Chapter 3
A single note on the kitchen table was Ruth's farewell: 'The hand of God has punished Ricky, but you must bear the guilt of your sins." Enclosed in the terse note scrolled in her father's fine hand was her sister's address and a train ticket to California.
The direct itinerary involved a three day journey, but to add punch to her chastisement, the Reverend had bought her the cheaper ticket for an indirect route that wound through the flat wheat lands of the Midwest, then South to barren New Mexico, and up North, taking a straight shot for California.
Now the antiquated train was in the last day of its pilgrimmage, engines stoked for San Francisco. Ruth had no idea where La Honda was from there ... or how to get there. Worse still, she had spent her last quarter on a chocolate bar somewhere back near Tahoe. Hunger pains weakened her plunging spirits as she stepped down off the train, feeling as lonely and frightened as a lost day-old kitten. Suitcase in hand, she trudged over to the information booth and located on the map the tiny speck with La Honda printed above it. Determined to face her own hell, she slipped on her coat and elbowed her way through the crowded train station and headed South, following the freeway signs until she came to the first freeway entrance three blocks away.
Her first impression of California was not a friendly one, and weakly she put out her thumb. Dirt flew in her face as countless cars whizzed by, some honking, others screaming dirty things at her out of the windows but the knowledge that this self-created hell was her deserved punishment drove her on, and imploringly she lifted her eyes to the foggy skies and said a little prayer.
The next vehicle stopped, and a toothy Mexican in sweaty clothes driving a rattly flat bed truck loaded with vegetables pulled over to the side, motioning for her to jump in. He tipped his hat, his black eyes glimmering lustrously as he took one look at his rider. "Where are you going, mees?"
"La Honda," she answered with mustered courage, trying to sound adult and in control.
"You are in luck, mees. I am going there, too." By San Pedro's balls, thought the Mexican truck driver blasphemously as he peered out of the corner of one shifty eye, these gringo girls have the biggest teets...!
As his tiny truck thundered down the freeway, the Mexican farm worker squinted at his rider holding her suitcase in her lap so tenaciously it might have been the only thing she owned in the world. Conscious of being inspected, Ruth squirmed nervously on the tattered seat. "How much further is it, please?" she asked to break his concentrated stare that bore into the fullness of her breasts, incredibly large and high set for a girl her size.
"Oh, oh ... ah, one hour maybe, if the traffic lets up." Had the truck driver been able to drag his lusting eyes away from Ruth's sensational body, he would have noticed that she had a face to match.
However her face lacked its natural glow, etched now with sadness and emotional strain around her almond shaped eyes that peered like a lost puppy out from under the girlish bangs. Caught up in her own depressing thoughts, Ruth didn't notice the truck veering and winding spring-like down the freeway, changing lanes in a tortured zigzagging pattern that brought a metallic scream from the rusted old springs. Nor did she notice that her skirt was creeping higher and higher up her smooth young thighs. But the driver couldn't keep his eyes off of those smooth white columns, and ignoring the possibility that he might kill them both, he leered down to where her thighs gently tapered as they disappeared tantalizingly into the folds of her dress.
And by Christ! look at those breasts! the driver thought, pulling up in back of a Volkswagen and nearly running it off the freeway amidst a deluge of honking horns. Even with that modest cotton dress, he could see she had tits out to here! Oh, for a romp in the sack with her! Imagine what she'd look like naked with her legs spread out and her cunt turned up and throbbing out for old Pedro to stick it in her!
Ruth, sensing his stare, yanked her dress down over her dimpled knees. Her thoughts jolted again as the truck took the freeway exit heading toward the coast, judging from the heavy fog that hid the sharp cliffs from sight; perhaps that was another heaven-sent blessing, for if the trembling girl had seen the winding narrow strip of road with the plunging hundred foot cliffs three feet outside of her window, she might have let out a wail loud enough to raise the dead.
As it was, her mind tried to put asleep the week's horrors and plan instead for the future ... if one could call it that. And what would her sister Donna say when her kid sister knocked at her door, tired, hungry and need of anything God might bestow on such a wicked girl as herself. Images and scenes kept flooding back into her mind, torturing her memory until the tears spated down her satin cheeks and down her dimpled chin, making her lower lip tremble. Her life had suddenly been turned upside down the same way this damn truck was turning her stomach upside down!
The fog faded away as the truck headed inland for the hilly countryside marked by a few houses and narrow roads that disappeared into the mountains beyond. "La Honda ees thees way ..." pointed the grimey-faced driver. He was broken off by a thunderous roar that sent Ruth's tiny clenched fist to her mouth, and her hands to her ears as he sputtered some unrepeatable obscenities, grabbing the wheel, forcing the truck half way into the ditch.
Through the fog-muddied window, Ruth saw the truck being overtaken by a half dozen murderous looking motorcyclists who flashed by, not too quickly for Ruth to notice these were hardened criminals-tough, gnarled men with black leather jackets emblemed on the back with skull and cross-bones. On the back of each motorcycle was a woman who looked equally as hard-faced and tough.
"Goddamn Hells Angels!" the driver shook his fist, steering the truck back onto the road and following the cloud of dust toward La Honda.
So these were the Hells Angels!
Ruth shuddered, recalling stories about the crimes they committed-many against women! As they disappeared out of sight down the ribbony road, the woman on the last bike raised her arm and shot the bird towards Pedro who bristled and sputtered something in Spanish.
A few miles further down the road where it narrowed into tall, majestic redwood trees, Pedro slowed his truck and turned onto a dirt road. Suspiciously, Ruth shot him a inquisitive glance and saw that he was up to no good.
"A favor from the ladee for the ride, huh?" he said toothily, resting one grimey hand on her knee.
Ruth sucked in her breath, let tiny hand grasping for the door handle and took a flying leap to safety, landing on her suitcase, then watched disgruntledly as the flatbed truck made a sharp U-turn and headed on down the road, lettuce and artichokes flying from the back like corn in a popper.