Sam Shepard - Motel Chronicles

MOTEL CHRONICLES

With photographs by Johnny Dark

City Lights Books
San Francisco

1982 by Sam Shepard

Designed by Nancy Joyce Peters

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Shepard, Sam, 1943

Motel Chronicles.

I. Title.

PS3569 .H394M61982818'.5403[B]82-17764

ISBN 0-87286-144-9

ISBN 0-87286-143-0 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-87286-143-5

CITY LIGHTS BOOKS are edited by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Nancy J. Peters and published at the City Lights Bookstore, 261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133.

for my mother
Jane Elaine

never did far away charge so close

Csar Vallejo

In Rapid City, South Dakota, my mother gave me ice cubes wrapped in napkins to suck on. I was teething then and the ice numbed my gums.

That night we crossed the Badlands. I rode in the shelf behind the back seat of the Plymouth and stared out at the stars. The glass of the window was freezing cold if you touched it.

We stopped on the prairie at a place with huge white plaster dinosaurs standing around in a circle. There was no town. Just these dinosaurs with lights shining up at them from the ground.

My mother carried me around in a brown Army blanket humming a slow tune. I think it was Peg a My Heart. She hummed it very softly to herself. Like her thoughts were far away.

We weaved slowly in and out through the dinosaurs. Through their legs. Under their bellies. Circling the Brontosaurus. Staring up at the teeth of Tyranosaurus Rex. They all had these little blue lights for eyes.

There were no people around. Just us and the dinosaurs.

9/1/80

Homestead Valley, Ca.

His wake-up call came at 5:30 a.m. By now it was a routine. He crossed the grass lot between the motel and the Kettle Pancake House. The Wardrobe Mistress jogged past him in the dark morning light. She was happy to be alone. He could tell by the way she ran. She never seemed that happy sitting around on the set.

He dropped fifteen cents in the red metal box and slid out a copy of The Austin American Statesman. He caught a glimpse of the Soundman and the Dog Trainer leaning over their coffee at each other inside the restaurant. He nodded to them as he entered and took a back booth. He preferred breakfast alone. Just him and the paper. He ordered a plain waffle and coffee. Four Cops were talking Rodeo at the counter behind him. The paper seemed totally devoted to minor stabbings. From the Panhandle to the Gulf, people were getting stabbed: in front of bars, in open fields, in stolen cars, behind pharmacies. He finished his waffle in silence. It left the taste of powdered eggs on his teeth.

He crossed the same plot of grass on his way back to the motel. The same route hed taken every morning for a month. The tall grass touched him like the whole of Texas. The light was changing fast.

He went through the lobby hoping for mail. His box was empty. The Motel Manager was watching color cartoons in a trance. He could see his Driver waiting for him outside. Pacing.

He slid into the back seat of a grey Cadillac. Two Actors were talking feverishly about Greek Drama. They kept it up for miles. He kept staring silently at the back of the Drivers black cowboy hat. There were three used toothpicks jammed into the hat band. One of those braided horsehair kind of hat bands like the convicts make.

The road seemed extra treacherous for some reason. Extra high. Banked in some peculiar way, more like a runway for small prop planes. Farm houses seemed misplaced. Like they belonged in the suburbs or the owners wished they looked like houses that belong in the suburbs. Small attempts at a lawn. A family of white ceramic deer. Bird baths with over-sized metallic green and red Christmas balls sitting in them. Little domestic tokens suddenly ending at an ocean of plowed field.

The Actors kept chattering, using emotional tones in their voices to indicate to each other their deep convictions. At times he felt they were trying harder to convince themselves than each other. The Driver was silent. Relaxed. He was a Wrangler first and a Teamster second. He had absolutely no opinion on the Greeks nor even the slightest aspiration for one. He kept one wrist on the top of the wheel while the other one rested. His eyes looked like theyd plowed a million acres.

They pulled into Uhland. The Honeywagons had taken over the whole town. Two hundred Extras milled around waiting for someone to feed them. He searched for his mobile home and found it parked by a pasture. His costume was waiting. It looked just like the clothes he had on, like a deflated version of himself. He switched the clothes he had on for the costume and felt just the same. Exactly the same. Maybe a little bit stiffer. Cleaner maybe too. He wondered if he was supposed to be playing himself. If thats what they hired him for. He sat at the formica table and stared out at the highway. Two semis passed with the words HOBBS MIRACLE REVIVAL CRUSADE in bold red letters painted on the sides. He wondered who the drivers were, if they believed in God or if they were just driving for others who believed in God.

All day long he worked the motorcycle behind the camera car. He kept a constant distance. When the camera car increased speed he increased the speed of the Kawasaki. He never went out of focus. Now and then the land would take him out the sides of his eyes. Broad bands of light shafting down from unbelievable heights, stabbing the horizon like some Italian Religious Painting. He tried to keep his mind on his business. What the scene they were shooting was about. Where it fit into the continuity. He was supposed to be riding to kill her? The Star? The Character? The Woman? The Character he was playing was supposed to be riding to kill the Character she was playing? He couldnt take his eyes off the heavy-duty corrugated metal bumper of the camera car. An Assistant Director held out a small black electronic blinker with a red light. One blink meant the camera car was speeding up. Two blinksslowing down. Three blinks meant stopping. That was the one he wanted to be sure to remember. The three blinks one. There was only about a ten-foot gap of space between the front wheel of the bike and that corrugated metal bumper. At sixty miles an hour the meaning of three red blinks was important to remember. But why did he want to kill her? Up til now he thought hed known but suddenly it seemed stupid. Was it just a function of the script or did the Character have a reason? He tried to look grim and determined, staring into the lens. He could see his eyes reflected in the lens. It looked like an act. He dropped it all together. He just rode the bike and forgot about acting. He started enjoying the ride. The Director yelled out to him through a bullhorn: It looks like youre having too much fun! Look grim and determined! Youre riding to kill her!

The Camera Man kept holding up one, two or three fingers at different intervals. Another code system, this one related to lenses. One finger equaled a wide shot. Two, a medium shot and Three, a tight shot. He tried not to look at the fingers. For him, one finger meant fairly relaxed; two equaled fairly tense; threeextremely tense. He wished they hadnt told him what the fingers meant. It didnt do him any good to know. He wasnt doing anything different no matter what lens they were using, no matter how many fingers they held up. So why even tell him? What he needed to know was why did his Character want to kill her Character in the first place? Something about Christ I guess. That was in the script someplace. Something about her being Christ; him thinking she was Christ for some reason. Why would he think she was Christ? He wasnt stupid. The Character wasnt stupid. Why would he think that about her? He remembered the Gospel According to St. John where Christ told the Jews: The reason you dont understand my language is because you dont understand my thought. He was passing the camera car going eighty-five on the Kawasaki. The entire Crew was waving wildly at him to slow down. He didnt see them. The Director threw his hat at the sky. The road looked clean and deadly. He remembered Christ again. What he told the guys who wanted him to prove his miracles in enemy territory: My time hasnt come yet. For you, its different. You dont know when your time is coming because you dont know where you come from or where youre going. But me, I know both. And this is not my day to die!