The ride back to Chicago took longer than expected. But these things always did. He revisited some of the old haunts in Los Angeles, from back when the band really played here that one time. It wasn't the same, all alone.
By Las Vegas, Elwood had run out of money. It took a whole day to figure out the safest ways to rectify the situation. And in a place like Vegas, the answer was always the same.
Tourists.
A few watches. A couple of wallets. He liked jewelry the most, since it often required getting close to a lady or two. Well, the enjoyment factor depended on the lady. He learned that the hard way.
He even took in a show or two. The little blonde showgirl, Starlet Wild, was exceptionally good. He thought about meeting her after the show, but she looked like the kind of girl who'd shack up with a mobster or two. Best keep away from the mob, he always thought. There was crime, and then there was crime.
Leaving the mountains and heading into the plains offered a nice long stretch of straight and easy driving. But the ride between Denver and Lincoln was painfully boring. By the time he drove past Des Moines, he had already started composing music in his head, since the radio was filled with nothing but country and western crap. And going on into week four, the same old 8 track tapes were nearly about to snap. He wasn't sure if that was from the summer heat, or from use, abuse, and overuse.
Either way, he was glad to finally roll into Chicago again.
Everything on Van Buren seemed to be the same. The trains were still running. The corner bakery was still closed by 6 pm. Even that fucking red Chevy was there, parked in his parking spot again.
Back in February, he started breaking into that damned Chevy and removing the radio, just to annoy whoever owned it. It became a running joke, as each night he removed the radio, and just left it there on the floor in front of the passenger side seat. A few times, the driver refused to put it back in. But after a few weeks, when he'd replace it again, Elwood would once again start the cycle again.
What the hell. For old time's sake. It had been a while. Except this time, he stuck the radio on the back seat. Change was good, Elwood figured.
He sat in the Bluesmobile for a few minutes, watching the old neighborhood, and listening to the elevated trains roll by overhead. It was almost 7 pm, so it would be filled with the last few people on there way back home from work. He'd missed that sound, for some reason.
Finally, he walked up the stairs of the Plymouth Hotel. Sam wasn't there. It seemed a bit odd.
"Hey Lloyd," he greeted the old man in the cubicle, sitting behind glass. The tv was on, so the old man barely looked up.
"I'm back," Elwood added, but not expecting much of a welcome back greeting.
The old man grumbled something in response. It sounded something like "Yeah, all right." It could just have well been "Oranges ride ripe" or "Army are ride." Who knew? But Elwood liked to assume that Lloyd wasn't actually going senile. At least, not yet.
He looked in through the glass. August 21, 1978 was the day on the calendar. At least, that would be the date if it really was Monday. He wasn't quite sure at the moment.
"Any mail? Anyone call on the phone?" Elwood asked. He didn't know why he asked. No one called him. And mail? Well, he had gotten so used to those damned letters from Mmbito, it seemed a natural thing to ask.
"Arrr rrrr, one call. Couple weeks ago. No message," Lloyd grumbled as he slipped two letters through the opening in the glass window.
"Thanks."
"Arrr rrrr. Didn't think you'd be back."
Elwood didn't bother to answer. He just waved the letters back at him.
He knew who one of them was from. He recognized the air mail envelope. White, with red and white stripes along the edges. And the stamps postmarked from Mmbito. He dreaded opening it. "Dear John" letters always sucked, no matter how long they had been sitting at the reception desk waiting for you.
The second letter, however, was postmarked Joliet.
He smiled. Jake had written him a letter. He didn't expect much. In fact, he didn't expect anything. But there it was, in his hands. A letter from Jake.
He tried to slip pass the crowded and smoky room. Before he could sneak away, he heard the old man across the room call out to him.
"You get my Cheez whiz, boy?"
Elwood let out a silent chuckle. "Nope. Tomorrow."
"How was she?" the old man asked, as he slapped down another card in his poker game.
That was the question he'd dreaded, but never thought any of the drunk or decrepit men would ever bother to ask. He hadn't been back to the Plymouth since the day he left to pick her up at O'Hare. But the day she stood him up, and the day that he decided to take to the road. The old man probably thought Elwood had spent the past four weeks not once seeing the daylight, on his hands and knees, with ten little toes tickling him behind the ears.
Elwood chuckled again. It would have been nice. For sure. But then he would never have had the chance to have his road trip.
"'Bout as I expected," Elwood called back to the man. As he did, he looked at the two letters in his hands. Slapping them across the palm of his hand, he headed for his room.
Hanging up his jacket and disrobing in his old room never felt so good. And nothing had changed, except Lloyd did drink all the booze, like he told him too. The loaf of white bread, however, was more green than anything. He tossed the remains in the trash. He put on an old record, turned on a fan, and sat back on his bed.
He tossed the airmail letter onto his side table. It landed right over one of the pictures of her that he enjoyed the most. He didn't feel like reading that one at all. Not tonight. Maybe never.
Instead, he looked at the letter from Joliet. He wondered if his letter from San Diego had already arrived. Who knew? But by this Saturday, when he'd go visit Jake, it would most likely have arrived. He figured Jake would be happy to see his brother. It had been a month. He knew he missed Jake a lot.
He opened the envelope. It certainly was his writing. No date. And even though the letter was in pencil, Jake had crossed out several words instead of turning the pencil around and using the eraser.
"You stupid prick," Elwood laughed at his brother. But he meant it with the deepest affection.
Dear Elwood,
Where the fuck are you? Send some money. I need cigarettes.
Jake
Elwood read the words over and over again. Yup. Jake needed him.
He smiled, sank back into his thin pillow and drifted off to sleep.
-END PART II-
STORY CONTINUES AS
LETTERS FROM ELWOOD:
THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT