INFINITE
CREST


The wind ripped around the edges of the surf blue Ford Escort as it beat forward through the tan expanse of W. Texas. In the heavy light of the desert two young men pursued the line determined before them at the greatest speed the car could achieve; & yet, within such vastness, without any objects interrupting the surface, it seemed barely to move in space—a constant velocity, like that of the earth. The tangible warmth of the desert late spring pushed around the small Hawaiian shirt of the dude behind the wheel, through the big wave of his dark hair, as he lowered the window to reveal a tumultuous pace, to whip absurdly around the cabin. He looked at the dynamic mess of his hair in the rear-view mirror, just above the accentuated form of tortoise-shell Wayfarer sunglasses.

The desert of far W. Texas stretches vastly, sits in a harsh blanket in all directions until the various barren holds of mountain seem to rise up and encompass you. You are thus in the high desert plains. The pure black substance of oil, once abundant in the strata, seems to still move within conception, through the veins of memory: a black blood, a substance of life. & yet so counterposed to this is the tan and dusty reality of the surface, where here and there one sees the specters of dried up and wind worn derricks. 

The sense of things became so specific: there was a life to the land, to its idea, to what it seemed to mean, in textures and things learned from books and movies. It was apart, unto itself, at the very edge of the world. To all things mammoth and so definitely of a Nature in disregard to our own there is an unsettling sense of time which crushes slowly and silently beyond us. The passenger, similar in form, but blond and in a white v-neck tshirt, looked out at an outcropping of rock, an untouched stretch of dirt rising and falling, and felt aware, in fleeting moments, of the world's existence independent of his own mind and matter. It seemed to say, "You are here, for the moment; but this'll go forth with the essential purpose of time without you." Then the dumb baseness of his reality sort of filtered back in; and pounding through his various conceptions was the Pacific Ocean way out ahead of them: the green-grey and white surf, the wash of waves, a basin of unfathomable shape and wake, breaking against California. 

"I'm thinking about moving to France; or maybe Germany: learn another language, you know?" The driver remained silent, looking forward. "It'd be cool to speak French," the passenger went on. "It's impressive to other people. There's those situations where you're, I don't know, like in a restaurant and some tourist is trying to order something in French. It'd be cool to just start speaking to him, like help him order. The people sitting around would think its fucking cool.—————I'd like to go to Africa, too. They speak French mostly.———I don't even want to go to France. I could learn it here, online, or buy a book with the CD. I'm not sure I'd have the discipline to really stick with it though." 

"You don't have a computer right now, right?"
"No—Well, I do, but it's at my sister's. It's a piece of shit. I need a new one. You can do that stuff online, right?"
"A language?"
"Yeah. Like an online teaching program?"
"Yeah. I'm sure."
"Let's learn it together, man. It'd be easier, and we'd work better as, like, a pair."
"I don't think I want to learn French."
"Too much work?"
"No, I just don't really care to speak another language."
"Yeah, that's true."
"I'm not sure I can really speak English, man. I mean really speak it. You read, like, The Life of Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, and those guys are speaking English on a whole 'nother level. I never use a word people don't know. I know like five words that people don't usually know, but I never remember to use them. I use like two of them that I've really remembered, and as soon as I say it I then say it in the normal way to make sure they get it. I write down all this shit when I read, I have a file on my laptop, just words, cool words. I get the definition, remember it for like a night, then never use them."
"Yeah, that's true."
"I really have no interest in speaking fucking French."
"Yeah."
"I don't even get why people would want to. I mean, who fucking cares? It's always to seem cooler to themselves, like you said. It can't be that useful."
"Yeah.—People make fun of Americans for not knowing another language."
"Well, English is like universal. The kids in whatever other country learn English, or they live, like, in some place where other languages are somewhat common so they learn that, and English, plus whatever their language is. I bet kids from England and Scotland, and Ireland, they probably don't all speak another language. It's not, like, just a dumb American thing."
"True. Fuck it. Lets really learn English. 
"It'd be better to do that than be a fucking moron in English and French."
"We should just learn better words, basically. Right?"
"Yeah. But actually use them, make 'em part of your normal vocabulary and what not."

There was a way in which he said "not", a subtle throatiness, top of the mouth, like "gnawt", which hinted at a type of California beachiness; a kind of cliche surf accent. The tight sleeves of the Hawaiian shirt were rolled high up on his arms, to the base of the shoulder, the fabric of the cuff white but showing faintly the print. They were both, the driver and passenger, tan, mid-twenties, healthy: the product of natural-ness and physicality, handsome and cool. The car had been stolen from the passenger's stepdad a few days earlier, along with a Buddy Holly greatest hits CD. "I don't know, man. I get into this shit and never actually do it." The driver was silent, and looked forward. 

"I'm not sure I understand the point of most, like, improvements," he said finally. "It's like, I have some shit I really like; that I'm good at."
"Like what?"
"Fuck you, man."
"No, I'm not, like, suggesting that you're gnawt good at anything. I'm just interested, like, what you think you're good at."
"I'm not even saying good at; strike the good at part. I mean things which I enjoy, you know. I have the life I want, basically."
"Yeah?"
"So, yeah, I mean I don't need to form myself into being this, kind of, you know: I don't need to be fucking, I don't know, I can't even think of anyone. Your sister's boyfriend. He goes to, where does he go?"
"Stanford."
"Yeah, and knows all this shit, probably speaks French, has read all these books—"
"You're the one talking about, fucking, what was it?"
"What?"
"That book where people speak really cool English."
"The Life of Samuel Johnson? Yeah, but that's like the only book I've read. I had to read shit in school, sort of, but that's the only book I've actually read. In fact, I haven't even read that. I just open it up to whatever page when I'm trying to fall asleep or I have to wait for some asshole to buy something in the gas station or something."
"I don't even know what you're saying, dude."
"I'm saying, that, you know, surfing is like enough for me. I may be a moron for that, but I just don't care about most the other shit."
"Yeah, I know what you're saying. But what about when we're, like, 38: then what?"
"Then what what?"
"You gonna be surfing when you're fucking old?"
"I'm not even thinking about that. I doubt I'll even make it that far."
"Pretty fucking corny, dude."
"What?"
"I'm not gonna make it that far. How the fuck are you gonna die? You don't do drugs, you drink, like casually. You're healthy."
"I don't know, asshole. Jesus. I'm just saying I don't care about when I'm older. I'll start reading books and shit then. I'll learn fucking Brazilian and, I don't know..."
"I get what you're saying, but at some point we need to make some fucking money."
"True."
"Do that when we're older too, maybe."
"Yeah."

The various whites of the hot afternoon were now shifting towards the more dramatic light of evening. They rode on for some time without speaking much. At some point they spotted a small herd of pronghorn antelope a few hundred yards from the road, shimmering in the heat distortion. The sun worked its way over the top of the car and was now out ahead, dropping down just to the side of the interstate. The desert air was turning towards a chill; the windows rolled up, the car relatively quiet but the faint sound of fast movement. The massive expanse of this hour of travel was suddenly interrupted by the voice of the driver, flat and almost absurd after such silence.

"Fuck."
"—What?" the passenger asked, startled out of a half sleeping state. 
"A cop."
"Dude, we're fucked," he said pushing himself up squarely into the seat. "You got your seat belt on?"
"My fucking seat belt? Least of our worries, man."
"Chill out—could just be routine shit."

The driver was pulling the car over into the dirt off the side of the road.

"—Were you speeding?"
"I don't know. Probably. The speedometer doesn't work, it was fucking floored," the driver said looking into the rearview. "Alright. Act cool."
"Born cool, man," the passenger said in a matter-of-fact, un-nervous way. The driver didn't seem to hear the comment as he rolled down the window. The lanky form of the officer in a cowboy hat was approaching in the side mirror, his front lit with the thick orange-red light of the desert sundown. 
"Good evening, officer." 
"Evening," the officer replied in a thick W. Texas accent, bending down into the window and looking at the two in the front seat. He leaned to his right, glancing in the back window over the rear seat which was empty. "Where you boys heading?"
"We, uh, we're driving out to Cali," said the driver, immediately wishing he had completed the word, but knowing it would sound stupid to tack it on after the fact.
"California," said the officer, giving the word all the hope it has historically held. "You live out in California?"
"Yeah, sort of. Parents live in Austin, just coming from there." 

The passenger felt suspicious having not spoken, so added simply the word "Yeah" to this statement. The officer bent a little lower and looked over at him through his big sunglasses. 

"Were we speeding, officer?" the driver asked.
"No. No, you was doing about two dozen under." 
"Shit," the driver said with a laugh. "I guess this thing doesn't go more than sixty."
"You rarely get an 80 mile-nower speed limit. I guess you boys won't get a chance to fulfill it."

They both laughed, feeling as though they had an understanding dude and that nothing was really wrong.

"So you're driving out across the southwest from Austin. I've done that trip myself. You going on through the night?"
"Yeah, think so." The passenger sort of echoed "think so" and looked through the windshield out ahead.
"You from Texas as well?" the officer asked the passenger.
"Yes, sir."

The officer held his glance a moment. "I know I look a little Mexican," said the passenger. "I'm just tan."  The driver glanced over at him and back through the windshield shaking his head. 

"Alright. Let me see those licenses and I'll get you on your way in a second." The cowboy form of the officer receded back to his cruiser, and when he was far enough away the driver smacked the passenger on the arm. "I look fucking Mexican? What was that about?" 

"Fuck. That hurt, dude. What?"
"You're something else, man."
"The shitty thing is I look even more Mexican in my license. It doesn't even look like me."
"I think the name Logan Reynolds will sort out that little mystery, you dumb fuck." 
"He seems cool though.—Cool cop."
"Yeah. Cool cop. He'll probably just let the stolen car slide being that he's fucking rad," the driver said sarcastically.
"It's not necessarily stolen, dude. I mean, it is your dad's. And we shouldn't even be talking about this shit out loud—they've all got fucking, you know, these like sonar devices to hear what people are saying."
"It's taking him a long time back there." The driver stared into the rearview, the passenger started to look at something on his forearm.

"Alright. He's coming back." 

The western silhouette of the officer got larger again in the mirror, the horizon beyond him now dark. "I can't believe this piece of shit only goes sixty," the driver said with the smallest bit of nervousness.

"Alright. Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Tompkins," he handed the two i.d.'s back to the driver. "You boys don't get into any trouble.—You got nothing in in the car you shouldn't have, do ya?"
"No, sir," the driver said while Logan simultaneously said "Yes, sir." 
"Alright. You boys be good. You don't mind I go out ahead, do you? I may push the cruiser past sixty a little." 
"No, sir," they said with a laugh. "Thanks officer."
"Alright." 
"Cool fucking cop," the driver said as the cruiser's headlights lit into the late evening and turned out into the interstate. "I bet my dad's too fucking lazy to call in that his car's stolen."
"He's probably taking the house apart looking for that Buddy Holly CD." 

They got the Escort back up to speed and for miles could see the taillights of the officer's cruiser getting further away until eventually disappearing. Logan fell asleep and after a time the driver cracked the window so that the cold night air of the desert would keep him alert. There was a monotony to the road which could have allowed for some thought, but with his mind engaged just enough on what it took to keep straight, the driver stared ahead with a tired sort of blankness.