Cadillac Highways
Spotlight on the lone crumpled figure of Clifton J. Tibbs, a
surreal and rather curious personality whose ageless features
and intense gaze transfix all who enter his orbit. He removes
a dirty crumpled cloth hat from his head, walks to the edge
of the stage and squints out into the darkness, addressing
the audience.
TIBBS
My name is Clifton J. Tibbs. I've
been called a world traveler, a
transcender of time, a scribe, a
sage, and even a bit of a visionary.
How I came to attain this humble
level of stature at this juncture of
my existence is a complete mystery
to me.
He turns to the audience.
TIBBS (CONT'D)
For anyone who has ever felt alone
and lost in the world, and had trouble
finding their way, my story will
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2.
TIBBS (CONT'D)
come as a true revelation. My passing
trough your lives at this moment may
be attributed to the glories and
mysteries of the universe and my
travels over the back roads and byways
of this great country, and the people
I encountered. My story is the story
of the Cadillac Highways, how they
changed my life and how I came to
discover truth and meaning in the
very heart of America.
I must warn you that my strange and remarkable tale contains
truths that are more fantastical than any fiction. What
happened to me in my journey was to change my life forever
and in the telling, it may change yours, for what I am about
to relate will challenge your beliefs and your outlook on
the great mysteries of life. What happened that was so
significant it changed my life forever? Listen and you shall
see.
(Clifton places the hat on his head, pivots, and takes his
place stage center. After a moment of reflection, he begins
his story.)
My story begins, as many stories do, at an ending. I was a
middle class husband, in a middle class suburb, with a middle
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3.
class wife and two middle class kids. I was bored shitless
and scared out of my mind that I would lead a life of quiet
desperation and die in obscurity, the secret fear of the
struggling writer. Mary Jo didn't understand that an artist
vibrates at a different intensity than say, a Harry, or Sid,
or shmoe down at the office.
She nagged and she yelled and she did what many women end up
doing to their men once they're roped and branded and in the
corral, presumably for life. She became the dreaded she-bitch-
from-hell and made my life a living nightmare. She found out
that living with a writer was not the perfect Barbie and Ken
life that she or her mother had envisioned for her. I finally
decided that to live in their prison was a lie.
But how could I leave them? They had come to depend on me as
I had come to depend on them. I loved my kids, and even though
my love for Mary Jo was dying, I still felt responsible for
her.
(A confession, difficult to admit: fear)
The truth is, I was also afraid.
Afraid of what I might find out there, just beyond the
periphery of my view; afraid of what might happen to my kids
if I left them; afraid of the loneliness I would feel without
them.
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4.
It was a dilemma of the highest order. Was I staying in a
situation I despised because I was afraid for me, or for
them?
(STRENGTH, RESOLVE)
But, I decided, as many great
explorers historically have done,
that to turn away from truth out of
fear was to live in a self-imposed
prison.
I needed to find out what it meant to be free, and why my
heart longed for the open road.
Mary Jo and her family had placed me exactly where they wanted
me, and I had placed myself where I thought I should be.
Change would have to happen, whether it came easily or not.
And, much as the forging of steel would have to be done with
the use of muscle and heat, so would the elements of my fears.
To live within the boundaries of someone else's idea of the
American Dream was not my fortune.
(With great sadness and emotion)
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5.
With great heaviness of spirit, I packed my bags, left a
note, hugged my kids, and set out to discover what Columbus
had stolen from the Indians.
It was the hardest note I ever had to write.
My true fear gripped me from within. I knew I had to plunge
into icy waters and have faith that my spirit would follow
where my heart told me to go.
I was still hanging on to the material world and to the things
I thought would make me happy. Only in release could my soul
be set free, and only in the journey could I ever hope to be
truly liberated.
I knew I had only six months to live. It was in that knowledge
that I was to live my life to it's fullest.
Being from New Jersey, one tends to head west, if for no
other reason than heading east would have required treading
water. I packed my copy of William Least Heat Moon's "Blue
Highways" and resolved myself to finding America. And, I was
determined to do it as far from any interstate road as
possible.
(Produces a map, shows it to audience)
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6.
You see, on a map, there are the blue lines that show the
back roads and there are the red lines that show the main
roads. It is my opinion and I share it with Bill Moon, that
it's the blue highways that capture the true spirit of the
country. I knew I had to find myself and the heart of America,
on what I called the Cadillac Highways.
Road warriors reminisce of the days when Route 66 ran through
the soul of the country and it's in the memory of Route 66,
now gone, that I lay homage to the Cadillac Highways. These
are the roads you travel where you can still find flashing
neon motels, hamburger cafes, Sinclair dinosaurs, and single
screen drive-in movies; where the towns you pass through
seem caught in a time warp; Saturday night still means a
barn dance; coke still comes in green glass bottles; and
juke boxes still have Elvis on plastic 45's.
I knew small town America was dying because it's Cadillac
Highways were being bypassed by the monolithic stone
interstates. But they were still out there, I know, because
I found them. And, long after they've been bypassed, and
grown over with weeds, they will live on inside each nomad
who remembers them. The open road still beckons from the
darkness and the romantic lure of adventure and intrigue has
never really died. If nothing else, it has grown stronger
with our longing for the past.
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7.
It was my longing for the past, and my concern over an
uncertain future that made me realize I had to break the
ties that bound me to my self-imposed prison.
I hitchhiked across New Jersey and over the Allegheny
Mountains of Western Pennsylvania. Many rugged men had died
to build the PA Turnpike, having frozen through harsh winters,
blasting and pick axing their way through the unforgiving
rock. I paid homage to them as I caught a ride over the back
roads they must have used before the Big Road had thundered
through. I young girl at a truck stop restaurant smiled at
me and said things with her eyes about sex and having babies
and I wondered what ours would have looked like had we decided
to try.
I ventured out into the night and walked for miles before
hitching a ride with a preacher on his way to Ohio. We drove
for many miles without talking and as I looked out through
the windshield into the unyielding blackness, I felt fear
engulf me like Death's shroud.
It reminded me of the many times I had been thrown into the
depths of despair. I had to force myself to move forward. I
had to kick at the darkness 'til it bled with light.
The preacher told me someone in Cleveland had seen a vision
of the Mother Mary in a Holiday Inn near Lake Erie, and
throngs of pilgrims were gathered there as well as news people
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8.
from three states. He was going in order to ascertain if it
was legitimate, as he was writing a book about sightings of
the Virgin Mary.
He said, "Son, I've been around the world four times and
I've seen visions of the Virgin twice. I've seen her in some
pretty strange places. But, when someone says they've seen
her in a Holiday Inn in Cleveland, I've got to ask myself
are they a charlatan, a devil, or a saint."
I told him there wasn't much difference between a devil and
a saint except that one was just crazier than the other. He
pulled out a bottle of Old Granddad and offered me a pull. I
told him I'd probably had enough whiskey in my lifetime to
outlast ten men. He said he understood that just fine and
that he knew many that had fallen by the bottle. I told him
my theory is that the fall of this country started with the
killing of the Indians, and that was done largely through
alcohol. He said it was a fine theory, but he'd have another
drink just the same.
He winked at me and handed me a faded plastic statuette of
Jesus. He said, "Take this, son. It's your own personal lucky
Jesus. I stole it off the dashboard of a '66 Impala in a
Mexico City Junkyard." He said it had been blessed by a
Mexican Angel.
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9.
With that, he stopped the car dead, opened the door for me
and said, "Step out. Step out over the threshold. And
remember, the spirit is with you always and forever. You are
a warrior, and your journey has just begun. So, walk in
courage, and always walk towards the light, but be not afraid
to walk through the valley of the shadow of death." I remember
his words and still keep that statue of Jesus with me as I
did throughout my journey.
(Reaches into pocket and takes out statue. Use gestures for
following.)
As I headed further West, the stars in the heavens seemed to
grow brighter and multiply. The expanses of space seemed to
broaden. And, by the time I reached the big sky country of
Montana, there was no horizon left anymore, only a seemingly
infinite sea of stars. It was under this blaze of stars,
somewhere near Custer, Montana, I met a cowboy named Frank
Forest, who told me about the UFO's, and how they were devils
sent by angry Indian Spirits to reclaim their homeland.
Frank had been a rancher for as long as he could remember
and one night, in this field, a UFO landed and stole fifteen
cattle, making them disappear in a halo of white light. As
his eyes sparkled brightly near the firelight, he said, "I
watched 'em land and they whipped search beams all over the
property, zigzagging and crisscrossing like at one of them
big Hollywood premiers.
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10.
I figured the whole county'd be down here within five minutes.
But, nobody ever said they saw nothing."
He said, that night, he'd had a vision, and it was the spirits
of Indians, long dead, come to get their due. "How do you
know it wasn't just a dream," I asked. And Frank said, "I
don't have dreams...anymore. This was a message from the
Indians that our ancestors had screwed up, big time!"
He went back into his house, closed the shutters and locked
the doors. I don't think he ever looked at the night sky the
same way again. To tell you the truth, I know I never did.
I ran into Terri Anne about half way across Montana. She had
just left Custer battlefield, having been there because Custer
was a distant blood relation, She was honey haired, with big
_______ ,
(INDICATING BIG BOOBS)
and lips that would make a French
whore jealous. She said she had
modeled for a skin magazine in
California and I believed her. She
had the kind of body that I, as a
younger man, would have fought anyone
for.
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11.
(INDICATING BIG BOOBS) (CONT'D)
(With great emotion)
Desire had consumed me. The longing
was unbearable. And somewhere past
the biological need for release, was
the longing for love. It hit me just
how much I missed Mary Jo. I could
almost hear her voice; the way the
touched me; the way she smiled. The
grief of her loss was at this moment
coursing through me, and I felt the
pain of being human once again. Then
there was the guilt that I had left
them back there, in order to pursue
a greater good. My emotions once
again, fought to rule my heart.
Terry Anne pretended she cared for me, but she really wanted
to hustle me for money. She was a drifter, and her
homelessness was borne out of running. She never stayed in
one place long enough to form attachments, and she used sex
as bait, to get what she wanted. But she also told me she
never really enjoyed sex.
We bundled up together in a sleeping bag, under the stars
near Custer, and I wondered what it would be like to make
love to her. We stared up at the stars, and she smoked a
cigarette, while she told me her narrow philosophy.
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12.
She said, "Cliff, do you ever think about suicide?" I said,
"It's all over soon enough. Why rush it?" "Because life is
cruel and miserable and I'm unhappy with the same old shit
all the time," She said. I told her, "Then you have to change
your view of the world, so at least, you always have something
to look forward to. You have to make your own reality. You
can't wait for someone to make it for you."
She rolled over and fell asleep, and I don't think she even
heard me. Later that night I caught her going through my
wallet and pretended to be asleep. Finding nothing, she
quietly stole away into the darkness and I never saw her
again. I knew there was a lesson in there somewhere, but I
didn't know what it was.
I found a roadside cafe off of old Route 66 near Barstow,
California, and ordered a cheeseburger. I listened to some
truckers talking about the day they shot John F. Kennedy and
how the spirit of the country had died with him. I never met
JFK, but I remember how he gave the country hope, something
to look forward to. This was before Viet Nam, when there was
still a promise that we were destined for greater things.
The word about the president being shot spread like wildfire
across the land, and a whole country went into shock. I think
Don McLean was wrong, and that it had nothing to do with
Buddy Holly.
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13.
Some say that was the day the music died, but I think it was
the day they killed Kennedy that changed everything forever.
I reached Los Angeles and saw how it had seduced the great
movie kings and cinema queens. (Use arms.) The gigantic
electric grid that lay below me was alive with dreams.
I spent the rest of the day on a Malibu cliff, staring out
over the ocean. I had traveled from coast to coast, and as I
stared out into that kaleidoscope of shimmering reflections,
came to realize what I had been running away from for so
long, was really myself.
There is no true home in the physical sense of the word. The
only home is in the heart. If I had learned no other lesson
from my travels, this was it. I also found that although a
change in geography could change my outlook on my inner self,
it would not change me, if I could not stop running away
from me. Movement however, did provide the impetus for a
metamorphosis. It was also this constant movement cross
country and my physical condition that had instilled in me a
sense of awe and urgency and I was discovering not only the
great distances of this land, but also a boundlessness within
myself.
(TURNING POINT - BIG MOMENT)
It was at that moment when release came.
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14.
It spread over me like a warm sunset, spread down through me
and enveloped me in its glow. As I made my way back across
this great land, I felt my attachment to the material world
diminishing with each passing mile until time and distance
were vague concepts and oneness of my divine connection to
the universe became an integral part of my consciousness.
As I traveled my sense of purpose began to take shape with
new clarity. But there were still questions in my heart. The
experiences I had witnessed on the Cadillac Highways were
shaping my realization that my purpose as a physical being
had not gone in vain, but it would soon be time to leave
this material plane.
Moving back across California, heading east, the ghost town
lay fragmented and splintered, in the middle of the Sierra
Desert. Some forgotten relic of an ancient gold rush, the
dusty burg was now the resting-place for rusty cars and
rolling tumbleweeds. As I walked through town, I imagined
gunslingers and stagecoaches, and as I looked up at the second
floor window of the saloon, I spotted the ghost of a beautiful
girl, but I cannot describe her to you here, for it would
not be for innocent ears. But, she was the most beautiful
thing I ever saw.
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(AWE - REALIZATION)
As I left the ghost town, a profound
truth hit me. I had been doing battle
with myself about being happy for as
long as I could remember. I had spent
so much time and effort trying to
acquire material things, I'd never
occurred to me maybe I was wrong.
(Turn, posture deep
in thought, resume
stance)
My journey back across the country
was marked by the ghost of a Civil
War soldier. He told me tales of the
war, of the rebuilding of the South,
and the endless pleasures he'd
experienced in the loving arms of
many a Southern belle. He had haunted
the halls of a Mississippi plantation
since his death, after the war, had
lost his way, and drifted across the
plains, in search of some unknown
entity. He spoke of Lincoln, and
assassins, of hard whiskey and
riverboats.
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(AWE - REALIZATION) (CONT'D)
And, in his tales of barbershop
Saturdays and ice cream Sundays, he
confided in me that the secret to
finding true happiness with a woman
began with finding a Southern one.
I lost him near the Cadillac Ranch, that monument to the
open road, that place where ten Cadillacs lay buried, fins
up, in a grain field off of what use to be old Route 66.
The vortex of the twisters on the Great Plains, is like the
wildly spinning cone of our existence, turning back in on
itself in a never-ending cycle of change.
Loren Eisley once wrote that man is merely the product of
the ooze from which he sprang-a host of untold desolations.
I felt this as I headed back across the country, under the
starry skies, past the billboards that once held the motorist
captive on the road to Burma Shave.
I returned to my point of departure only to find that Mary
Jo had packed, taken the children, and left. She had left a
note saying she wouldn't return and had left the matter of
the house for her brother to handle. I walked away from the
house and wandered for hours knowing that I had left my past
inside those walls long ago.
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Time is a continuum, having no linear beginning, middle, or
end. The magic and power of the universe had been there all
along for my discovery, only I was too blind to see it. The
only true prisons we have are those we construct around
ourselves. I had reached a point of critical mass way back
on that road with Mary Jo, and now the time had come to
release it from my life.
The journey was not only that of geography. It was also a
movement toward enlightenment, a state of mind-a spiritual
awareness.
All the spirits of all the people who had ever lived and
died seemed to live within me now. Every shred of knowledge
of the Earth and the universe became one with me and I was
filled with light.
(HAPPY AGAIN)
My children would grow up healthy
and strong, and find their own way.
Mary Jo would find another man, and
I would continue my journey out on
the open road, another ghost of a
wayward traveler.
I would meet up with other entities, those long ago dead,
and exchange stories of the road and of other lives I'd led.
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18.
Their dreams, memories and reflections were part of the psyche
of man, the collective body of knowledge that mystics and
seers have drawn on since the dawn of time. Now, mine were
added also.
I drifted high above Salem that night, and floated Westward
again. I know that the open road was where I really belonged,
and that discoveries were still out there, waiting to be
made. My physical body died that night, before the altar,
and with it, all the sufferings of the flesh.
So you see, what you have before you is not the man, but the
spirit, a timeless energy that never diminishes. For life is
energy and energy never dies. It merely changes form.
(Remove hat. Step forward to address audience.)
That seems like eons ago, but is only a sliver of my realm
of experience. I returned to my origins with the sword of
truth and I've carried it with me ever since.
Life goes on in a never-ending cycle of birth and rebirth,
and we are all but fuel for the continuum of this constant
flow of energy. I discovered that the living of life to its
fullest is its own greatest reward.
My spirit could now be set free.
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I found this in the heart of America, on the magical, wayward
star paths of the Cadillac Highways.
(FADE)