Editor's note: The following story was reprinted from the book, "Borderland Biker, In Memory of Indian Larry and Doo Wop Music," by Derrel Whitemyer

Name’s Christopher Jax, people call me Jax, and while riding across the Toiyabe National Forest south of the town of Wellington, and listening to the best of Warren Zevon on a tiny radio I wear as you’d wear a hearing aid; I had a near collision with another motorcycle. Coming out of the morning sun the Hayabusa rider would’ve hit me had he not cut right. I also cut right yelling profanities; one when I rode my Harley Wide Glide over the highway’s shoulder, the other when I began a near freefall down the face of a steep bank, tumbling all the way onto an old frontage road.

Unable to retrieve my bike and thinking the frontage road might connect further on with the highway I decided to follow it. But the more I hiked the more lost I became, finally stopping at the rear of an abandoned diner. Near vertical cliffs with landslides piled next to both sides of the building prevented me from walking around to the front. Who would’ve guessed today’s trip would have ended with this accident. Until now the most frightening thing to happen was having a rap station’s signal interfere with a Johnny Cash song I was listening to; frightening that rap, which rhymes with crap, could overpower Cash.

I’d begin my ride before dawn west of the Sierra Nevada Mountains by taking Hwy 108 northeast through clouds made of leftover rain and warm winds from the Central Valley. Leapfrogging their anvil shapes into moonlight they’d follow the road for miles before giving way to clear night sky. All the way up past towns with names like Twain Harte, Confidence and Pinecrest they’d chase me; not until Sonora Pass, where the air’s as cold as nearby stars, would I be free of them. Sonora Pass marks the beginning of a winding descent into Nevada where nearby patches of snow act as frozen reminders of why it’s sometimes closed until late spring.

Working my way down the eastern slope of the mountains approaching the high desert town of Bridgeport, I’d look into café windows, maybe stop and have coffee next to one of artist Edward Hopper’s NIGHTHAWKS counter characters, maybe ask the waitress about a rumored shortcut.

“Best stay on the main road,” said the waitress. “Shortcuts round here while paved with good intentions have a habit of leadin’ to places you don’t wanna go. Few evenin’s past we had us some ‘real’ Hell’s Angels in here; bunch of ‘em, tall, bony, smellin’ of brimstone. Leathers stretched so tight you’d a thought it was skin; coulda been skin for all I know. Didn’t cause no trouble though, just sat in a corner a drinkin’ and a grinnin’ at the rest of us like we was food. Finally rode off when it started to get light.” She then pointed out the window at a narrow road leading into the hills. “Took the very shortcut you was askin’ ‘bout.”

More often than not the conversation would begin with an innocent ‘Where ya headed?’ and I’d try to tell them even though they weren’t really listening; so I’d just finish my coffee, visit the restroom, then go outside and top off my Wide Glide’s tank. My kidneys have become my gas gauge.

Navigating the desert at night can become an odyssey where whirlpools of woulda, shoulda and coulda lie in wait for those who sail too close to the constellation What-If. Cross during daylight and you’ll become part of a painting, a canvas of old cafes and curios. Push too hard and you’ll overheat your motor; maybe strand yourself on the side of the road.

By choosing to travel at night I was able to watch stars pass their light onto dawn. Dawn, in turn, would decorate mountaintops with purple reds and the sky with an orange that’d turn pink yellow. Soon all colors would be painted across the land.

Breakfast in Bridgeport and then it’s eastward on Nevada’s Hwy 182 towards Sweetwater. Jackrabbits are beginning to play Russian roulette with my front wheel. Ahead the sun’s climbed high enough to peek over nearby hills; scrub forests have become alkaline valleys filled with native grass. Salt from when these valleys were once the bottom of oceans surfaces to windingly flow across the ground as rivers of acrid snow. And as tough as the native grass is it soon surrenders to an even tougher sage and tumbleweed.

A few miles outside the town of Wellington where Hwy 182 dips down to cross some railroad tracks and become Hwy 338, I’m passed by Elvis driving a 58 Pontiac convertible. I mean it can’t be Elvis, Elvis died in August of 77. My Elvis looks more like the one played by Bruce Campbell in the movie BUBBA HO-TEP. I’m distracted enough to drift into the other lane. But you already know what happens next: the near head-on with the other motorcycle, me riding off the highway then sliding down an embankment onto what I thought was a frontage road, followed by a walk all the way to the diner. Parked at its back door was the Hayabusa. Sitting astride it and smoking a cigar was its rider.

“You ok?” he asked with genuine concern.

“Where am I and is there a way back to Wellington?” I answered.

“Straight to the point, I like that. Name’s Charon, welcome to the Borderlands and where you want to go,” pointing at the rundown diner, “is through the Styx Diner then across the bridge on the other side. Road beyond the bridge joins up with Highway 338. No shortcuts I’m afraid, gotta go through the Styx to get there; can’t go around.”

“What about my Harley, I’m pretty sure it’ll run; it’s stuck in an embankment quite a few miles behind me?”

“You’ll get your bike, but there’s a condition.”

“Condition?”

Pulling a gold coin from his pocket Charon motioned me over, “Give this to the man inside; tell him to play B-3 on the diner’s jukebox.”

Coming forward to take it from his hand I was able to get a closer look. Mythological character, a confidence man or maybe someone I could trust; I couldn’t be sure. And besides what choice did I have? Speaking of maybes, now that I was closer I could hear “Maybe” by The Chantels coming from inside the Styx as well as my radio.

“How will I know who to give the coin to?”

“He’s the only person in there you’ll be able to see.”

None of this made sense. Styx was a river in Greek mythology where the boatman Charon ferried people between Hades and our world; not a place in the Nevada desert where a Hayabusa rider calling himself Charon gave coins to people to walk across an old diner called the Styx. And why was the little radio I always wear in my ear picking up the same songs the jukebox was playing?

Charon continued, “Give him the coin just before the last song ends; one more thing, be out of the diner before B-3 begins to play.”

“Tonite, Tonite” by The Mello-Kings was nearly over when Charon told me it was time to go inside. Afterwards I remember nothing except walking to the jukebox, pointing to B-3 and handing the coin to a man behind the bar that grinned from sideburn to sideburn and said, “Thank you, thankyouverymuch,” then running through the front door and finding Charon waiting outside with my Harley. Scratched and still covered with dirt, it would get me home.

“Here’s your Harley,” then pointing to a nearby bridge, “and the road that leads to Wellington.”

“Why the coin, why play B-3 on the jukebox?”

Charon smiled, “As we used to say in the music business; the flipside was played. B-3 was cued to play but didn’t. Coins given to the wrong people had to be collected then given to the right people. Now, thanks to you, exchanges have been made, order restored. All’s well, all’s good…TCB baby, TCB.”

With the diner behind me the jukebox’s music began to fade; five miles further it was gone. KPIG out of Santa Cruz was coming in loud and clear. The town of Wellington passed by in a haze and it wasn’t until climbing westward up Hwy 4 into the lake region of the Sierra Nevada’s Ebbetts Pass that I realized the man I’d given the coin to and the 58 Pontiac driver were the same person, and that B-3 on the jukebox had been labeled “Saved” by Elvis Presley.

To order a copy of this book of short stories drop Derrel an e-mail: vmaxmyer@yahoo.com

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