On the Road Again
Sunrise in the Arizona desert is a beautiful thing. The Seguaro cactus stand in random formations among the scrub, pointing this way and that. It takes eighty years to grow one of those arms, I am told. That is why they are protected. Lou must not have known that, mowing down several of the sentinals as we make our way back to the highway.
"Man, I think that one just splashed me." Lou tells me, feeling for the windshield wiper switch with his left hand. He finds it and the sunrise blurs on the windshield. "Awe... fucking wiper bullshit." He fiddles with the switch and now a weak stream of washer fluid pumps onto the window with every pass of the wiper. Eventually we have a semi-clean window again.
"We don't have much gas." He taps the gauge... it is below "E".
"Those guys wouldn't be tooling around in the desert without a tank full of gas, Lou. It's probably broken."
I take a draw off the Camelback hose, the both of them now laying between us on the seat. Lou's was damaged when Haystack Calhoun tossed him in the early hour. Mine is the only water we have left.
A black ribbon of asphalt cuts across the slash of a road cut through the desert and we turn left onto it. It seems as smooth as silk after bouncing over every scrub and rock. The old Fairlane chokes and sputters as Lou throws the coals to it.
"Jesus, what did they use for fuel in this thing."
"I don't know, but just in case why don't you try to conserve what we have on the outside chance that the fuel guage is fucked up."
He lets off the gas a little and then settles in to a sixty five mile an hour cruising speed. Ahead of us is a line of recreational vehicles. We come up on them fast and now slow to forty five. With the single lanes in each direction, the rolling hills of this part of the desert... we have our own blood alley.
Marvin Gaye comes on the radio... "What's goin' on"... what a trip. It is about seventy degrees out here and it can't even be five in the morning.
"Where in the hell can these people be going?" Lou weaves out around a fifth wheel to look into oncoming traffic... only to jerk the wheel back as an eighteen wheeler blows by.
"Home I suspect." He starts to weave back out again. "Can you please not do that?"
"What?"
"Almost get us killed."
"Me... you have almost killed us more times that me."
"Well, let's just consider ourselves lucky and call it even, okay? So stop and just stay behind this trailer."
"It's like following a fucking drive-in theater."
The car chokes... lurching as we lose a little ground to the drive-in.
"Motherfucker."
"Gas?"
"I guess."
With the drive-in blocking everything ahead of us, the highway sign blows by so fast that Lou can't see what it says.
"What did that say?"
"Why."
"Why? Because we are almost out of gas and in the middle of the fucking desert... that's why."
"No, it said Why."
"Why would the sign say why?"
"I suppose because that is Why." I point to the Chevron gas station and the small cluster of buildings.
Lou pulls hard to the right and tries to make the corner between Hwy 85 and Hwy 86, but we miss the road entirely and careen off into the desert in a cloud of dust and sand. We end up in a small wash, two wheels up in the air on the passenger side.
"Nice. I take it stunt driver isn't on your resume."
"Shutting up would be a good thing right about now."
He climbs out of his side and onto the dry arroyo. The glove box had popped open in the commotion. There is an old .38 pistol... a police special, I suspect, and some paperwork. I pull the items onto the seat.
"Hey, Lou... come look at this."
He is bent down looking at the side of the car where it scraped some of the paint off like he borrowed it from his old man or something. Why would he give a fuck.
"Here's a pistol." I hold the gun up with one finger through the trigger guard. I let it dangle there, like it isn't worthy. At least not after the firepower we have had in our hands over the last several weeks.
Lou takes it and drops the cylinder, gives a spin and slaps it back in place. "Loaded... that's a good thing." He tucks it away in the small of his back.
One of the pieces of paper catches my eye, "Hey... a pink slip."
"That's not pink."
"What the fuck, man, it is a title... a pink slip. Where the hell are from, anyway."
"Pennsylvania, asswipe."
"I've heard of Pennsylvania Dutch before, but not Pennsylvania Asswipe." I see him shake his head, "You shouldn't be embarrassed, though. Embrace your heritage."
Lou pulls the gun out of the back of his pants shakes it over his head, as though he as at an impass as to whether or not to end this now.
"Put that fucking thing away."
He tucks it back away in hiding and takes the pink slip in his hands.
"This is signed."
"How about that."
"Should we?"
"Hey, that guy tried to kill you. Why not?"
It isn't like we don't have money. It is just the principle of the thing. Two things you don't do, toss Lou in the middle of the desert, and leave a signed pink slip in the glove compartment of your car.
We walk across the street to a Chevorn/restaurant/hotel/fruit stand/used car lot/video store and walk over to the the three vehicles with painted sale amounts in the window. They all looked like they should come with their own tow truck.
"These look like shit."
A man in a sport coat and short pants comes out of the office... like the sport coat is his badge of honor at owning this place. He is not Mexican. He is an old guy with a penchant for red hair dye and a nose to match. Looks like someone tacked a red cauliflower to his upper lip. The plaid sport coat is a good match to the cheap cigar he is smoking.
"Oh yes, this it the car for you. It looks like it was made for you, sir." He opens the door to the old Buick Electra. Lou stops him and pushes the door closed again.
"I just ran a car out of gas that beats this all to hell. You see it over there? In that wash?"
The man squints and then shields his eyes from non-existant glare for the effect. He doesn't sense a sale coming.
"Yes... nice. A classic."
"What is it worth to you?" Lou holds the pink out for his examination. He takes it in hand for a moment, reading he particulars, then hands it back.
"Too rich for my blood, boys. I am just trying to get rid of the ones I have on hand."
Lou claps him on the shoulder, "Look here... "
"Raymond."
"Look here, Raymond, I am not trying to get something for nothing. I need to get to Phoenix and I don't trust that old thing. Gas gauge doesn't even work. I just want to trade her for something that will get me up north, Comprende?"
"All the way to Phoenix, huh?"
I pull Lou to the side. "Hey, man, why are we dicking around with this shit. We can go and buy a hundred brand new vehicles with the cash we have on us." I do a quick pat down as I speak to make sure the wad of cash is still with me. With all that happened last night on our little excursion I might have left it in the desert. It is there, right where I had put it.
"Hey, I want those pricks to see their car on this guys lot when they make it this far. It is just another "fuck you" that we can toss their way."
Ahhh... revenge. Hey, it wasn't me that got his ass kicked by that wrestler. I guess I can't blame him.
Cauliflower Joe leads us back around the building as he sends one of his boys over with a gas can to retrieve the Fairlane.
"I can let you boys have this beauty right here. Newest vehicle on the lot. This will make it to friggen Canada if your ass lasts that long."
It is an older... probably mid eighties Honda Goldwing. Seat is a little sunbeaten... cracked in a few spots. But aside from that it looks pretty decent. Color sucks... a plumb color. Probably used in the Phoenix Gay Pride Parade.
But it apparently hit us both at the same time, the fact that this might just be fun.
"We'll take it."
"Well, there is the matter of tax and license... "
Lou snatches the Fairlane title out of Cauliflowers thick fingers. "Look, Mac, this Fairlane is worth ten times what this bike is. You'll have it sold and a nice tidey profit in your wallet before any of this other shit you have out here. So either you trade us for that bike, out the door, or the deal is off."
One of the lot helpers had to jump start the bike to get it started. Told us that it hadn't been driven enough but started to often. So we fall for it and get ready to go.
Lou gets on and gives the throttle a rap or two. "Get on, Sally."
"What makes you think you are driving?"
"Because I am here and you are there, now get the fuck on."
"Hey, we do this fair and square and I will get on the back. Rock Paper Scissors?"
"Get on."
"Come on, man, Rock Paper Scissors, loser climbs on the back."
He rolls his eyes and holds out a fist.
"First you get off the bike."
"Jesus Christ you are such a pussy." He climbs off the bike, leaving it idling.
We do the motions, one... two... three. I have rock, he has scissors. Before he can protest I am on the bike and kicking it into gear.
"Get on, Nancy. You're riding bitch. And keep your fucking hands off me."
"Can you ride this thing if I accidently snap your neck?"
We pull onto the highway, having spent a little more than an hour in Why... I don't know, he's on third, and I don't give a damn.
For an old bike, it still has somethings to prove. Smooth shifting, shaft drive, radio doesn't work, but the gas gauge does. After I feel comfortable with the performance and handling, I start passing recreational vehicles. There are so many of them that I can't tell where one ends and the next begins as we scream down the opposite lane of the highway, ducking in just in time to miss out being some semi's hood ornament.
"YEEEAAAH." Lou screams in my ear. "Come on, take that next group."
He reaches around my head, pointing at the next string of RVs and fifth wheel trailers. I motor out around and catch two of them before the oncoming traffic forces me back in behind an old converted school bus.
I sneak a peek after the last of the traffic passes and then pull out and romp on the throttle. We go by the rigs so fast they look like a jumbled freight train on the highway, nose to tail. I look down as we go to take the front of the line and we are doing well over a hundred.
As I pull in ahead of the lead RV and put him well behind us I can tell something is wrong. I am losing control. It is subtle at first, but then as I slow to investigate it gets worse. Then the rear tire blows altogether and the ass end goes crazy beneath us as I kick it down in gear, trying desparately to slow us. Lou crowds me, pushing me up toward the gas tank as he moves his weight forward. But that is exactly what needs to be down to keep control.
I slow it down and see a spot on the side of the road to pull off. Someone is looking out for us.
"Geez." I put the kick stand down and climb off the bike. I am shaking just a bit.
"Scared?"
"Could have shit myself if I hadn't thrown up all that food eating peyote."
"Me too."
We both squat down to look at the damage. The tire is nothing but torn sidewall and a few bits of tread.
"Geez... "
The line of motorhomes we had passed blows on by without any offer of help or anything. It isn't like we are in the middle of town or anything.
"The last sign I saw said there is a town... Ajo, probably five miles ahead." Lou takes the one working Camelback out of the trunk on the bike and takes a swig, then offers me the hose.
"What do you mean probably?"
"Well, it said ten miles about five miles ago, I would imagine."
At least it isn't high noon. We have water, and the will. The bike was nice for the ten minutes we were on it. Under normal circumstances we would have headed back and had it fixed. But it didn't look like Why would have parts to begin with. And we have to keep going North. Some things will not wait.
"Man, I think that one just splashed me." Lou tells me, feeling for the windshield wiper switch with his left hand. He finds it and the sunrise blurs on the windshield. "Awe... fucking wiper bullshit." He fiddles with the switch and now a weak stream of washer fluid pumps onto the window with every pass of the wiper. Eventually we have a semi-clean window again.
"We don't have much gas." He taps the gauge... it is below "E".
"Those guys wouldn't be tooling around in the desert without a tank full of gas, Lou. It's probably broken."
I take a draw off the Camelback hose, the both of them now laying between us on the seat. Lou's was damaged when Haystack Calhoun tossed him in the early hour. Mine is the only water we have left.
A black ribbon of asphalt cuts across the slash of a road cut through the desert and we turn left onto it. It seems as smooth as silk after bouncing over every scrub and rock. The old Fairlane chokes and sputters as Lou throws the coals to it.
"Jesus, what did they use for fuel in this thing."
"I don't know, but just in case why don't you try to conserve what we have on the outside chance that the fuel guage is fucked up."
He lets off the gas a little and then settles in to a sixty five mile an hour cruising speed. Ahead of us is a line of recreational vehicles. We come up on them fast and now slow to forty five. With the single lanes in each direction, the rolling hills of this part of the desert... we have our own blood alley.
Marvin Gaye comes on the radio... "What's goin' on"... what a trip. It is about seventy degrees out here and it can't even be five in the morning.
"Where in the hell can these people be going?" Lou weaves out around a fifth wheel to look into oncoming traffic... only to jerk the wheel back as an eighteen wheeler blows by.
"Home I suspect." He starts to weave back out again. "Can you please not do that?"
"What?"
"Almost get us killed."
"Me... you have almost killed us more times that me."
"Well, let's just consider ourselves lucky and call it even, okay? So stop and just stay behind this trailer."
"It's like following a fucking drive-in theater."
The car chokes... lurching as we lose a little ground to the drive-in.
"Motherfucker."
"Gas?"
"I guess."
With the drive-in blocking everything ahead of us, the highway sign blows by so fast that Lou can't see what it says.
"What did that say?"
"Why."
"Why? Because we are almost out of gas and in the middle of the fucking desert... that's why."
"No, it said Why."
"Why would the sign say why?"
"I suppose because that is Why." I point to the Chevron gas station and the small cluster of buildings.
Lou pulls hard to the right and tries to make the corner between Hwy 85 and Hwy 86, but we miss the road entirely and careen off into the desert in a cloud of dust and sand. We end up in a small wash, two wheels up in the air on the passenger side.
"Nice. I take it stunt driver isn't on your resume."
"Shutting up would be a good thing right about now."
He climbs out of his side and onto the dry arroyo. The glove box had popped open in the commotion. There is an old .38 pistol... a police special, I suspect, and some paperwork. I pull the items onto the seat.
"Hey, Lou... come look at this."
He is bent down looking at the side of the car where it scraped some of the paint off like he borrowed it from his old man or something. Why would he give a fuck.
"Here's a pistol." I hold the gun up with one finger through the trigger guard. I let it dangle there, like it isn't worthy. At least not after the firepower we have had in our hands over the last several weeks.
Lou takes it and drops the cylinder, gives a spin and slaps it back in place. "Loaded... that's a good thing." He tucks it away in the small of his back.
One of the pieces of paper catches my eye, "Hey... a pink slip."
"That's not pink."
"What the fuck, man, it is a title... a pink slip. Where the hell are from, anyway."
"Pennsylvania, asswipe."
"I've heard of Pennsylvania Dutch before, but not Pennsylvania Asswipe." I see him shake his head, "You shouldn't be embarrassed, though. Embrace your heritage."
Lou pulls the gun out of the back of his pants shakes it over his head, as though he as at an impass as to whether or not to end this now.
"Put that fucking thing away."
He tucks it back away in hiding and takes the pink slip in his hands.
"This is signed."
"How about that."
"Should we?"
"Hey, that guy tried to kill you. Why not?"
It isn't like we don't have money. It is just the principle of the thing. Two things you don't do, toss Lou in the middle of the desert, and leave a signed pink slip in the glove compartment of your car.
We walk across the street to a Chevorn/restaurant/hotel/fruit stand/used car lot/video store and walk over to the the three vehicles with painted sale amounts in the window. They all looked like they should come with their own tow truck.
"These look like shit."
A man in a sport coat and short pants comes out of the office... like the sport coat is his badge of honor at owning this place. He is not Mexican. He is an old guy with a penchant for red hair dye and a nose to match. Looks like someone tacked a red cauliflower to his upper lip. The plaid sport coat is a good match to the cheap cigar he is smoking.
"Oh yes, this it the car for you. It looks like it was made for you, sir." He opens the door to the old Buick Electra. Lou stops him and pushes the door closed again.
"I just ran a car out of gas that beats this all to hell. You see it over there? In that wash?"
The man squints and then shields his eyes from non-existant glare for the effect. He doesn't sense a sale coming.
"Yes... nice. A classic."
"What is it worth to you?" Lou holds the pink out for his examination. He takes it in hand for a moment, reading he particulars, then hands it back.
"Too rich for my blood, boys. I am just trying to get rid of the ones I have on hand."
Lou claps him on the shoulder, "Look here... "
"Raymond."
"Look here, Raymond, I am not trying to get something for nothing. I need to get to Phoenix and I don't trust that old thing. Gas gauge doesn't even work. I just want to trade her for something that will get me up north, Comprende?"
"All the way to Phoenix, huh?"
I pull Lou to the side. "Hey, man, why are we dicking around with this shit. We can go and buy a hundred brand new vehicles with the cash we have on us." I do a quick pat down as I speak to make sure the wad of cash is still with me. With all that happened last night on our little excursion I might have left it in the desert. It is there, right where I had put it.
"Hey, I want those pricks to see their car on this guys lot when they make it this far. It is just another "fuck you" that we can toss their way."
Ahhh... revenge. Hey, it wasn't me that got his ass kicked by that wrestler. I guess I can't blame him.
Cauliflower Joe leads us back around the building as he sends one of his boys over with a gas can to retrieve the Fairlane.
"I can let you boys have this beauty right here. Newest vehicle on the lot. This will make it to friggen Canada if your ass lasts that long."
It is an older... probably mid eighties Honda Goldwing. Seat is a little sunbeaten... cracked in a few spots. But aside from that it looks pretty decent. Color sucks... a plumb color. Probably used in the Phoenix Gay Pride Parade.
But it apparently hit us both at the same time, the fact that this might just be fun.
"We'll take it."
"Well, there is the matter of tax and license... "
Lou snatches the Fairlane title out of Cauliflowers thick fingers. "Look, Mac, this Fairlane is worth ten times what this bike is. You'll have it sold and a nice tidey profit in your wallet before any of this other shit you have out here. So either you trade us for that bike, out the door, or the deal is off."
One of the lot helpers had to jump start the bike to get it started. Told us that it hadn't been driven enough but started to often. So we fall for it and get ready to go.
Lou gets on and gives the throttle a rap or two. "Get on, Sally."
"What makes you think you are driving?"
"Because I am here and you are there, now get the fuck on."
"Hey, we do this fair and square and I will get on the back. Rock Paper Scissors?"
"Get on."
"Come on, man, Rock Paper Scissors, loser climbs on the back."
He rolls his eyes and holds out a fist.
"First you get off the bike."
"Jesus Christ you are such a pussy." He climbs off the bike, leaving it idling.
We do the motions, one... two... three. I have rock, he has scissors. Before he can protest I am on the bike and kicking it into gear.
"Get on, Nancy. You're riding bitch. And keep your fucking hands off me."
"Can you ride this thing if I accidently snap your neck?"
We pull onto the highway, having spent a little more than an hour in Why... I don't know, he's on third, and I don't give a damn.
For an old bike, it still has somethings to prove. Smooth shifting, shaft drive, radio doesn't work, but the gas gauge does. After I feel comfortable with the performance and handling, I start passing recreational vehicles. There are so many of them that I can't tell where one ends and the next begins as we scream down the opposite lane of the highway, ducking in just in time to miss out being some semi's hood ornament.
"YEEEAAAH." Lou screams in my ear. "Come on, take that next group."
He reaches around my head, pointing at the next string of RVs and fifth wheel trailers. I motor out around and catch two of them before the oncoming traffic forces me back in behind an old converted school bus.
I sneak a peek after the last of the traffic passes and then pull out and romp on the throttle. We go by the rigs so fast they look like a jumbled freight train on the highway, nose to tail. I look down as we go to take the front of the line and we are doing well over a hundred.
As I pull in ahead of the lead RV and put him well behind us I can tell something is wrong. I am losing control. It is subtle at first, but then as I slow to investigate it gets worse. Then the rear tire blows altogether and the ass end goes crazy beneath us as I kick it down in gear, trying desparately to slow us. Lou crowds me, pushing me up toward the gas tank as he moves his weight forward. But that is exactly what needs to be down to keep control.
I slow it down and see a spot on the side of the road to pull off. Someone is looking out for us.
"Geez." I put the kick stand down and climb off the bike. I am shaking just a bit.
"Scared?"
"Could have shit myself if I hadn't thrown up all that food eating peyote."
"Me too."
We both squat down to look at the damage. The tire is nothing but torn sidewall and a few bits of tread.
"Geez... "
The line of motorhomes we had passed blows on by without any offer of help or anything. It isn't like we are in the middle of town or anything.
"The last sign I saw said there is a town... Ajo, probably five miles ahead." Lou takes the one working Camelback out of the trunk on the bike and takes a swig, then offers me the hose.
"What do you mean probably?"
"Well, it said ten miles about five miles ago, I would imagine."
At least it isn't high noon. We have water, and the will. The bike was nice for the ten minutes we were on it. Under normal circumstances we would have headed back and had it fixed. But it didn't look like Why would have parts to begin with. And we have to keep going North. Some things will not wait.
posted by Jake Allen at 6:39 PM
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