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On My Way Home

by Barbara Sicuranza (continued)

A stop in at my favorite Johnny on the Spot on my way back. I am a sieve. Those kids are still out there, going strong. Making it a pleasant rest stop for all. I take some baby wipes and a seat liner. Ah luxury. I glitter these bathroom attendant boys up this time on my way out. Silver and gold glitter abound. Don't leave home without it. Gotta get your sparkle desert shine on. Some kind of crazy diamond alright.

A few hours later, Chris and I are out again exploring. Copious amounts of fluid must be consumed at all times, so where else am I but on line at the porto-san AGAIN when my soul mate spotted me. "Barbara," it shrieked and rushed at me. A flutter of crimson hair, a flicker of white vinyl (or was it masking tape)? Suddenly, it was on me, all over me, shouting, "I am Li Lu, I am your sou lmate"! Waving a sheet, proof indeed, the one I' d filled out at Costco, complete with my tiny video image on it....How was I spotted? There are 20,000 odd people here. He/she said my sequined American flag hat was the giveaway. It seemed my soul mate was a drag queen dressed as Li Lu from the film, "the fifth element". Ohhh. That explains everything. Chris comes screamingly swimming out of the porta-can and quickly snaps our picture. As we departed, Li Lu promised to visit, the form has my coordinates Umm.. Great. Our current home. Good ole 7:30 and Gut.

It begins to rain softly as Li Lu leaves us. Chris explains to me how he overheard some people whining that the soul mate exchange service "did everything backwards." He says someone complained they had put down on their form that they disliked German tourists, and can you guess who they were fixed up with... you got it, A GERMAN TOURIST. Suddenly, I had a newfound fondness for the soul trading post. I began hoping our little Li Lu would drop by. What was his/her story?

I stop by Costco to pick up my soul mate finder form, and lo and behold, MY soul mate is not Li Lu. They assign different people to everyone. Bloody Brilliant.

Here it comes. The big rain. Like Travis Bickel says, "Someday the big rains gonna come and wash all the scum off the street". But here the classless saints and scum reign free on the desert plane. Anything but plain. We pass the porto-sans during a rather disgusting cleaning process. Chris remarks on the immigrant wage slaves who are probably getting paid fifty cents an hour to literally hose the scum out of the porto-san to mingle with the scum in the street. Sand rather. No streets on the playa, unless you count the location grid.

With street names like Head, Brain, Throat, Gut, Anus, Knee, and Foot, intersected by time intervals. (i.e.; our address of 7:30 and Gut, the Garbage Acres, the self proclaimed white trash camp located at 315 and Throat and so on.).

We hightailed it back to camp to seek shelter, and discover that 20 dollar tents from K-mart are not a good idea for anyone ever. Wet, curled, and cramped the night creeps by.

Its maybe our third day in the desert, Hurray, I'm losing track of terrible time, a sunrise spectacular, and Kevin and Mike (of our Reno hitch and current home) have some eggs and bacon cooking like good little campers. Mike seems forever gloomy, Kevin consistently drunk and cheery. Odd couple. Chris and I can barely stand up straight, so damp and bent was the night. On a lighter, brighter note, a beautiful breakfast is had by all.


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