“Well, I’m actually planning on living out of it for the next six months or so.”
He nodded, scratched his jaw with the greasy rag. “I got some newer tires in there somewhere, and some oil. If you wanna cop a squat for an hour or so, I’ll do it for you.”
“That sounds choice. I’m beat, and got no clue where I’d get that done anyhow.”
“My missus could fix you something to eat, if you’re hungry.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to impose, but I could eat.”
He flipped the spanner in his hand. “As long as your money’s good, we’re good.”
“Eighty-eight hundred, yeah?”
“That’s what we agreed on,” Dillon said, nodding.
No stranger to potentially risky cash deals in remote areas, I had the appropriate amount of cash pre-counted and in an envelope, which I dug out of my back pocket and handed to him. “All there. Can I see the van before we call it done, though?”
Dillon took the envelope and it disappeared into his own back pocket without being counted. “Sure thing, man. In here.”
In the pole barn, but just inside, was the van—a 1976 Westfalia camper van. Bright green, with a yellow peace sign painted on the back that was probably new when the thing was new in the mid-seventies. Not in mint condition by any stretch of the imagination, it had spots of rust around the wheel arches, and on the bumpers, but it was straight, and he’d claimed in the ad online that it had pretty low miles and had been well maintained by him, the original owner. I’d be getting a hell of a deal, if it all proved out.
The sliding door moved open smoothly, and the interior was clean and intact, if more than a bit dated. Green plaid cloth, a tiny kitchenette, pop top, rock and roll bed, plenty of storage. A bit worn, a bit faded, but clean and neat and in working order. The engine bay was open, showing the tiny motor. Dillon slid into the driver’s seat, one leg hanging out the open door, twisted the key; the engine coughed once, sputtered, caught, the tailpipe belched a bit of white smoke, and then it set to purring quietly.
“If I fixed the rust on the arches and bumpers and redid the interior, I could get a few grand more for it, but I ain’t got the time, honestly. Rather just take what I can get and be done with it, you know?” He patted the dash as he shut the motor off and slid out. “Me and the missus bought her together back in ’76, followed the Grateful Dead around in her for a couple years. Lotta good memories in the old girl, but we won’t be doin’ any road trips any time soon, so we figured it was time for someone new to love her. Keep an eye on the oil; she’s got a leak somewhere inside. Just burns up, don’t drip none, but every once in a while she’ll need a top off. Pop top opens nice and easy, bench folds flat, all the kitchenette stuff works just fine. Wipers, lights, all that, it’s all good. New headlight lamps recently, I should mention.” He leaned in the front door, tapped a part of the dash. “Only thing I’ve done was pull the cigarette lighter and replace it with this one-ten outlet, so you can plug in a cell phone. Don’t connect to nothing but power, but it’ll keep your phone charged while you drive.”
“Smart touch, that.” I felt a shiver of something slither over my spine. Excitement. This was the start of a new kind of adventure. “Looks great, Dillon. Real great.”
He nodded. “So we’ve got a deal?”
“Sure have.”
We shook hands, and after signing the title I became the owner of the van. I figured there were hurdles yet to face regarding the legality of driving it in the States as a citizen of another country, but I had a legal and valid NZ license. I’d just have to muddle through the rest. Dillon had a shouted conversation with his wife—the missus—about fixing something to eat, and then Dillon and I shared a beer while he changed the oil and put on newer tires which he procured from somewhere in the middle of the maze of parts and old cars and tractors and implements cluttering the interior of the pole barn. I asked him what else I’d have to do to legally drive around, and he explained registration and insurance requirements to me, and honestly it sounded like a real pain in the ass, but I was going to be living and driving in the van for the next six months, so I’d have to just grin and bear the process.
The missus turned out to be a female version of Dillon—tall and lean and willowy where Dillon was tall and lean and whipcord hard. Her graying hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and she wore colorful clothes that had probably been new when the van I now owned had been new. She brought out hamburgers with wheat bread in place of actual buns, and crumbled potato crisps. It was delicious, being home-cooked and the first non-airline food I’d had in two days.
By this time, Dillon had finished the oil change and tire replacement. We ate, and chatted, and by this time it was near dark.
“Well, I’d best be off,” I said. “Thanks for the hospitality, Dillon.”
“Where ya headed to?” he asked.
I shrugged. “No real destination. Just exploring. I’m a photographer forNational Geographic.”
“You on some kind of assignment?”
I shrugged. “Sort of. My project is something I’m calling ‘The Unseen America.’ Weird stuff, out of the way places, unusual perspectives. That kinda thing.’
Dillon laughed. “Well, it’s a big ol’ country, friend. You could spend a lifetime and not see a quarter of it.” He scratched his jaw. “We saw a hell of a lot of it when we were Deadheads, doing sorta what you’re doing.” He eyed me. “If you got no plans, you want an idea to start you off?”
“Sure, bro. Hit me with it.”
“Head down to the Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. It’s a nice drive down from here, and the caves are worth seeing. From there, you’re in a good spot to head north, south, or straight west. My advice to you, if you’re interested in unusual and unique perspectives, and ain’t in a hurry, is stay off the freeways. Stick to state and local highways, the little two-lane ones. Ain’t the most direct route anywhere, but that’s where the real America lives. Won’t see shit going eighty on an interstate.”
I smirked. “Will the van even do eighty?”
Dillon laughed. “If she will it won’t be for long. I wouldn’t do more than sixty-five, if you want to keep her healthy.”
“Brilliant advice, my friend. Thanks again for everything.”
