The Lost Continent (28 page)

“Are you girls always this happy?” I asked.

“Only at homecoming,” one of them said.

Ah, that explained it. Homecoming. The big social event of the college year. There are three ritual stages attached to homecoming celebrations at American universities: (1) Get grossly intoxicated; (2) throw up in a public place; (3) wake up not knowing where you are or how you got there and with your underpants on backwards. I appeared to have arrived in town somewhere between stages one and two, though in fact a few of the more committed revelers were already engaged in gutter serenades. I picked my way through the weaving throngs in downtown Iowa City asking people at random if they knew the way to Fitzpatrick’s Bar. No one seemed to have heard of it—but then many of the people I encountered probably could not have identified themselves in a roomful of mirrors. Eventually I stumbled onto the bar myself. Like all bars in Iowa City on a Friday night, it was packed to the rafters. Everybody looked to be fourteen years old, except one person—my friend John Horner, who was standing at the bar looking all of his thirty-five years. There is nothing like a college town to make you feel old before your time. I joined Horner at the bar. He hadn’t changed a lot. He was now a teacher and a respectable member of the community, though there was still a semiwild glint in his eye. In his day, he had been one of the most committed drug takers in the community, and indeed he still had a faintly burnt-out look about him. We had been friends almost forever, since first grade at least. We exchanged broad smiles and warm handshakes and tried to talk, but there was so much noise and throbbing music that we were just two men watching each other’s mouths move. So we gave up trying to talk and instead had a beer and stood smiling inanely at each other, the way you do with someone you haven’t seen for years, and watching the people around us. I couldn’t get over how young and fresh-looking they all seemed. Everything about them looked brand-new and unused—their clothes, their faces, their bodies. When we had drained our beer bottles, Horner and I stepped out onto the street and walked to his car. The fresh air felt wonderful. People were leaning against buildings everywhere and puking. “Have you ever seen so many twerpy little assholes in all your life?” Horner asked me rhetorically.

“And they’re all just fourteen years old,” I added.

“Physically they are fourteen years old,” he corrected me, “but emotionally and intellectually they are still somewhere shy of their eighth birthday.”

“Were we like that at their age?”

“I used to wonder that, but I don’t think so. I may have been that stupid once, but I was never that shallow. These kids wear button-down-collar shirts and penny loafers. They look like they’re on their way to an Osmonds concert. And they don’t know
anything.
You talk to them in a bar and they don’t even know who’s running for president. They’ve never heard of Nicaragua. It’s scary.”

We walked along thinking about the scariness of it all. “But there’s something even worse,” Horner added. We were at his car. I looked at him across the top of it. “What’s that?” I asked.

“They don’t smoke dope. Can you believe that?”

Well, I couldn’t. The idea of students at the University of Iowa not smoking dope is . . . well, simply inconceivable. On any list of reasons for going to the University of Iowa, smoking dope took up at least two of the first five places. “Then what are they here for?”

“They’re getting an
education,
” Horner said in a tone of wonder. “Can you believe that? They
want
to be insurance salesmen and computer programmers. That’s their dream in life. They want to make a lot of money so they can go out and buy more penny loafers and Madonna albums. It terrifies me sometimes.”

We got in his car and drove through dark streets to his house. Horner explained to me how the world had changed. When I left America for England, Iowa City was full of hippies. Difficult as it may be to believe, out here amid all these cornfields, the University of Iowa was for many years one of the most radical colleges in the country, at its peak exceeded in radicalness only by Berkeley and Columbia. Everybody there was a hippie, the professors as much as the students. It wasn’t just that they smoked dope and frequently rioted; they were also open-minded and intellectual. People cared about things like politics and the environment and where the world was going. Now, from what Horner was telling me, it was as if all the people in Iowa City had had their brains laundered at the Ronald McDonald Institute of Mental Readjustment.

“So what happened?” I asked Horner when we were settled at his house with a beer. “What made everyone change?”

“I don’t know exactly,” he said. “The main thing, I guess, is that the Reagan Administration has this obsession with drugs. And they don’t distinguish between hard drugs and soft drugs. If you’re a dealer and you’re caught with pot, you get sent away for just as long as if it were heroin. So now nobody sells pot. All the people who used to sell it have moved on to crack and heroin because the risk is no worse and the profits are a lot better.”

“Sounds crazy,” I said.

“Of course it’s crazy!” Horner answered, a little hotly. Then he calmed down. “Actually a lot of people just stopped dealing in pot altogether. Do you remember Frank Dortmeier?”

Frank Dortmeier was a guy who used to ingest drugs by the sackful. He would snort coke through a garden hose given half a chance. “Yeah, sure,” I said.

“I used to get my pot from him. Then they brought in this law that if you are caught selling dope within a thousand yards of a public school they put you in jail forever. It doesn’t matter that you may only be selling one little reefer to your own mother, they still put you away for eternity just as if you were standing on the school steps shoving it down the throats of every sniveling little kid who passed by. Well, when they brought this law in, Dortmeier started to get worried because there was a school up the street from him. So one night under cover of darkness, he goes out with a hundred-foot tape measure and measures the distance from his house to the school and damn me but it’s 997 yards. So he just stops selling dope, just like that.” Horner drank his beer sadly. “It’s really frustrating. I mean, have you ever tried to watch American TV without dope?”

“It must be tough,” I agreed.

“Dortmeier gave me the name of his supplier so I could go and get some myself. Well, this guy was in Kansas City. I had no idea. So I drove all the way down there, just to buy a couple of ounces of pot, and it was crazy. The house was full of guns. The guy kept looking out the window like he was expecting the police to tell him to come out with his hands up. He was half convinced that I was an undercover narcotics officer. I mean here I am, a thirty-five-year-old family man, with a college education and a respectable job, I’m 180 miles from home and I’m wondering if I’m going to get blown away, and all so that I can just have a little something to help me get through ‘Love Boat’ reruns on TV. It was too crazy for me. You need somebody like Dortmeier for a situation like that—somebody with a lust for drugs and no brain.” Horner shook the beer can by his ear to confirm that it was empty and then looked at me. “You wouldn’t by any wild chance have any dope with you?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, John,” I said.

“Shame,” said Horner and went out to the kitchen to get us more beers.

I spent the night in Horner’s spare room and in the morning stood with him and his pleasant wife in the kitchen drinking coffee and chatting while small children swirled about our legs. Life is odd, I thought. It seemed so strange for Horner to have a wife and children and a paunch and a mortgage and to be, like me, approaching the cliff face of middle age. We had been boys for so long together that I suppose I had thought the condition was permanent. I realized with a sense of dread that the next time we met we would probably talk about gallstone operations and the relative merits of different brands of storm windows. It put me in a melancholy mood and kept me there as I reclaimed my car from its parking space downtown and returned to the highway.

I drove along old Route 6, which used to be the main highway to Chicago, but now with Interstate 80 just three miles to the south, it is all but forgotten, and I hardly saw a soul along its length. I drove for an hour and a half without much of a thought in my head, just a weary eagerness to get home, to see my mom, to have a shower, and not to touch a steering wheel for a long, long time.

Des Moines looked wonderful in the morning sunshine. The dome on the state capitol building gleamed. The trees were still full of color. They’ve changed the city completely—downtown now is all modern buildings and bubbling fountains and whenever I’m there now I have to keep looking up at the street signs to get my bearings—but it felt like home. I suppose it always will. I hope so. I drove through the city, happy to be there, proud to be part of it.

On Grand Avenue, near the governor’s mansion, I realized I was driving along behind my mother, who had evidently borrowed my sister’s car. I recognized her because the right turn signal was blinking pointlessly as she proceeded up the street. My mother generally puts the turn signal on soon after pulling out of the garage and then leaves it on for pretty much the rest of the day. I used to point this out to her, but then I realized it is actually a good thing because it alerts other motorists that they are approaching a driver who may not be entirely on top of matters. I followed along behind her. At Thirty-First Street the blinking turn signal jumped from the right side of the car to the left—I had forgotten that she likes to move it around from time to time—as we turned the corner for home, but then it stayed cheerily blinking on the left for the last mile, down, Thirty-First Street and up Elmwood Drive.

I had to park a fair distance from the house and then, despite a boyish eagerness to see my mother, I took a minute to log the final details of the trip in a notebook I had been carrying with me. It always made me feel oddly important and professional, like a jumbo-jet pilot at the end of a transatlantic flight. It was 10:38
A
.
M
., and I had driven 6,842 miles since leaving home 34 days earlier. I circled this figure, then got out, grabbed my bags from the trunk and walked briskly to the house. My mother was already inside. I could see her through the back window, moving around in the kitchen, putting away groceries and humming. She is always humming. I opened the back door, dropped my bags and called out those four most all-American words: “Hi, Mom, I’m home!”

She looked real pleased to see me. “Hello, dear!” she said brightly and gave me a hug. “I was just wondering when I’d be seeing you again. Can I get you a sandwich?”

“That would be great,” I said even though I wasn’t really hungry.

It was good to be home.

West

20

I
was headed for Nebraska. Now there’s a sentence you don’t want to have to say too often if you can possibly help it. Nebraska must be the most unexciting of all the states. Compared with it, Iowa is paradise. Iowa at least is fertile and green and has a hill. Nebraska is like a 75,000-square-mile bare patch. In the middle of the state is a river called the Platte, which at some times of the year is two or three miles wide. It looks impressive until you realize that it is only about four inches deep. You could cross it in a wheelchair. On a landscape without any contours or depressions to shape it, the Platte just lies there, like a drink spilled across a tabletop. It is the most exciting thing in the state.

When I was growing up, I used to wonder how Nebraska came to be lived in. I mean to say, the original settlers, creaking across America in their covered wagons, had to have passed through Iowa, which is green and fertile and has, as I say, a hill, but stopped short of Colorado, which is green and fertile and has a mountain range, and settled instead for a place that is flat and brown and full of stubble and prairie dogs. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it? Do you know what the original settlers made their houses of? Dried mud. And do you know what happened to all those mud houses when the rainy season came every year? That’s correct, they slid straight into the Platte River.

For a long time I couldn’t decide whether the original settlers in Nebraska were insane or just stupid, and then I saw a stadium full of University of Nebraska football fans in action on a Saturday and realized that they must have been both. I may be a decade or so out of touch here but when I left America, the University of Nebraska didn’t so much play football as engage in weekly ritual slaughters. They were always racking up scores of 58–3 against hapless opponents. Most schools, when they get a decent lead, will send in a squad of skinny freshmen in unsoiled uniforms to let them run around a bit and get dirty and, above all, to give the losers a sporting chance to make the score respectable. It’s called fair play.

Not Nebraska. The University of Nebraska would send in flamethrowers if it were allowed. Watching Nebraska play football every week was like watching hyenas tearing open a gazelle. It was unseemly. It was unsporting. And of course the fans could never get enough of it. To sit among them with the score 66–0 and watch them bray for more blood is a distinctly unnerving experience, particularly when you consider that a lot of these people must work at the Strategic Air Command in Omaha. If Iowa State ever upset Nebraska, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they nuked Ames. All of these thoughts percolated through my mind on this particular morning and frankly left me troubled.

I was on the road again. It was a little after 7:30
A
.
M
. on a bright but still wintry Monday morning in April. I drove west out of Des Moines on Interstate 80, intending to zip across the western half of Iowa and plunge deep into Nebraska. But I couldn’t face Nebraska just yet, not this early in the morning, and abruptly at De Soto, just fifteen miles west of Des Moines, I pulled off the interstate and started wandering around on back roads. Within a couple of minutes I was lost. This didn’t altogether surprise me. Getting lost is a family trait.