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NIGHTS ON THE POINTWritten byRoland BlairRoland Blair3430 Tully RoadSuite 20-209Modesto, CA 95350209/567-0600RolandBlair09@comcast.net

Nights on the Point 1Nights on the PointChapter One

"Set out from any point. They are all alike. They all lead to a point of departure."

Antonio Porchia A week ago Sunday, Nikki and Jack crossed the Thin Ruby Linethat cuts maps and microchips and hearts: Going and not going.They don't know it now, but there will be another linebefore it's over, not red like rubies, but clear and cold asColorado air, and twice as wide as Texas—a line you can, ofcourse, cross only once.It has been raining all across the Mojave, a rare June rainthat skitters on the sand, promising much, delivering nothing. Itcaught Jack and Nikki as they broke camp in Lake Havasu City atsundown, put out their fire and soaked their sleeping bags. Theyare on Route 40, heading west. Six days out of Newark, Delaware,already in trouble. Circling each other like dogs.Midnight.The VW bus is a pale blue bread loaf, clinging to therushing cocoon of its headlights. Odd shadows flit and flattenacross the low hills, driven by the calculus of movement.Nikki is driving, and her dark eyes flick to meet Jack's inthe mirror. They stare at each other until the road forces her to

Nights on the Point 2pull away. The rumble of the Volkswagen makes talking to himimpossible.He lies back on the sleeping bags and starts singing softly,feeding his notes into a black plastic microphone as he takes inthe stiff set of her shoulders, the death grip on the wheel.Need some Blues for Nikki.She is strung out, Jack thinks, and angry. She did notsleep last night. Sat looking out at the lake. And two nightsbefore that. They will talk later. In Modesto, maybe.She stares at the road. There is no context, just blacknessand the yellow line. Her fingers are slippery on the steeringwheel. She rubs her hands along the inside of her thigh,squeezing the hard muscles.Jack is wrong about her, she is not strung out, she istrying to meditate. That's what's wrong. It isn't something youtry to do, you just do it. She uses all the tricks: Relax, lookat nothing. Belly breathing. But the sounds of the wind and thecar, and Jack's sullen presence in the back crowd into her mind.The world is too much with us.She has felt unnaturally tense ever since they left Newark.Not like her. Something intruding into her unconscious.McGuire's image flashes through her mind, a small, dapperman in his ragged plaid shirt waving at them from beside his

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