Алан Дин Фостер - To the Vanishing Point

"Actually, Pops, I thought it was kind of a drag. The walk through the gold mine, that’s just so old. And the bar where all they could sell was soda. I mean, come on, Pops. Get real."

"You’d have preferred a beer, I suppose." She just smiled knowingly. "You’ve got a few years to go before you’re legal, kiddo."

"Maybe I’m not legal, but I’m cute." She was teasing him now, he knew. Demonstrating the social superiority of the American adolescent. "I can get beer in Vegas, you know."

"Where? Who gave you beer?"

"Frank." Alicia spoke softly, trying to calm her husband. "Can’t you see she’s just trying to get to you?"

He turned grumpily back to his driving. "She’s succeeding. If I find out someone in a casino is selling sixteen-year-olds beer, especially my sixteen-year-old…"

"Take it easy, Frank."

"I know, I know. Blood pressure."

"I mean," said Wendy, her attention and voice beginning to fade under the influence of the tape she was listening to, "it was a place for golden oldies, you know?"

Frank forced himself to keep both hands on the wheel. "Just remember it’s the golden oldies up here who’re paying for this trip and for those invisible swimsuits you think you’re going to wear poolside. I swear," he muttered, "the less material they put in those things the more they charge. I’m waiting for pasties and a fig leaf at fifty bucks a pop."

"Frank…" Alicia began warningly.

"What Frank ? You think I shouldn’t talk like that in front of the kids? You think they’re innocents? Your daughter doesn’t listen to that metal crap all the time. She can hear when she wants to. And I’m not going to have her parading around some casino pool in those new suits. They don’t hide anything. She can wear 'em in the room if she wants, but that’s it."

"Frank, this is Las Vegas we’re going to, remember? The hotels are full of showgirls and would-be actresses. You really think anyone’s going to pay any attention to a sixteen-year-old?" She looked back. "No offense, darling."

"Oh, gee, Mom, none taken," said her daughter sardonically. "When we get there I’ll damn well dress as I please."

"What? What was that?" Frank managed a furious glance backward. "What did you say, young lady?"

"Frank, please keep your eyes on the road." Alicia hastily examined the map, looked out her window with forced excitement in her voice. "Oh, look! See those mountains over there?"

Not really wanting to look but willing to change the subject, Wendy turned boredly without removing her headset to peer out the long window above the convertible couch. Steven scrambled onto his knees to do likewise.

"What about them?" She turned up the volume on the tape player slightly, willing to meet her mother halfway but in no mood for a geology lecture.

Alicia double-checked the map. "They’re called the Devil’s Playground."

Wendy slumped, burdened by the sheer weight of her parents' presence. "Whoopie."

"But just look at them." Alicia was trying real hard, Frank knew, and he loved her for it. "Isn’t it fascinating to wonder how a place like that could get such a name?"

"Yeah, kinda," said Steven slowly, displaying interest in something other than food and his toys for the first time in the last hundred miles.

His sister eyed him in surprise. "Give me a break, little brother." She found herself staring through the glass in spite of herself. "There’s nothing out there, Mom. Just like there’s been nothing out there since we left L.A."

"But the name. Can’t you just see some poor prospector or hunter struggling through this awful country by himself, without freeways and hamburger stands and gas stations to fall back on? That’s who probably named this place."

"Maybe it was a thermometer salesman," Frank quipped, feeling a little better now that the decision had been made. "Or some old guy with a burro and a beard who spent his whole life looking to make the big strike."

"Yes," said Alicia. "This whole part of the country is covered with names like that, and the bones of the people who bestowed them."

"Honestly, you two." Wendy popped a stick of gum in her mouth, extracting it from its package as neatly as a woodpecker would siphon a grub from beneath the bark of an elm. "Probably named by some guy who inherited a couple thousand acres out here. Maybe he thought it would bring tourists. Come see the Devil’s Playground. Pan for gold. Touch a cactus. Souvenirs, cold cherry cider, hot dogs, kids eat free. That’s where your weird names come from."

"You’re not much of a romantic." Frank refused to let her upset him. "I thought all girls your age were supposed to be romantics."

"Oh, we are, Pops, we are. But not about nowhere dumps like this. Now, if Bon Jovi or Roger Hornsby were giving a concert out here, I’d get real romantic." She gestured at the blasted landscape visible through the window. "Get real. The name’s the only thing distinctive about this place. It looks just like the last hundred miles we’ve driven and just like the next hundred miles will look." She blew a bubble, let it burst, sucked the pink latex back through her teeth.

Alicia settled back in her seat, the expression on her face saying "I tried." Frank had nothing to add. As a father he was coming to appreciate that the worldview of sixteen-year-old girls was somewhat limited.

Though Wendy’s disinterest continued, her mother’s hypothesizing had stimulated Steven. He was still staring avidly out the side window. So the line about the wandering prospector had been useful after all, Frank mused, though his son was more likely conjuring up visions of cowboys and Indians. Times had changed. These days all the kids wanted to be the Indians. He couldn’t remember who’d once told him that history was like a flapjack. As soon as it was done on one side, somebody would flip it over to expose the untouched obverse, whereupon a new raft of eager revisers would set to rewriting a period anew. As soon as it got cold, it would get flipped again.

Pity they were driving from Los Angeles instead of, say, Utah. They could have driven through the Grand Canyon or Zion or Bryce instead of this boring, eventless terrain. They’d flown over the Mojave many times and, much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he was coming to realize that this part of the country was better viewed from the air. Mountains, canyons, even the plant life had a skeletal aspect. It was as if the upper foot of the planet here had been stripped away, as though the landscape had been scoured by an immense sandblaster.

Only the government had a use for this kind of country, chopping it up into military reservations larger than many states. One percent utilized, ninety-nine percent ignored. Only the air had real value, bright and clear. Mountains that appeared to crowd the highway were actually many miles away. It caused a man to concentrate on the little things. When you built an important business with your own hands you became a stickler for detail. Maybe that was why he spent so much time on each ocotillo, each Joshua tree and prickly pear.

Tough little suckers, he thought. He could appreciate them even if his family could not.

"How much further, Dad?"

Frank blinked behind his sunglasses. He’d been daydreaming. His gaze dropped to the odometer. "Twenty miles. Twenty minutes, kiddo."

Steven nodded, spoke hesitantly. "Do you think they’ll have …?"

"No, I don’t think they’ll have a McDonald’s. The whole town of Baker is about the size of your school. Don’t tell me you’re out of food already."

"It’s all cookies and stuff, Dad. I’m really hungry."

"It’s close to lunchtime," Alicia pointed out, "and it would be nice to eat in a restaurant. I can throw something together, of course, but…"