This guy, in a grey jumper and the wisest face, was playing boules in a dead end town. Del was shooting him on his black box camera as the gravel lightly flicked under the swirling silver balls.
“He’s the man!” whispered Hellybutt to Bodean, and as the words came out the ancient french rock blasted the enemy balls away.
“One in every town” replied Bodean.
The town was dead end because there was a river and no ferry to cross it, or a bridge, or no Big Jim and Huckleberry to git us sum raft and across, yessah. So we rode around more forgettable towns, sorry to those unforgettable people, and slept in closed campsites. Where the hell were the families to live in these creepy, silent trailers? And the park attendants musta been getting drunk in town - it was saturday night after all. But like tired bodhisattvas (Buddha’s in waiting) we sit motionless in the forest of immobile caravans.
And the kilometers really race by. Through Kerouac territory - Hellybutt is screaming with joy and spouting American Haiku’s at every Ker-town - Del and Bodean have headphones on and the traffic sings by with us. The end of the road for this day is Ploudo. The sea is busy and the waves aren’t so grand. Bodean had a peaceful sleep on the grass and wouldn’t be bothered with all that racket and bobbing in the heavy seaweed. The campsite owner finds us in good health at dinner and he wavers the site fee, on the understanding that we return “in-ah three to four ‘ears with a women and-ah children, Oui?”. We say “Oui”.
