I would have loved to know what Jane did between leaving Lisbon at the funeral and the scene where we saw him sitting on the steps of the Airstream. He looked to me like he wasn't that unhappy, not too stressed and I wondered what had happened to lighten his mood. I also don't think his feelings and the background to them were ever fully expressed in the show, so I need to write this to make myself feel better about the whole sad situation.
I fully expect that this story will not be popular. Hell, there's no Lisbon, so no Jisbon, so I'm guessing only a couple of reviews. Be gentle with me though.
So here goes, I'm throwing caution to the wind and if I get a good response I'll be a very happy bunny.
Woody cursed a soft expletive. It rolled out of his mouth like he was just passing the time of day with an old friend.
He eased the vehicle as tight as he could, up to the rear of the huge shiny obstacle occupying the greater part of the narrow pull in and craned his scraggy neck out of the open window. To his dismay, the tail of his van stuck dangerously out onto the dirty grey tarmacadam of the i- 40.
"Hey man!" he yelled amiably to the other driver, "You wanna pull your vehicle forward some?"
As he received no reply and observed no movement, after a few moments Woody threw open the door, clambered down and ambled forward to the front of the silver Airstream, admiring her sleek lines and generous proprtions as he passed.
As a man with no particular place to be, Woody was in no hurry, he scuffed his boots into the dry earth and drank in the warmth of the sun as he went, sending up puffy clouds of dust. Life was good, so he wasn't going to give this obviously rich dude any hassle over hogging parking space.
Drawing level with the window, which was, surprisingly, wound all the way up on this somewhat sultry afternoon, he peered in to see the unexpected shape of a blond man in a sombre, formal business suit sitting slumped in the driver's seat, his head leant back against the rest, face drawn and pale, eyes closed and mouth lolling open.
For a few surreal moments Woody had a horrible feeling all was not well.
Then he noticed the man's left hand clench imperceptibly before it relaxed as he expelled a small sigh, which seemed to release some of the tension in his furrowed brow.
He tapped softly on the dusty screen and the man only ran his tongue over his dry lips and closed his mouth.
After a few more gentle taps on the glass beside him Patrick Jane stirred. He gasped instinctively and blinked against the bright sun reflecting off the dash. Then he shut his eyes tight again and groaned before settling back down with folded arms, only to be disturbed anew by yet more insistent tapping.
Reluctantly Jane lifted one heavy lid, then the other, and formed them into two narrow slits, he turned his head slowly and found himself confronted by the smiling face of an aging, grey haired hippie wearing mismatched, patched up denim and an ancient, much laundered, plaid shirt.
The man grinned at him hopefully and mimed a turning motion with a wiry, weather beaten fist, then stood back politely.
Jane yawned with dramatic petulance, but obediently stretched out an arm, lowered the window then settled once more with his eyes deliberately closed and waited silently.
Woody chuckled.
"Sorry man. I can see you're busy, but could you move your palace forward. My Betty's ass is stickin' out into the road."
He gestured behind him with a fond smile. "Wouldn't want to get her backside knocked by a truck."
Jane roused himself with a moan. Still half asleep, he rubbed both palms briskly over his face and swivelled in his seat to find out who it was who had the audacity to interrupt his nap. Although, in truth, he had only stopped for a swig of water, only had to stop because the bottle had slipped down behind the seat. Had no intention to or hope of falling asleep.
"Uh …. Pardon … sorry?" he mumbled, not really having a clue what was happening, but he scrambled to open the door nevertheless and tumbled out, practically landing in the other man's arms and stumbling as he misjudged the distance to the ground.
A surprised Woody leapt back nimbly, "Hey, careful there, man. You alright?"
The disoriented FBI consultant regained his lost balance, brushed down his wrinkled clothing and hurriedly gathered his wits about him.
"Er, yeah. Sure. Er … fine …" he blustered as he assessed the situation with a sweeping scan of the area, through eyes that were still trying to find equilibrium.
There appeared to be some kind of mirage.
What he actually saw was an early model VW camper; primrose yellow with the roof a fading ochre and the name Betty colourfully emblazoned along her side in an amateurish but charmingly psychedelic script. There was a long white surf board, wrapped in crudely woven and threadbare woolen blankets, probably Mexican, strapped securely to the roof rack with half a dozen bungees and some blue rope.
Jane liked what he saw. Betty's undeniably rusty panels and pitted chromework had definitely seen better days, but she was obviously well loved. Her owner obviously valued the past, loyalty and reliability. His old friends. And valued possessions.
That was something he could relate to.
His eyes briefly drifted down to his beloved brown leather shoes … twelve years old, and on their eighth set of new soles, but still going strong.
"Ahhhh … Betty… " he exclaimed, eyes widening to accompany a warm smile of realisation as he finger pointed alternately between Betty and her proud owner.
"Of course. I'm in your way. So sorry. Why didn't you say?"
Woody looked the odd man up and down a time or two, watching curiously, as he stood there, in his inappropriate clothing, now with his hands in his jacket pockets, still smiling and trying tiredly to figure things out, but giving no indication that he was going to move his own vehicle.
"You look beat," he told Jane and extended a gnarled hand. "I'm Woody. After Woody Guthrie. Dad was a fan."
Jane gazed absently for a moment, at the man's equally eccentric garb, at the little yellow smiley badge lovingly apliqued to the pocket of his denim jacket, gave a tiny ironic smirk, then stepped forward quietly.
"Patrick," he offered, "My dad was Irish, I guess. Pleased to meet you ... and Betty."
"Nice ain't she?" Woody nodded at his beaten up VW, pleased with the way the townie had seemed interested in her, "Why don't you pull forward then, so I can get her straight, then I'll make us a brew and I'll show you around."
Jane beamed.
"That sounds like a plan," he said gratefully, feeling encouraged beyond belief by the word brew.
"You have tea?" he enquired with some enthusiasm, but he eyed Betty and her owner cautiously, hoping he would not be stepping into an unknown world of concoctions mixed up when Dylan was still singing protest songs. Still, the prospect of a cuppa gave him the impetus to practically leap up into the cab of the Airstream and move it forward a few feet.
"What is this stuff?" Jane asked, when they were safely ensconced in the cosy van and he had his hands wrapped around a steaming enamel mug of unidentified brown liquid. He sniffed suspiciously and pondered, wafting the steam with his hand.
The VW was filled with an unmistakable aroma of sandalwood and cigarette smoke laced with something more funky, which had hit him as soon as he had stepped over the threshold and he couldn't help wondering about the tea …
"I think I detect chamomile, but other than that … there's nothing in here I wouldn't want to be drinking, is there?" He pointed into the cup with a stirring motion and a knowing grin.
"Nah, it's just a special mix my lady introduced me to way back," Woody assured, "Get it from a little place down in Santa Fe."
He grinned back at Jane's sceptical expression. "Green tea base, valerian, and a few other things. Just herbs. Nothing hinky. But if you'd like to join me later on …" The tone was serious, with an undercurrent of encouragement that said 'come on, loosen up, live a little'.
"Uh … I think I'll probably pass on that," Jane raised his palm quickly. "I ... er, had an ... erm ... experience with unconventional substances. Umm ... not the stuff I believe you're offering ... but all the same."
He deliberately took another sip, "But this is nice."
And it was.
He leant back against the thin back of the bench seat, which was typically draped in some kind of printed Indian textile; elephants and swirling paisley patterns, block printed in softly faded multi coloured vegetable dyes.
He didn't care that he was being observed by a complete stranger. For once he let his guard down. He was exhausted, and it was good to be able to relax with something other than driving to distract him for the first time since he fled from his love; a guilty, confused, deeply sad man.
More than sixteen long hours had elapsed since Jane had finally escaped Austin.
After the funeral he'd taken a taxi to pick up the Airstream, then stopped by the office to leave a brief handwritten message on Abbot's desk and pick up a few bits and pieces from the tiny space that he called his own, beside his couch. There were a couple of books and a photograph which he'd been looking at when he'd been called away and he'd left lying there. He slipped her picture between the pages of one of the books and left quickly, thankful that the place was virtually empty. Vega's wake was an ironic blessing he thought.
Since he'd been on the road, after stopping for a few essential supplies at a small supermarket, he'd only stopped for gas and a pee. Even though he'd filled her up before he left, his silver bucket wasn't built for economy and it was better not to overload her sanitary facilities if he could use public ones.
As dawn was breaking he'd pulled into a run down diner for an egg breakfast and some tea to comfort himself and stoke his own energy supplies.
The food tasted like cardboard, and the tea he wasn't aware of tasting at all, but he supposed it was OK. Still, he'd pushed the food around the plate until it got cold. He only ate half of it, before he shoved the plate away and sat there staring at his hands resting in front of him on the table.
He felt relieved to be away, but miserable as all hell.
He figured later that he must have painted a pretty morose picture, sitting there in his cocoon of fatigue and self pity, because the waitress, who was mousy and tall, but still contrived to remind him of Lisbon, felt compelled to ask if he was unwell and did he need a first aider.
He felt inordinately embarrassed, an unusual state for him, so he'd immediately mustered up a first class grin … hoping it didn't manifest as a grimace … and left a far bigger tip than he should have.
Then he'd got back on the road and had driven all day, with only another toilet and gas break.
As it turned out driving hadn't been much of a distraction anyway.
All he'd been able to think about was how weak he was. And how he show have been stronger.
And how strong Teresa was. And how she shouldn't have to be.
He didn't want to think about all that right now though, sitting here with this kind stranger.
It made him feel guilty. Why should he burden this man, who he'd only just met, with his sorrows?
But then trying not to think about his horrible situation made him feel guilty too.
And feeling guilty was an all too familiar state of affairs.
One which he had hoped he was beginning to leave behind him. Until he left and added another reason to feel guilty to the list.
But he had left.
And once again, the curse was clinging to his back like a heavy black shroud.
Time to snap out of it.
He took a long drawn out sip of the suspiciously comforting herbal brew, brightened up his face and turned his attention to his host, who was fussing around with something in the little cooking area.
"So Woody, you have a lady?" he ventured. "Not for some time I'm guessing," he paused and examined the man's subtle response, "She wanted to settle down. You wanted to roam? ... but you're a long way from the surf."
Woody didn't seem phased. Just resigned.
"Perceptive eh. You're not a psychic, are you Patrick?"
The reply was a well practiced, good natured sigh,
"No … just paying attention."
"You're right though." Woody admitted sadly. "She was a lovely girl. We stuck it out for twenty years I guess. Had a kid together. Never tied the knot though, us being free spirits 'n all. She had enough in the end. Had a yearning to put down roots, have a vegetable patch, roses round the door, rocker on the porch. That sorta thing. Can't say I blame her."
"Yeah, I can appreciate that," said Jane wistfully and consulted the contents of his mug.
"I guess she had a rod up her back and I lived a little looser," Woody continued. "She couldn't bend and I had trouble standin' straight, needed to take the winding road, chase the waves …" but then he hesitated, a misty look in his old grey eyes.
He hadn't confronted his feelings on his sorely missed partner for a while. It was disconcerting that it had only taken a few minutes with a complete stranger to set him thinking.
"Still miss her," he said simply.
Jane studied him with a deeply thoughtful expression. He was wondering what had made Woody choose to drive inland, away from the ocean, at this particular time.
He hadn't expected to be counselling anyone but himself on this road trip, certainly not another lonely soul with an aching heart, but the story felt something like looking into a mirror of his own possible future. And it felt uncomfortably similar to his recent past.
"Maybe we should have tried harder," the world weary hippie finally admitted.
"Almost certainly," Jane mumbled to the tea mug. "And talked more."
There was a quiet moment and Jane closed his eyes, resting his head back against the side window of the van, feeling comfortable and safe, unthreatened by the accusing eyes of friends who knew him better than this new friend did.
And thinking he was dozing, Woody was glad to let the painful topic drift to a close until Jane suddenly continued speaking, eyes still loosely shut.
It was unclear to Woody if the stranger was confiding in him or merely voicing sleepy musings.
"Wish we could have talked properly," Jane slurred drowsily. "… just ended up in circles … cross purposes …so scared … doesn't understand … not her fault … couldn't watch …"
Woody watched the emotions play out like a movie on Jane's face until he saw the release or tension that preceeded sleep, then he leant forward and caught the cup, with it's few dregs of herbal tea, as slender fingers gradually loosened their grip on the handle and it slipped into his hand.
As he gradually lost consciousness it occurred to Patrick Jane that this wasn't the 'someplace nice' he'd had in mind.
But it would do for tonight.
And Woody might just be a kindred spirit.
I'll be hoping to post the other half about the same time next week, but a favourable response might hurry me along.
Thanks for giving me a chance.