all his trouble he hadn’t found me guilty of anything, and on a slow day.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “May I proceed now?”
He waved his hand kindly. “Go ahead,” he said.
And that’s why I went toward Erie, Pennsylvania, and it was Charley’s fault. I crossed the high iron bridge and stopped to pay the toll. The man leaned out the window. “Go on,” he said, “it’s on the house.”
“How do you mean?”
“I seen you go through the other way a little while ago. I seen the dog. I knew you’d be back.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Nobody believes it. Go ahead. You get a free ride one way.”
He wasn’t government, you see. But government can make you feel so small and mean that it takes some doing to build back a sense of self-importance. Charley and I stayed at the grandest auto court we could find that night, a place only the rich could afford, a pleasure dome of ivory and apes and peacocks and moreover with a restaurant, and room service. I ordered ice and soda and made a scotch and soda and then another. Then I had a waiter in and bespoke soup and a steak and a pound of raw hamburger for Charley, and I overtipped mercilessly. Before I went to sleep I went over all the things I wished I had said to that immigration man, and some of them were incredibly clever and cutting.
From the beginning of my journey, I had avoided the great high-speed slashes of concrete and tar called “thruways,” or “super-highways.” Various states have different names for them, but I had dawdled in New England, the winter grew apace, and I had visions of being snowbound in North Dakota. I sought out U.S. 90, a wide gash of super-highway, multiple-lane carrier of the nation’s goods. Rocinante bucketed along. The minimum speed on this road was greater than any I had previously driven. I drove into a wind quartering in from my starboard bow and felt the buffeting, sometimes staggering blows of the gale I helped to make. I could hear the sough of it on the square surfaces of my camper top. Instructions screamed at me from the road once: “Do not stop! No stopping. Maintain speed.” Trucks as long as freighters went roaring by, delivering a wind like the blow of a fist. These great roads are wonderful for moving goods but not for inspection of a countryside. You are bound to the wheel and your eyes to the car ahead and to the rear-view mirror for the car behind and the side mirror for the car or truck about to pass, and at the same time you must read all the signs for fear you may miss some instructions or orders. No roadside stands selling squash juice, no antique stores, no farm products or factory
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