A Different Drummer: First there was Roger and Spike

Ready for a road trip? Up for some new characters and unexpected detours? Come with us. We just finished one, and I kept notes.
You see, Gino was here for a month. He drove his truck from Philadelphia so he could get around in California and also take home all the tools he’s been storing in my garage, enough to fill a truck bed.
When his time in California ended, we felt bad thinking of him alone driving coast-to-coast again, so Susan and I offered to ride along with him back toward Pennsylvania most of the way, if he agreed to take a southern route through New Mexico, Arizona, Texas and Tennessee, stopping along the way at whim to mix, mingle, and admire the scenery.
He was up for the idea. He’s got a king cab. We bought paper maps and made plans.
“We can visit my cousin Tommy who I haven’t seen in 30 years,” said Gino. “He lives in a Sufi commune in the New Mexican desert.”
“We can visit my high school chums, Phil and Joe, in Austin. Phil plays guitar and Joe plays drums.”
“Let’s go to Memphis for some blues.” We all nodded. Excited, he called his girlfriend Patricia back home to tell her our plans and invite her to come along. Son of a gun, she agreed. She took a week off work, flew into San Francisco the night before we drove east, hopped in the backseat with Susan, and came along for the ride, making us a happy foursome.
The first thing we did was get lost driving out of the Bay Area. Our route south was a familiar one. Take I-680 to I-580 to I-5. Simple directions. Except we were all talking until Gino looked up and said, “San Jose?”
We were so far past the I-580 crossover that we just kept going south down U. S. Route 101to Gilroy. From there we turned east onto the Pacheco Pass, a winding road that connects to I-5 through green rolling hills, past the sprawling Casa de Fruta Orchard Resort and along the great San Luis Reservoir. None of us had been on that road before and were happily lost. Recent rains had brought the hillsides to life. This Pacheco Runaround only cost us 100 extra miles and two extra hours.
We had no rooms booked, no idea where we would stay each night. We did lock in an apartment for two nights in Austin and another for two nights in Memphis through AirBnB, but on the road we just drove until we were tired, then Yelped and Googled our next beds.
That was how we met Roger, the proprietor of the Rodeway Inn in Barstow, our first stop. Driving in we found a dozen motels with 4 and 5 stars. We needed more filter features. The women read descriptions aloud from the back seat. The Rodeway ad included “made-to-order eggs.”
After surviving on pretzels and apples all day, made-to-order eggs sounded delicious. We called the front desk and reserved the room. Roger manned the desk. He was an Indian who ended in Barstow via Johannesburg. He talked quickly, and everything he said was intended to make you smile.
“You’re a big group. Four adults. I’ll give you a big room. Not a small room. The cost is normally eighty-night dollars per night. I will give it to you for seventy-nine dollars.”
I asked for two keys. He gave me one and kept one for Room 115.
“Come on. I will show you where it is. Ground floor. In the back.”
We marched through the parking lot picking up Susan, Gino, and Patricia along the way. Roger’s old farm dog, Spike, padded along behind. I asked Roger if there was a nightclub or cocktail lounge nearby that we could walk to and unwind after 12 hours on the road.
Roger turned around and stopped the parade. He held up his hand.
“Here’s what you do,” he said. “You go across the street to the grocery store. You buy food and a six-pack. You come back to your room…” His eyes widened and he flung his hands in the air. “And you throw a party.”
Roger showed us how the key worked, then handed his to me. He went around the room pointing at amenities and plugging everything in, the cable box, television, lamps. He showed us how the remote worked. He showed us our own kitchen in the back. “Plug in the refrigerator if you need it. Otherwise, leave it unplugged, please. I bid you good evening.” And he was gone.
At dawn Roger was waiting in the breakfast nook with a hot skillet and Spike beside him. In addition to the usual assorted cereals, pastries, and fruit offered by roadside motels, Roger had a pushcart full of eggs, cheeses, and cream. “Over easy, sunny side, scrambled, French omelet with cheese, no problem.”
Roger hung out with us, cooked us eggs, and told us stories. Other customers came in. They all called him Roger straight away. What’s one big difference he has noticed between Barstow and Johannesburg? “Here, they are not trying to kill you and rob you. You can feel safe, and run your business.”
The omelets were fantastic. No scorch, soft in the center, with a generous mix of cheeses.
We left Barstow, drove 350 miles to Flagstaff, Ariz. and stopped at the Toasted Owl, where we met Cicely.