Two for the road

Porterville, Calif. —  WE ARE fleeing the soft click of fingers on a keyboard, the sound of someone replacing paper in the printer drawer, all those little office rattles that are the soundtrack for a slow death. The urgent giggle of another phone line when you’re on an important call. You know what I’m talking about.

“I’m going to the dentist,” Irv says.

“What for?” I ask.

“I’m getting my teeth sharpened,” he says.

We are about to flee to Porterville, my buddy Irv and I, on our annual trek for great steaks and camaraderie. Men like to team up when they hit the road. Think Lewis and Clark. Simon and Garfunkel. For many men, life is one long road trip.

“This is going to be great,” Irv announces when we finally leave.

“It is?”

“Trust me, it’ll be great,” says Irv, who pulls out a phone and calls his wife, Cindy.

“This is going to be great,” he tells her, then hangs up.

We are on our way to God’s country -- Porterville to be exact -- up where the cows spend their days drinking wine and making love in the clover. They are basically self-marinating, these cows, partial to $20 Pinot Noirs and the occasional Cabernet.

The result? A succulent cut of beef, the product of a life well lived. Good thing Tennyson never tasted this beef, smothered in onions, a small, garlicky Caesar on the side. He would’ve gone mad trying to capture the poetry of it all.

Fortunately, there’s Irv.

“Like butter,” he coos. “This beef’s like butter.”

We do this every year, take off out of the Bat Cave to this rural hamlet with the sensational butcher shop. It’s a short flight up the Golden State Freeway, past oil rigs and sleepy state troopers.

Along the way, Irv and I repair the world. We discuss mutual friends who are sick and others who are merely crazy. We discuss prostates, dads, cigars, fuel injection, trick plays, retirement plans, how to fillet a walleye.

Virtually no topic is safe. Within the first 100 miles, we establish the best way to ride a horse with a woman (she in front). Which peppers to buy at Costco (red, seedless; great on the grill), and assorted other nuggets, such as:

* People treat their computers the way they treat other people.

* 50 is the new 35.

* Heavy women have a lot to offer.

* You’ll do all right with a Ford.

Needless to say, it’s a feast of a conversation. Between subjects, Irv is on his BlackBerry, handling a chain of crises back at the office. A server is down. A project is due. Some boss blew a gasket.

“That idiot,” Irv says when he hangs up on one call. Or, “Don’t worry, Edwards is on it,” on the next.

Irv is amazed that I don’t carry a cellphone. I explain that it interrupts my train of thought, such as it is, not to mention my daydreams, which are pretty constant. When I do occasionally carry a cell, on long trips or nights out, I feel tethered to the world that I am trying to escape. I jump every time it buzzes, rousted from another shallow observation.

But Irv’s busy BlackBerry more than makes up for it. At one point, between the towns of Pumpkin Center and Buttonwillow, he takes a call and approves $100,000 worth of new computer gear for his office. Just like that.

“We’re always moving forward,” he explains.

Yeah, we are, on to Porterville, where we fill a big, red cooler with $300 worth of rib-eyes and T-bones, thick as the Old Testament. We say a prayer -- “Lord, thank you for this bountiful harvest” -- and head back toward L.A., that little village by the sea.

“You know, about 100 miles over that hill, there’re some pretty good vineyards,” Irv says.

“There are?”

“Wouldn’t the wives love a nice bottle or two?”

“Our wives?”

“Any wives,” Irv says.

“One for them and one for us,” I say.

“Just over that hill,” says Irv.

So I Starsky the brakes and Hutch the wheel, changing course while barely avoiding a Wonder Bread truck, kicking up a golden cloud a mile wide.

Over the hill we go. Sideways.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.