Lost Coast Highway

[Guest guest]

Eight years in the California State prison in Eureka for

manslaughter had hardened the character, here played by Humphrey

Bogart, to the spiritual consistency of turpentine in a bottle, and

when he broke out and made his desperate escape down the coast, it

was a mean vintage ripe with a malicious bouquet and a lingering,

angry finish.

The year was 1947, and it was easy for him to find an open door to a

Ford flatbed parked in town, hotwire the ignition, and high-tail it

south. Eventually he cut through the town of Rio Del to bridge the

Redwood-lined cow trails over the last mountain ridge before the

Pacific Ocean spends itself along the narrow thread of shoreline

called The Lost Coast.

A one-lane dirt trail ran parallel to the lonely, drift-wood strewn

beachfront, and the seastacks of craggy rock eruptions offshore gave

evidence that nature had had its way with this part of the world and

now was picking its teeth in after-supper satisfaction.

It was food the fugitive wanted now, but all thought of eating flew

from his mind when he came across the vehicle parked just off the

road about two miles down the strand. He knew that things had

progressed while he had been eight years in "stir", but nothing had

prepared him for this -- it looked like some kind of strange craft

from another world, a world far from the 1947 automotive technology

he had noticed on the drive out of town.

Although somewhat streaked with the dust of the road, the futuristic

machine had 4 wheels and glass windows, but that appeared to be all

it had in common on the outside with any car he had ever seen.

Inside, it had seats and a steering wheel, but the instrument panel

alone was like nothing he had ever dreamed, and the slightly open

rear trunk appeared to be stocked by some kind of naturalist with a

decidedly eccentric curiosity. Odd volcanic pitted rocks, wierd

animal skeletons, and strange dried shapes of wood and bone spread

out on some kind of unfamiliar material all combined to form a

mystery he could't fathom. A book in the corner featured a photo on

the cover of a smiling bald man with a face painted like an Indian

on the warpath, entitled Absolute Consciousness, and he couldn't

take his eyes off that face until he heard the sounds of laughter

coming towards him from the dunes.

A man and woman were approaching, but rather than the suspicion so

accustomed to rising in his heart in the presence of strangers, he

simply felt a kind of bewilderment. Their arms were filled with more

beach gatherings, but it was the kind and easy way with which they

greeted him that somehow drew out a comfort level rare for the

convict.

"Hey, is this your car?" he asked.

"Bought and paid for, but God's the driver!" chuckled the two,

winking at each other.

"What the hell is it?" he then blurted out.

"Well, it's a '98 Altima, but it could use a wash." they responded.

"What the hell year is this, anyway?" the fugitive's voice rose in a

kind of panic.

"Most in this part of the world call it 2003, but of course just

spend a moment on your back, staring at a wall clock, and you'll

soon agree that time itself is relative!" offered the beach-combing

man.

"Wait -- that couldn't be! That couldn't be! What's happened to me?"

he screamed in fear.

"Simple," answered the couple,

 

"you've apparently switched movies!"

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

b