William Vollmann - The Royal Family

Past Salvation Mountain the road went on toward the Chocolate Range, but before it had gone very far there was another sign which said SLAB CITY — WELCOME. Turning right, he entered a grid of dirt streets, desert scrub in between. Past the rusty red bus you had to go deeper into that maze of wide empty roads in the low brush, with trailers lurking between on the half-broken low concrete flatforms, trailers with tarps, singles with mailboxes, until you came to a trailer with a sticker that said AWOL, and on the slab beside it, under a tree-shaded tarp, an old man sat at a manual typewriter which didn’t work, thinking about composing a letter. His white poodle lay beside him, guarding the cartridge box and other gear against death as the old man explained to Tyler:

Now the left side over there, they call that Poverty Flat. On the right, that’s called High Rent Area. Actually, the names are reversed, just to keep people amused. In the High Rent Area, people live kind of hand to mouth.

We got a club in here called the Slab City Singles. I founded it fifteen years ago and I’ve been coming every year for fourteen years, ever since I lost my wife. But Slab City itself has been around much longer than that. Back in World War II, General Patton had these kind of camps all over the desert. After they moved out, the Navy moved in and then the Marines took over. That slab over there, that was a hospital. Then they shut the whole thing down and sold it. My slab, that was the officers’ latrine. And this lot here, that’s the parade ground.

(One of the old man’s thermometers said 105° and the other said 120°.)

We still don’t have too many rules, the old man said. With all that nice shade and everything, I can’t stop others from moving in. Anyone can drive in and park. This is America. That guy over there, he’s dying to move in.

Tyler inquired: Have you seen a skinny little black lady named Africa? I wanted to live and die with her.

They don’t allow a man and a woman not married to live in the same rig, but we talked it over and decided to let ’em. And we got eight of ’em now, married couples, and we set up an auxilliary.

I get it, said Tyler.

This little gal and I, we play trionomoes, said the old man. This little gal here, she weighs only sixty-five pounds. And she used to drive a big truck! he said proudly.

Well, the little gal said (she was tattooed with the word MOTHER), I’d rather be where it’s cooler. I’d rather be in Oakdale where I come from. I used to have a home. I had to buy this trailer because of my health. I’ve been here for four years. I’m stuck here this summer because my motor home needs work and I can’t afford it.

Clearing his throat, Tyler said: Or have you seen a pregnant Korean lady named Irene?

The tracked and trodden sand on either side of the trestle bridge at Coffee Camp might not have been so different from the sand of Slab City, but in Slab City there was more sand and less of everything else, long wide dazzling avenues of sand down which no one passed, so that he recalled a typical oddball comment uttered by Waldo, who’d heard of Slab City even through his ringing autism, though he’d never been there, and said to Tyler: They don’t move around in the daytime, man. Just like vampires. — Already the white shimmer of Salvation Mountain like cake icing or wax running down the ridge lay out of sight because Salvation Mountain was actually not very high and at Slab City the hot sandy plain had begun a downward slope which steepened a little near the canal’s edge where Slab City gave way to the Drops, or as some called it, the outback, where the true squatters lived. The place felt wild and strange to him.

Past the cross by an immense flat slab, past the perimeter of tires laid down upon the sand in a long strange black line of symbolic menace, he swung round one camp’s snarling dogs, and at the next camp under some shade-trees he met an angry man.

How long have you been out here? said Tyler.

Shoot, said the angry man in disgust. We’re havin’ a hell of a time out here, on account of some bad people. I was attacked by two persons with clubs, and I defended myself with a baseball bat. They attempted to murder me. One woman out there, she instigated the whole thing. They knocked me unconscious. They beat my head in. I get up, defend myself, police show up, and my attackers tell the police I’m just some drunken maniac. The D.A. takes their side of it. And then the bureaucrats take us down. Since it never goes to trial, I never get my say. They make me come down to court, and then they keep changing the court dates. Once I spent the whole day in court so they could tell me in thirty seconds to come back on another day, and while I was there I had to keep my dog chained up out here all day, and because he wasn’t used to being chained up, he strangled to death. I feel I’m beat down.

I’m his only source of income, his mother said. I get my widow’s pension. It’s hard for me to maintain. I promised I’d help him out for four or five months. And every time we go to court, I have to worry about gasoline, gasoline. The trip to court and back costs about fifteen dollars.

Where is all them court papers, Mom? said the angry man.

He spread them out on the hood of one of his dead cars and began to reread them obsessively. Then he looked up at Tyler and said: My plan was to be out of here before the summer hit.

How long have you been here? said Tyler.

Last time we went to court in the truck, his mother said. An officer pulled us over for a cracked windshield and Idaho plates. So they slapped that fine on top of that.

It’s like they’re keepin’ us broke, the angry man said.

How did you end up here? said Tyler.

Well, we came here originally around Thanksgiving, the old mother said. We left twice. Somebody told me about Slab City, and there are some good things about this place, but I hope we get out of here before it gets too hot. I’m afraid this heat will kill me. Put a wet towel on me, is the only thing that will keep me cool. And then this happens, with those people trying to murder my son.

What made you pick the Drops over the slabs? asked Tyler.

Privacy, the man said. And on the slabs, it’s hard to find any trees to live under. Them snowbirds are already in the good spots.

Hey, said Tyler urgently. Have you seen a little black gal who, uh—

By the mother’s trailer lurked a skinny woman who watched Tyler with a sort of weary gingerliness. Finally, as the angry man returned to his court papers, Tyler strolled over to her and asked her how she was.

The skinny girl looked shyly down. — What we’re doin’ is mopin’ around. I used to have an apple ranch…

How long’s it been for you? he said.

I been here about fourteen months now. My boyfriend brought me here but then he took off on me. He’d already got us kicked out of the place we’d stayed in town, this condemned apartment run by a black con artist. When my boyfriend took off, he ripped off the best of my food stamps, ninety goddamn dollars’ worth.

Yeah, they keep on kickin’ you in the teeth when you’re down, the angry man said, anxious to resume talking about himself. He showed Tyler a nunchuck that his would-be murderers had left — two pieces of steel pipe connected by a chain.

Well, said Tyler to the skinny woman, how about you? Have you ever met a black woman named Africa who—

She shook her head. — I don’t guess I got any enemies.

I just hope you can get things together, the angry man’s mother said to her very gently.

Tyler cleared his throat and said: If I gave you five dollars could you tell me if you ever saw Africa?

Pretty much out here there’s no economy, said the angry man. I buy junk cars and sell parts. I want a good pickup, just a good pickup. I used to be a mechanic, but ain’t no work around here anyway. I’m in a pit of lions, armed with a flyswatter.