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For Ben Blanchett, eighteen, redskin (a communist skinhead, antithesis of the Nazi skinheads), drifter, jack-of-all-trades but master of none, sitting on Oregon's Cannon Beach, looking out at the Haystack and other rock monoliths that dotted the coastline, this was the best it'd been since he left San Francisco. The ocean here was too cold to swim in, but the stark contrasts afforded by the big, dark rocks, the pounding creamy surf, along with the tangy smell of the sea, made him happy. It created in him an especially receptive mood for his favorite pastime: listening to and seeing on his Walkman virtual-reality headset the speeches of Josef Stalin.
Nothing else in Blanchett's life so far had given him such an emotional high. In the same way that the majestic scenery of the Oregon coast inspired in him the feeling of being as one with the vastness of the earth, sea, and sky, and it with him, the speeches of the Man of Steel made him feel at once akin to a single grain of sand in the enormity of the universe and yet part of him something more larger than the self. The only feeling like it was the deliberately drawn-out unbearable tension of a vast audience waiting for a rock star---hard rock---to appear. Waiting---every nerve in your body taut as a violin string. He could see an ocean of faces, a roaring bear, and all about, long bloodred banners with the yellow hammer and sickle accompanied by its tiny yellow companion star.
And then Stalin himself, plainly dressed, the eyes---always the fierce beauty of his slightly slanted eyes---and the thick pompadour that crowned his scalp. No medals, and with each step he took towards the rostrum that seemed a mile away, the excitement of the crowd, like some big animal in the thrall of an impending kill, an exhausted prey waiting for the blow.
The Man of Steel began speaking slowly, his body farther back from the lectern than the speakers who preceded him, hands folded calmly in front, almost desultory in his presentation, one hand now and then slicking his hair back. But then gradually the timbre of his voice increased, the hands more expressive, the pauses more dramatic. Blanchett felt himself holding his breath as the Man of Steel told his audience that they and the party were one, for what is the self in the life of the nation, when all of one's problems and doubts are subsumed by the nation, when in the nation there is no doubt, no fear, only the promise of transcendental glory?
So moved was Blanchett that by the end of Stalin's speech his heart was pounding to be let out, to be set free, like a lover in orgasmic flight, in a frenzied rush of life and death, of affirmation and negation. Swept away!
And now he could see Nikolai Yezhov, arm outstretched, affirming to the ecstatic thousands that "Communism eto Rossia---eto Rossia –"
"Hey, I'm talkin' to you!" The highway patrolman's foot nudged the drifter.
Blanchett sat up abruptly, pushed the stop button, and the feral roar of the Red Square masses was gone.
"You can't sleep on the beach."
"What?" said Blanchett, taking off the VR and phone headset. "But it's daytime, you idiot!"
The patrolman's finger pointed at the drifter. "Don't be a smart-ass or I'll run you in. You know damn well what I mean---you can't camp down here. End of story!"
"Not planning on it." Blanchett was still sitting down.
"I said watch your mouth! And get the hell up when I'm talkin' to you."
Blanchett got up slowly, brushing the beach sand off his backside.
"What's this shit?" The cop was fingering the beaded hammer and sickle on Blanchett's backpack.
"Old Amish sign---for good luck."
"Amish hell! This here's a hammer and sickle!"
"So?"
"So bullshit! Gimme some I.D., you commie sonofabitch!"
Blanchett showed him his California driver's license.
"Got money?"
Blanchett showed him 2 twenties, a 10, and some spare change.
"Stayin' anywhere tonight?"
"Nope. Moving on."
"To where?"
Blanchett shrugged. "North."
"How far north?"
Blanchett shrugged again. "Washington State."
"Long walk," said the trooper's eyes invisible behind the mirror shades. "Hope you hitchhike----seeing it's illegal, you'll be givin' me all the openin' I need to kick your ass." He walked back to the patrol car.
Blanchett, squinting in the sun, gave him a wave. The trooper didn't acknowledge him.
"Pig!" said Blanchett under his breath, his squinting making it look as if he was smiling. "Bastards are all the same."
Blanchett wanted the cop down on his knees and then he'd kick the prick right in the face. Smashed bone and blood. Blanchett snatched up his pack and resumed walking. Something told the redskin he'd see the cop again.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk55ewseUuU
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Blanchett walked past the shops of Cannon Beach and the religious conference center up towards Interstate 101. Before he reached it, a green Jeep Cherokee with Washington plates pulled up and the passenger door opened. "Give ya a lift, bro?"
"Heading north?" asked Blanchett.
"You betcha! Hop in."
As Blanchett got in he saw a solar-powered radio, packets of trail mix, some thigh-high wader boots, fishing rods, and the latest issue of Mother Jones.
"Earth conscious, are we?" he remarked.
"Eh---oh yeah." The man, wearing a sweat-stained hat and blue coveralls, had a tall, wiry build, and was in his late forties, possibly early fifties. Rough hands. "How far you goin'?" he asked Blanchett.
"I dunno. Far north as I can get."
"Free and easy, huh?"
"Yup," Blanchett answered. He liked the other man's description of him. "Yup---free an' simple. Name's Ben Blanchett."
"Ethan Hearn. Glad to know ya, Ben. Yessiree, that's the way to live. Free and easy. I take it you're not married."
"Me? No way."
"Keep it that way. Women, kids, tie a down. Not free then."
"Think so?"
"Son, I know so. Been married 20 years."
"Sucks, doesn't it?"
"Doesn't suck, really. Sunstar'n me're---well, she's stuck with me through good times an' bad and I love my kids." He pulled out his wallet and showed the hitchhiker a photo. "Mystery an' Crystal---that's 'em. Good Ecotopian comrades."
Blanchett was excited. "Ecotopian? Comrades?" Hearn had said two magic words.
"Yeah---hey, you're not some kinda right-wing Reaganite, are ya?"
"Oh, hell no. I----I'm a Marxist, personally."
"You sympathetic to the Ecotopian cause?"
"Yeah. You bet."
"Hope so," said Hearn, watching a car come up in his rearview and side mirrors. "Asshole's tailgatin'." He pumped the brakes. "Get back, you bourgeois pig. Go on now...." He turned to Blanchett. "You must think I'm ten kinds of an idiot, pickin' up a hitchhiker an' showin' him my wallet?"
"No---I---well, now you come to mention it. What I mean is...."
"I know what you mean, but I had you tagged. Moment I saw your hammer-and-sickle dangling from your pack, an' that cop givin' you hellfire an' brimstone. Cops are controlled by----wha!!!
Hearn braked hard. Blanchett felt his body lunge forward and stop abruptly against the strap.
"You imperialist turd!" Hearn shouted, looking angrily at his side mirror. "Get off my ass. Go on, fuckmunch, git!" The car's blinkers were indicating a left swing into the fast lane. "Holy shit, look at this!" He was laughing. "We're gonna have some fun with this capitalist."
Blanchett happily joined in. "Hell," he said, "the Cherokee's got more weight than him."
"You betcha!" said Hearn gleefully. "Higher, too." He smiled across at Blanchett. "Closer to Father Sky, too, right?"
"Right."
"Geez, look at him steamin'. Man he's gonna have a stroke!"
"Awesome," said Blanchett excitedly. The driver behind in a beat-up Cutlass Supreme was leaning on the horn.
Hearn laughed. "That's it, you li'l imperialist turd. Blow your fuse! Ain't gonna let you pass, fuckmunch. I'm enjoyin' this!"
A sharp bang like a blowout and the Cherokee's rear window cracked and went milky like one big spiderweb.
"Jesus!" shouted Blanchett. "He's shootin' at us."
"Right," said Hearn, the laughter gone, Blanchett looking on in fright as Hearn pulled a Russian-made Tokarov pistol from the glove box. "Here, son, give 'im a taste of this."
"Wha....no, I...."
"C'mon!" Hearn shouted angrily. "We got a 2nd Amendment lover gainin' on us, tryin' to kill us! Just aim and pull the trigger. She's ready to go."
"Let 'im pass!" Blanchett shouted back, but the Cherokee was speeding till it was as good 50 yards ahead of the Cutlass. Steering with his left hand, Hearn reached over, straining slightly, until his right hand felt the butt of a (hidden) Remington rifle. On the hill's summit a half mile ahead there was the blip of an oncoming vehicle.
"Holy shit!" said Blanchett, excitement evaporating in fear.
There was another sharp sound like the snap of a twig---another hole in the rear window, the bullet smashing high into the windshield, another spiderweb. Suddenly, his vehicle swinging dangerously, Hearn cut into the slow lane. The Cutlass came abreast, passing and Hearn fired. The driver's head exploded like a melon. Hearn braked hard as the Cutlass went wild over the center line. What had been an approaching dot a few moments before was now a huge white semi loaded with logs. Its driver, risking a jacknife, tried to brake, but it was hopeless, the big semi, like a fist against a paper cup, slamming into the Cutlass, sending the crumpled wreck somersaulting off the highway, smashing into a clump of pine trees.
As in increased speed Hearn was pushing the shotgun's butt into Blanchett's side. "Grab it and put in the back."
Still in shock, the redskin did like he was ordered, telling himself there was nothing he could have done in time. To have tried to wrest control of the Cherokee from Hearn would almost surely have caused the Jeep to sway and flip out of control.
"Don't let it bother you, comrade," said Hearn. "Bourgeois pig was asking for it." He paused. He was sweating but his eyes were bright with thought. "Who fired the first shot?" he asked Blanchett.
"He did."
"That's right. Well then, when a capitalist messes with a communist, who wins?"
"Huh?"
"Who wins, dammit?"
"Oh, the communist."
"You betcha!"92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsV5AzpxiFR
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Although badly shaken, the driver of the semi had enough presence of mind to call the state police on the CB and report the accident to them. He told the trooper that he'd seen the white Cutlass crossing the line but there was just "nothin' I could do."
"Uh-huh," said the officer, quickly moving off the embankment towards the wrecked car.
"Just one guy..." the trucker began, but he could barely talk, his throat being dry from shock. "I already seen 'im," he said. "He's dead." The patrolman nodded but kept moving through the passpalum grass and fireweed until he reached the pile of metal that had been the Cutlass. There was blood and tiny sparkling cubes of glass everywhere, most of it on the front seat. The driver was slumped over the wheel. The trooper could smell poop and leaking gas, and slipping on a pair of surgical gloves, he felt for a pulse. None. Gently he eased the dead man back from the wheel.
"Jesus Christ...." What had been the man's face was nothing more than a raw mush of blood and bone. It was just then, as the officer stepped back, that he noticed the right shoulder of the man's suit was peppered with small holes.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQSiNzeh7qu
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Though telling himself not to speed, Hearn was finding it impossible to stay under 55 miles per hour. He was rambling on to Blanchett about how, thank God, since the Democrats "got the majority in that cesspool" they decided to uphold the age-old 55 MPH law that had saved so much gasoline back in the '70s. This prevented the "damned money-hungry authorities in Salem" from upping the speed limit back to the original 70 MPH as you approached the four-and-a-half-mile-long bridge at Astoria where you crossed the Columbia and from which you could see the infamously dangerous bar where the big river ran "slam bang" into the ocean.
The more Hearn talked the quieter Blanchett became. He'd experienced a sudden rush when the "capitalist" had bought it, but now he was afraid of being caught. He was sweating, watching the rear vision. He closed his eyes.
"What the hell you doin'?" asked Hearn, adjusting his CB radio. "Goin' asleep?"
Blanchett opened his eyes but didn't look at Hearn. "I'm prayin' we don't get caught."
Hearn disapproved. "Prayin'?! Like, to God? Ya oughta know better 'n that, son! Ya cain't believe in God an' say yer a commie. There ain't no God, remember? Religion's th' opiate of th' masses an' yer not 'sposed t' be part of the masses. Ya gotta get over yer trigger fright. Hell, first capitalist I shot was tremblin' all over. Liberation fighters are always a bit gun-shy first time out. I'll tell you somethin' else. First time the Red Army had to shoot kulaks in th' Ukraine, some of 'em felt so strung out after two hours they had to have a shot o' vodka to finish. 'Course, they starved most of 'em to death. Men get too tired shooting all day---wear your trigger finger out an' waste one hell of a lot of ammo." Hearn squirted the windshield with cleanser and put the wipers on "fast." "That's better---couldn't see for bug shit." He turned to Blanchett, whose eyes were still fixed on the sideview mirror. A white blob he'd seen vanish into a dip in the road now reappeared, bigger and getting bigger.
"I seen 'im," said Hearn. "Isn't a cop car."
"You don't know that," responded Blanchett, his face creased with doubt. "Fascist cops have been known to pursue in unmarked vehicles."
"It ain't no cop car, Benny." Hearn nodded towards his CB radio. "I'm on the police band here, son. No traffic on us yet, or haven't you been listening?"
"I haven't been listening." Before Hearn could say anything, Blanchett was asking him about the semi-trailer. The driver must've seen the Cutlass go off the road.
"Well, what the hell if he did?" said Hearn.
"He saw us keep going. Maybe he heard the shot."
"Horsepiss---over the noise of his semi?"
"Well," pressed Blanchett. "He sure as shit must've seen us pass."
"He did, but you don't think he was busy with the air brakes? You heard 'em squealin' like a cut pig. He had his hands full just tryin' to stop that sucker. Probably didn't even notice we was in a Jeep, an' I'll bet you a dollar to peanuts he didn't get our number. Hell, we were past him in a shot." He saw Blanchett wasn't convinced. "Wanna get out?"
The redskin had already thought about it but was more afraid of being alone and questioned by a cop again. He didn't think he'd be able to hide his nervousness. He'd stay with Hearn. "When are we going to get off this highway?"
"Soon as we cross the bridge, Ben." Hearn smiled. " 'Less'n ya wanna swim across."
Once on the bridge that stretched beyond them forever, Blanchett noticed a sudden change in Hearn, who was now sitting forward, hunched up, hands tightly gripping the wheel. As the Jeep began the long run along the web-steel matting of the bridge, its tires started humming.
"Don't like bridges," announced Hearn. "Only one way on, one way off. Too easily trapped."
"Yup," agreed Blanchett, glancing in the sideview. The white car was starting across the bridge about 300 years behind them.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIQjipNISwr
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Having turned east off Interstate 101 after crossing the Oregon-Washington bridge on the road to Kelso, Hearn felt mor relaxed, welcoming the darkness as a big canopy that would camouflage him on his journey to the sparsely populated area of eastern Washington.
"Used to be a Republican, right?"
"Who?" Blanchett asked, nervous that they only had till daylight, then they'd have to get off the main roads.
"You," Hearn answered. "Betcha used to be a Republican."
"Me? No way."
"Democrat?"
"Nope."
"Well, I used to be a Republican 'cause my granddaddy and his daddy was. Granddaddy thought Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the Devil 'imself."
Blanchett said nothing. He didn't know where the hell this conversation was going and was starting to think that Hearn wasn't the full dollar. He didn't care about the capitalist getting shot either, but Hearn seemed totally unafraid of the police. It struck Blanchett that maybe Hearn had cancer or something---one of those diseases that left you only a year or so, so that you didn't give a rat's ass. Could that explain why he was so thin?
"I think different," said Hearn. "Roosevelt brought this country just what it needed at the right time: communism. You're too young to remember what he done, but he made government the true protector of the people. These corporate bastards don't like it 'cause these days they can't spit whenever they want to. Uncle Sam does one helluva job keepin' 'em in line."
Blanchett was still watching the rear vision. Headlights about half a mile back. "Where are we going?" he asked Hearn.
"To safety."
Blanchett reconsidered his position, but it was the same as it was before and it made more sense to stay with Hearn because the truth was that he didn't trust himself not to crack under pressure. There, he'd finally admitted to himself. He was scared of the police. He'd been arrested one time for disorderly conduct, pissed out of his mind, could hardly walk. Cops put him in jail overnight, took away his belt and laces, and left the naked lightbulb on all night. Next morning all his supposed toughness was gone, vanished. Awful---he was ready to confess to anything. Nobody had come down to help him. He'd pleaded guilty, paid the fine and hit the road. "To safety? Where?"
"Spokane. Big Ecotopian council."
For a few minutes they said nothing, but Blanchett was feeling more comfortable, safer by the second. Inside the Cherokee's warm cab, the subdued lights of the dashboard in the night gave him a sense of security, of a safe, warm place in from the cold and vast loneliness of the outside world, a darkness broken just by the wink of a distant farmhouse now and then. Wild America, far away from the decadent big cities.
"Stop!" he yelled, but it was too late. The Cherokee, braking, slammed into the deer, the Jeep's radiator punched in, the hurt animal kicking spasmodically with one of its hind legs, blood gushing, looking like black velvet on the blacktop.
"Damn!" said Hearn. "There goes my deductible. Damn!" He reached into the glove box, opened the door, then paused, thrusting the gun at Blanchett. "Do it."
Blanchett hesitated.
"We got no choice! We gotta cover this up. Ecotopians find out we killed a deer an'..." Hearn paused. "You ain't never killed nothin' before, have ya?"
"No...."
"Better learn to, comrade. Showdown's a'comin'."
"Show...?"
"Against the Corporation Occupied Government," said Hearn irritably. "Ain't you been listenin' to anything I been tellin' ya? Do it---ain't got all night."
Blanchett got out, held the handgun the way he'd seen in the movies. He'd been brought up in hunting country and knew something about rifles and shotguns, but handguns? He pulled the trigger. There were sparks on the highway and the sound of the bullet whistling into the woods.
"Shit," Hearn laughed, calling out, "Hold it steady. Go on."
This time the bullet tore into the childlike eye and the deer quitted squirming.
"Now take 'im off the road. Heavy bastard, huh? That's it, pull 'im off."
When Blanchett got back in the cabin, he held onto the gun for a few seconds.
"You like 'er?" asked Hearn.
"Yeah."
"A true people's weapon, eh?"
"You bet."
"Browning, nine-millimeter," said Hearn. "You got eleven left---13-round clip. Never forget how many you got left. It's hard to keep that straight in your head when you're firin'---noise and all---but you gotta do it. You don't....it could cost you your---" Hearn started to pull off the road's shoulder, right hand on his forehead. He was grimacing in pain.
"What's wrong?" asked Blanchett.
"Fuckin' headache," said Hearn. He reached into the glove box, took out a vial of pills, tossed a couple into his mouth, and started chewing them up.
"Whoa!" said Blanchett. "How can you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Take pills dry."
"I can't. Gimme a Coke. They're in the backseat down by the box of lures. Have one yourself. Christ, feels like a knife in my head."92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Q3mTd9Jcl
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Hearn and Blanchett had passed up through the Indian reservation on I-97 and on through Yakima. Blanchett, though tired, offered to drive awhile in the hopes that once Hearn got into the passenger seat, he might shut up. But Hearn, despite his tall, emaciated-looking frame, exhibited an almost ceaseless energy and happily refused Blanchett's offer.
"Glad we're outta that reservation," he said. "Trouble is, Ben, those Indians are constantly whining 'bout how they ain't never got enough of anythin.' Never occurs to 'em to rise up against the white man like their ancestors did. The blacks, they at least had the guts to demand their rights an' they backed those demands up by burnin' out the Jew bankers, an' shit like them. These days, the politicians and conservatives all suck up to the oil companies, the nuclear companies, this company, that company. All the problems this country an' the world's got now, you can bet there's a corporation of some kind behind 'em."
Blanchett wound down the window, ready to toss out his gum wrapper.
"Hey, don't do that," said Hearn. "I don't hold with litterin'."
"Sorry."
"Folks out here see th' Earth as a livin', breathin' thing. It's got rights; don't belong to nobody but itself. Any of the boys see you doin' that they'd skin you alive."
"What boys?"
"We Ecotopians got military cadres, got 'em all over this state. Ecotopia's gonna be an independent country soon. 'Course, we have close liaison with Idaho and Montana divisions too." He paused to spit out the window. "You know, in 'Nam, Uncle Ho whooped the Yankees with paramilitary cadres."
"I know," said Blanchett. He'd found a home at last!
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