Uma Thurman





      The Road Princess of America ~ with the cells of her naked belly caroling like a choir of miracles vibrating the horizon ~ languidly stood in the dirt beside old Route 66.  Her thumb, of course, was stuck out into the wind by her hip for a ride.

     Ruthie Root Beer was headed for Kansas to say "good-bye" to her dying pa.

     There were distant plateaus and big red eroded rocks all over the place.  Adobe houses camoflaged in the skirts of one distant plateau, twinkled one by one as an occasional lamp within was lit, and another day was about ready to call it quits in Arizona.

     A Navajo Indian at the wheel of an old pick-up truck, after having drunk too much wine, bleary-eyed and red-eyed and cock-eyed to boot, with his compadre over there on the other side of the seat in an equal state of idiotic brotherliness ~ beheld the Road Princess like a vision on the side of the road.

     His foot spastically stomped on the brake.  The truck screeched sideways to a halt in the dirt amidst clouds of dust that bellowed like lions...



Susan George



     Ruthie climbed into the bed of the old pick-up that was already full-up with hitch-hikers ~ hippies going rank ~ road pirates.

     Ruthie, illuminated by a classic sunset of deepening scarlet, turned around and stood seductively, provocatively, in the midst of this little crowd of crouching, wind-blown humanity.  She gazed genteely upon her companion.

     He dragged her large and heavy, new trunk, purchased in Flagstaff and filled with her new clothes and toiletries, to the rear of the idling vehicle.  He unlatched and lowered the dented rusty tailgate.  With beads of sweat budding profusely upon his brow, he heaved one end of her trunk up against the lowered tailgate.

     "Heave-ho, Eternity!" sang the Road Princess.

     "My name is Slim Chance, damn it," he gritted.

     Not too long ago, like maybe the day before, Ruthie's companion ~ or servant ~ or slave ~ ahhh yes, slave of love ~ had been a cocky independent cuss.  Occasionally since then, like now, he had some trouble adapting to his new role in life.

     He heaved up the other end of Ruthie's trunk and pushed the bloated thing forward.  Somehow, everybody in the back of the pick-up made room for it.  Ruthie, still standing, strategically halted its forward momentum with her foot.  Slim raised and latched the creaky tailgate.  As he climbed in, the drunk Indian at the wheel floored the accelerator.  The old pick-up careened back onto the highway.  Slim managed to leap forward, but tripped over Ruthie's big trunk.  He lost his cap.  He bumped his head against Ruthie's thigh.  She clutched a handful of his hair in a futile attempt to keep her own balance, but fell backward on top of a poor unsuspecting road pirate ~ took Slim by the hair with her.  Slim hollered with pain and anger.  After all were settled, though, Slim was settled most comfortably of all ~ his lips pressed against Ruthie's naked tummy so warm, pulsating, aromatic, slightly intoxicating.  With his lips a-tingle in a smooth little valley half an inch above her jeans, Slim curled up like a baby and slept like a log...



 Hedy Lamarr



     The old pick-up truck, a Ford, maybe a '59 Ford, loaded with hitch-hikers and driven by the drunk Indian, swerved onward.  Other drivers upon the highway, heading in the opposite direction, afraid the careening truck might run into them, occasionally honked.  And the truck occasionally skidded into the gravel along side the asphalt.  And the driver's head nodded now and then as the truck swerved more and more radically, yet sped onward at roughly 70 miles an hour.

     "Hey!" hollered one of the road pirates in the rear swamped in wind.  "One of us better drive!"

     And another, having been enlightened by his fellow traveler, started knocking on the rear window in an attempt to get the attention of the two obliterated bozos up front.

     All in the rear had by now riveted their eyes upon the drama being enacted ~ the young road pirate pounding his fist on the window, the Indian at the wheel nodding his head in drunken fatigue.  And everybody's eyes in the rear of the speeding swerving truck grew still and unblinking with the fear of death ~ except, of course, Slim's eyes, which were closed, and Ruthie's, which were tranquilly gazing at a bloody-red and deep-purple splash of cloud spilled across the sky out yonder ~

     El Vaquero riding hard!


~ The End ~


(Copyright 1990, 2010)




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