W Is for Wasted

silver, linking them from pole to pole like strands of spider silk. Just shy of the Perdido city limits, I left the 101 and took the 126 east. Now, instead of having the Pacific Ocean to my right, the countryside was awash with orchards and mobile homes.
    Along the horizon lay a range of low hills of the sort that hikers would disdain. At intervals, signs announced FRUIT STANDS 100 YARDS ! Most were closed for the season. The road was heavily traveled with pickup trucks, dump trucks, panel trucks, and semis. I passed a tree farm that resembled a portable forest of palms. Quonset huts served as nurseries. Fields were covered in opaque plastic like an agricultural frost.
    I reached the junction of 126 and Highway 5 and headed north, driving through miles of flat farmland. The snow-capped mountains in the distance seemed so incongruous they might as well have been pasted on. Kern County is about the size of New Jersey, give or take a few square miles. Bakersfield is the county seat, the largest of the inland cities, and the ninth-largest city in the state. Los Angeles is 110 miles to the south; Fresno, 110 miles to the north. This part of the state lies in California’s central valley, blessed by good weather much of the year. Once upon a time, millions of acres of wetlands graced the area, but much of the water was diverted for irrigation purposes, creating a rich agricultural region where cotton and grapes flourish.
    I cruised into town at 11:45, taking the off-ramp from Highway 99 onto California Avenue. I was hungry by then and ready to stretch my legs. With the first break in traffic, I pulled over to the curb and studied the map Henry had so graciously provided. Beale Park was in easy range. I took surface streets as far as Oleander Avenue and parked on a stretch between Dracena and Palm. The park itself was probably five acres all told, featuring old trees, large swatches of grass, a playground, and picnic tables. More to the point, there was a public restroom, which was clean and in perfect working order. I went back to the car and hauled out my picnic basket, which I set on a table in the shade of an oak.
    After lunch, I tossed my napkin, crumpled waxed paper, and the apple core into the nearest trash can. I returned to the car and cruised the area until I spotted a one-story Thrifty Lodge that looked about my speed. According to the motel marquee, the rooms were cheap ($24.99 per night) and came with color TV and a free continental breakfast. There were no burglar bars on the windows, which I took as a positive sign. By that time it was 1:15 and I figured I could drop off my bags and do some reconnoitering. I checked in, collected the key, and headed down the outside walk with my duffel in hand.
    I unlocked the door and flipped on the light. The interior was dank. On the beige wall-to-wall carpet there was a ghostly foot path from the bed into the bathroom. A small secondary side road ran from the bed as far as the television set. I did a quick circuit. The heating and air-conditioning system, if you want to call it that, was a narrow unit installed just under the windowsill, with seven options in the way of temperature control. Heat: off or on. Cold: off or on. Fan: on, off, or auto. I tried to calculate the number of possible combinations, but it was way beyond my rudimentary math skills. The bathroom was clean enough and the motel had provided me two bars of soap, neatly sealed in paper. One was slightly larger than the other and was intended for the shower. I unwrapped the smaller one, standing at the sink. The chrome fixtures were pitted and the cold-water knob squeaked in protest when I paused to wash my hands. I felt a tap on my head and looked up to find water dripping slowly from a ceiling fixture. I unloaded my toiletries from the duffel—shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste—and lined everything up on the vanity. True to form, there were no other amenities provided, so I was happy I’d brought my own. I tried the wall-mounted dryer and smelled burning hair.
    I was getting a bit long in the tooth to stay in places like this. When you’re young and intent on proving how nonmaterialistic you are, a bare-bones motel room is a prize.
After all
, you say to yourself,
I’ll only be here at night and why do I care about the room when I’m sound asleep?
At my age, there ought to be more to life than feeling virtuous about how many pennies I was managing to pinch. I could see how