Sometimes you just want to get home.  My encounter with Burt left me longing for familiar vistas (and silently vowing to not eat 48 hrs before a flight ever again).

I was staring down the barrel of a 2,700 mile black ribbon that would channel me directly into the open arms of my lovely bride, Trixie.  I hoped the trek would be uneventful.  It was not.

I sent a text to my woman to let her know I was a-coming. Her one word reply was the heart-lifting “hurry”.

I set the GPS and put the van in gear.

 

I bobbed and weaved the EM-50 Phantom Rambler along the twisting route that would take me to The 40 or The 10…whichever the device listed as the most direct path. (For you east coast normies, “The” is west coast vernacular for “Interstate”)

The good thing about California is that it IS the coast.  The bad thing about California is that everything else IS not. The road before me made The Rambler look somewhat like a Space Shuttle launching  It wasn’t straight up, mind you. If you looked closely you could see it was definitely tilting to one side, which always made you wonder if that was by design.

 

Almost immediately, I glimpsed an ominous road sign that was too distant to read through the rippling waves of heat.

My mighty steed was chugging up the steep slope that took me ever closer to my darling. My eyes stayed fixed on that sign as I inched upward and onward. Excelsior!  Finally, within visual range I saw that it read, “Avoid overheating. Turn off your blessed and life-preserving air conditioner for, oh, the next 20 miles or so”. Or words to that effect.

 

I reasoned that since any more time away from her than was absolutely necessary was purgatory anyhow, I had nothing to lose and slid the selector to the OFF setting.

Instantly I took off like a shot! The slow-moving kind that beefy, eastern European women sporting crew cuts throw with deep, rumbling grunts during the Olympics.  I was a large heavy object slowly arcing in an upward trajectory that seemed to be paradoxically advancing slower than the pull of gravity.

I gripped the wheel and rocked back and forth to help the effort until finally, I achieved the summit!  Whew. It was quite a relief, indeed.  I felt the worst was over even though I was still 2,700 miles from home and her.

 

After that kind of strenuous exertion I need rest and maybe a cigarette.  But, sleep would not serve me, and I don’t smoke. Also,  I feared the inertia would replace momentum. I pressed on.

 

When reason and rationality got the better of me, I conceded a short respite was in order.  I would take on chow to sustain my energy level.  So, somewhere on a high, desert plain, in the void between California and Arizona, I took a seldom-used exit into an unnamed town and followed a beacon that was the tall and dingy, weather-worn Denny’s sign for a recharge stop at America’s diner.

 

I picked my way through the parking lot amongst a small horde of trim and healthy, millenial hobos leaning against the side of the building displaying crinkled signs of corrugated cardboard, marked with brief explanations of their plight, a plea for assistance of any kind and the capitalized request that, either way, may God bless me and what have you.

 

I approached one. A dark-haired gangly youth with sharp features and a charmimg smile. When we made eye contact he asked for spare change.

 

“No one carries coins anymore, kid. And, one thin dime won’t even shine your shoes.  But, I’m gonna eat.  If, when I return, no one has fucked with my van, I’ll give you 5 bucks.  There’s nothing in there worth as much anyway. So, it’s a good deal, yo”

Young punks today end all of their sentences with “yo”, in much the same fashion that Canadians use “eh”.  Dig?

I often adopt a lingua franca to adjust to the demographics of my audience.  Ending statements in “yo” is a way of letting young punks know that I am hip to their jibe. I am thoughtfully judgemental that way.

He signified his agreement by saying “boss” or “23 skidoo” or some other gibberish.  But, he had made it clear he was the man for the job.

I sat at the counter.  The food and the service was pretty much the same as every Denny’s everywhere.  When I returned, the kid stood, unsure if I would stiff him. I didn’t.  I gave him the five and some preachy words of wisdom gleaned from an ill-spent youth and too many miles on the road.

“Don’t waste that on food. Save up until you have enough for some blow, or a hooker.”

With a boyish smile he insisted he would.

Erroneously assuming my good deed for the day was done, I climbed into the saddle. As I was fumbling with the key, an old lady got the drop on me.  The heat was so oppressive that I had left the driver’s side door open to serve as a life-sized vent until I could power the windows down.

During that time, she ninja-stalked up in my blind spot and tapped my elbow. I whipped around.

 

Standing there, dressed in loose-fitting cotton garb was a shrunken female who I would put, conservatively, at 100 years of age.

She apologized for startling me. I smiled reassuringly and told that she had not startled me one whit, even as I rubbed the knot where I had just banged my head.

“Whit” means “small amount”, by the way. But, it fell out of use many generations ago so that now, only really old folks know what it means.

Since she had approached me, I felt it was her duty to initiate the topic we were to discuss, but she seemed hesitant.  Ever quick to quell an awkward silence, I tried to put her at ease by asking her what Willard Scott was really like.

 

The poor dear seemed more confused than ever…bless her heart.  When she still didn’t speak I said, with a sweep of my hand to take in the landscape, “My gracious, I bet you remember when this was all fields!”, even though we were in the barren desert, and except for the Denny’s, it was all fields.

This seemed to snap her back to reality. She shook her head side to side and held up both hands, signalling me to hush.

“I need some help, young man. I am driving with my husband all the way to Phoenix and…I need some help with him.”  She said beseechingly.

 

I sprung out of the Rambler, still rubbing the sore spot on my head and said with a slight bow, “I’m at your service, ma’am. How can I be of assistance?”

She motioned for me to follow her to her car.  She was a bit harried. She explained that, Fred (her husband) was elderly and that, being so, he had trouble maintaining an upright position on long car rides and that they are going ALL THE WAY to Phoenix and they simply MUST get there before sundown!”

 

It wasn’t quite noon. Phoenix was maybe 2 hours away. This gave her about a 4 hour tolerance to make her deadline. I told her not to worry that she was well ahead of the required pace and asked how I could help…specifically this time.

She said that Fred had started to slide down in his seat. It must be a very uncomfortable position for him. She said that he sits on a towel and we need to pull him back up.

What she didn’t say, she didn’t say, so to preserve some of Fred’s dignity. The towel served the dual purpose of allowing folks to lift up on it so as to not have to yank on his fragile and brittle bones and joints to reposition him, while simultaneously serving as a last line of defense should his incontinence products reach their saturation point.

I was directed to the passenger’s side. The plan was for me to lift one side of the towel, while she lifted the other. Once we managed to get air under Fred, she would make subtle adjustments to get him properly seated.

My description of what took place, ran through my mind in a flash…in under a second I processed a scene/scenes that will take much longer to describe than it was to execute.

 

I saw before me a man. A very old man. Slumped and helpless. He was thin and frail.  He lacked the power needed to push himself up a few inches in his seat. Except for dark liver spots, his skin was translucent. His eyes were hollow and vacant.  He carried the look of a man who would rather not be present while a stranger demonstrated manly upper body strength in front of his wife.  Here was a fellow resistantly resigned to his fate.

He was dressed in gray sweat pants that were large enough to leave room for his adult diaper.  He also wore a white undershirt and a blue baseball cap with yellow stitching that displayed the alpha-numeric designation of whatever unit he had served in during WWII.

I saw this man. But, as I did, I became a 4th dimensional being. I could manipulate time like a wad of Play-Doh.

I could step back outside of his linear existence and jump to any point in it just like I could point to any graduated mark on a ruler.  I saw him (and her) as strong and youthful.

As a master of the fourth dimension,  I commanded time to stand still while I played the clip of their life. I saw their struggles and triumphs.  I saw his strength, her beauty. I watched as his aegis decayed and her’s blossomed, and though the cadence altered, they had stayed in step as they proudly marched through the years.

And, I saw him as more than this helpless old man who so routinely shits his pants that it must be planned for ahead of time and on a daily basis. I saw him as a  hale and hearty, human hell-bent on saving the world in his time.

And, I saw her as she stood with him and for him and I watched as it broke her heart to witness the man who had captured her affection, slowly descend into a seeming nuisance, as she silently shouldered the burden that had broken him.

The world would never know what he once was, only what he is. She never wavered in her devotion or duty. And, it all happened in the blink of an eye, yet too slowly to be detected as it was taking place.

I wanted to scream at them, “I SEE YOU!”, but they would never understand that I understood.  The only thing I could offer was to show neither pity nor disgust. To simply do and to serve and to treat him with the same indifferent dignity we should treat all others, which is to say, nothing noticable.

Time began to move again.

I reached for my edge of his towel and greeted him, as one should do so as to not treat him like a piece of furniture.

“How’s it going there, bub?” I said as I grasped the cloth and waited for Ethel to coordinate our heave-ho with a countdown.

 

Summoning a pool of energy that he kept stored for extreme emergencies, Fred stiffened his neck and lifted his head.  His cloudy eyes scanned my face looking to make solid contact while he drew a sustained inhalation that was to be used for a pronouncement of some kind. He was bound by some internal code to establish his role as host and lord of the manor, even when being rescued.  He had to pause during the intake. He simply did not have the respitory strength to fill his lungs in one go.

Without exhaling, he soon began to draw more air. His eyes finally locked with mine. His head began to roll around from the shaking induced by interupting his normal breathing pattern, but his eyes stayed fixed on mine.

Ethel and I had him floating on his towel like it was a magic carpet when he finally began to exhale his message for me.

In a throaty, raspy, gasping voice brimming with sincerity, mere inches from my face, Fred said to me, “Fuck you, you son of a bitch! I’ll kick your goddamn ass!'”  And, he meant it.

Ethel, while making final fluffing adjustments, admonished her husband, “Now, Fred, be nice. This young man is trying to help.” I was left with the impression that it was not the first time she had uttered those words to him.

Fred slowly whipped his head around to give her a look that suggested she was naive and couldn’t spot a threat when it stood right in front of them. Then back to me to let me know he wasn’t about to take his eyes off of me for too long. His gaze called me the punk I was.

I said, “Fred, you really are a mean, old bastard.  It’s grit like you have that kept this country safe from the Nazis and the Commies. Thanks for your service.”

He scowled in return. Then promptly fell asleep. Or died, maybe. I don’t know. I got back into the Rambler and drove east where a good woman of my own was waiting to watch over me the way Ethel watched over Fred.

And, no, I don’t remember their real names.  But, that’s how it goes, I guess.

Perspective is a wonderful thing. I wish more people had it

 

Yes, I know that statement doesn’t make any sense, but only if you look at it from one side.

 

Earlier this week I rolled out of Slab City for the final time, heading for parts beyond.  When I reached the limits of this makeshift community there was a hitchhiker. Well, not really a hitchHIKER, exactly since he was determinedly stationary while waiting for a free ride, but you get the idea.

 

Since, even in my 50s, I can’t resist the thrill of defying the basic cautions doled out by After School Specials of the 1970s, I pulled over to allow the fellow to climb in for the 4 mile drive into town.

 

His name was Burt. He was in his early 60s, neatly dressed for an inhabitant of a town of misfits, dropouts, and ne’er-do-wells.  He explained that he wanted to go to the diner in Niland for some biscuits and gravy.

Niland is a town of about 1,400. There is a mini grocer, a gas station, an out of business laundromat that is “for lease” and…The Buckshot Diner.

 

I have never been able to bring myself to eat at the Buckshot. Not because is looks seedy (it does) but, because I imagine many of the Slabbers seek temporary escape from their permanent escape and it is they who keep the eatery solvent.

And, since most of them go entire seasons without a good scrubbing, they have a pungent aura that, in my opinion,  does not mix well with the aroma/taste of hot meals.  But, to each his own.

The road to town is a series of potholes occasionally interspersed with solid ground, so the going is slow.  To pass the time Burt cussed President Obama with no prodding whatsoever from me.

 

“I had to go into town just last week cuzza ol’ Bob Ama. Cost me $25!”

I had actually heard this nickname for our current Commander-in-Chief and knew that it was based on his official email addy – bobama@whatever.gov, and I think Burt was disappointed that I didn’t ask him to explain it. But, I did ask him how ol’ Bob cost him $25.

 

“That damn medicaid phone – ran out of minutes the first day! Had to go buy one of my own!” He said.

 

I explained I thought those were meant for emergencies and the like, not everyday use, and therefore, seemed like a pretty nice perk.

Burt dismissed my twist on it and asked what’s the sense of giving someone a phone if you can’t use it.

Yeah. Maybe. I guess.

I said, “Burt, I apologize for being abrupt but, we are travelling a short distance.  I gave you this ride in the hopes of getting something out of it. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

 

He seemed eager for a chance to tell his side of anything and motioned for me to proceed.

 

“Chances are I will never see you again and won’t know who you are – just a face in the crowd – so if it gets too personal, tough shit. Just don’t answer.  But, what would you say is your biggest regret?”

“Oh hell, I don’t even have to think about that. If I could go back and not do something I did it would be that time I took LSD in jail.”

I studied Burt. Here is a fellow who didn’t have a whole lot going for him, least of all, ambition. It seemed to me that many of us harbor regrets about the road not taken, or the one choice that changed the path of our lives. So, his answer seemed odd to me.

“Really?” I asked.  “That is it?”

Burt explained that there are some experiences you do not want to enhance by giving them a surplus of reality. “That shit stays with you.” He said.

We were on approach to the town so I pulled out all the stops and asked the question that was burning.

 

“Burt, in many ways you really seem to have your shit together.  You have relatively good hygiene,  you are articulate, your mind seems sharp…I am not passing judgement on you, though it will sound like it, but, where did it all go wrong for you?”

 

I had braced myself for a tale of tragedies, trials, and tribulations that would rival Job. I expected a cautionary tale of addiction and the spiraling loss of control, rock bottom and so on.

 

“Clams.  Clams did me in.” Burt said.

 

My mind raced through all the possible contexts and definitions of the word. I was left adrift.

 

“The bivalve or the slang for either female genital or money?”

He raised an eyebrow and gave me a look of surprise.  “The bivalve.”

 

We had arrived at The Buckshot. I placed the EM-50 Phantom Rambler in park and gestured for him to continue.

 

He went on.  “When I was a young fella, I was full of piss and vinegar. Do whatever it took to get ahead in this dog-eat-dog world.  Anyway,  fast forward.  I was an up and coming rep for my firm and was about to land a huge contract.  The client flew me and the other two finalists down to the islands on a private jet for our presentations. ”

 

“Wow. ” I interupted.

 

“Yeah, yeah. ..it was nice. Small, but really swanky, the jet I mean.  Anyway,  it went really well, I think.  It was high-living down there.  The food and accommodations were 5 star.  But,  I am from the Midwest.  Never was big on seafood.   I may have gone a little overboard on the stuff.”

 

“The clams?” I asked.

 

“Yeah…” He said with a look of pain and regret. “You ever eat clams?”

“Once”, I replied.  “In Boston.  I had the chowder. I’m not big on seafood either.  It didn’t sit well with me.”

 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that was a thing.  It was my first time.” He said.

 

“What happened?” I asked.

 

“Nothing…at first.  We got back on the plane and,  I don’t know if it was the change in altitude, or pressure,  or just the process of digestion or what but,  it hit me. Hard, like.” He explained.

 

“Oh…OOH”, I said.

 

“Well, it became clear that I wasn’t going to make back to the mainland for a bathroom.  And,  even though I would rather not excuse myself from the tiny cabin to so obviously use the restroom,  it soon became clear that I would have to.  So,  I looked around for the head.  No signs.  Finally,  I asked Barbara, she was the client’s rep that was leading us around,  where the bathroom was.  She told me that this was such a short flight that the plane didn’t really have a bathroom exactly.   But,  my stomach was churning like one of those front-loading washing machines and I said I really needed one.   Again she tried to encourage me to wait.  We would land in 20 minutes.  I had my legs crossed as hard as I could, I grabbed her wrist and said this was a serious emergency and that I needed a bathroom right goddamn NOW.”

“I think she finally got it and took me to the back row, but there were only about 5 rows, center seat. The cushion flipped up and there was this emergency potty type thing.  There was this curtain that pulled out of the wall for privacy but it was only at about chest height.” He said.

 

It began to dawn on me what was happening and I exclaimed,  “Oh my fucking God!”

“Exactly.” Burt said.  ” But,  at that point,  I didn’t care.  I was just glad I had held it in long enough to get situated. And,  just in time, too. Because I exploded.”

 

Wanting to add to the conversation,  and show that I was paying attention, I remarked, “Oh my fucking God!”

“Oh. You have no idea.  It’s not just that it was loud,  but the acoustics weren’t helping any either.  Everyone tried to pretend I want there,  but that lasted for about 5 seconds.  There was nowhere to go or even look, for that matter.  Plus, this time was supposed to be used for our final pitch to Barbara,  so my competitors did that.  But,  as the next wave would hit me and it would get loud again they would all stop talking and wait for it to pass. I have never been so helpless in my whole life.  It wouldn’t stop. And, then,  the smell kicked in. It was bad. I know it was bad. Hell, it was gagging me. Goddamn clams.  Soon everyone had a towel over their mouth and nose and I’m just apologizing over and over.”

 

I felt I should say something so I went with, “Oh my fucking God!”

“Well, it wasn’t over.  The plane landed, but I wasn’t done. I couldn’t stand yet. My competitors smirked at me before exiting.  Barbara turned as if deciding how exactly to say goodbye and inform me I didn’t get the contract.  As she paused to find the words,  she made eye contact and I was hit with another explosive wave. It is a humbling experience to lock eyes with a woman as you void your bowels.”

“And, the plane had a schedule to keep.  A cleaning lady came on, gave me some humiliating looks, went about her business then asked me how long I would be. I said just another minute. Then she left.  I was alone. It is then I discovered no paper or means to clean up.  I had an overnight bag that was out of reach.  I had no choice. I was a mess, but, I stood, pulled up my pants and got out of there.”

 

It was my turn to talk. ” Burt…that is the worst thing I have ever heard in my life.  What happened next?”

 

“I don’t know. ” He said. I never had the nerve to even go back into work.  I just walked away.  I tried to start over but… Nothing had ever been the same since.”

 

And, I’d you had it all to do over again, you would skip the LSD and not the clams?” I asked.

 

“Not even close.” Burt said.

 

He got out of the van while I sat there thinking about what he had just told me.

As he began to close the door I said,

“Hey Burt…is that story true?”

 

He smiled and said,  “I wouldn’t shit you.  I’ve learned my lesson.” And he slammed the door.

 

I don’t know why,  but in that moment I had never missed Trixie more. I backed out of the lot and set a course for home.

 

 

Nature, in all its forms,  is abjectly terrifying, but never more so than when it assumes the form of weather. Except bears.

Climate is the granddaddy of all weather. And,  the desert climate is his estranged brother, which makes it your pervy old uncle, once removed.  No one in there right mind goes to visit, and when you do,  weren’t you kind of asking for whatever happens while you’re there?

But,  I had something to prove. Not content to sit atop the food chain eating peanut butter and jelly sammiches with the crusts cut off (smooch to Trixie), I needed to go out into that harsh and unforgiving terrain,  blow past Les Stroud and go full-on Jeramiah Johnson.

 

Not just survive, but flourish.

 

I drove deep past the bowels of Slab City, through the makeshift tenements constructed of scrap plywood, to where the wild things are.

When I could no longer see any signs of those who had long ago abandoned civilization,  I made camp.

Out here,  the sun is more than punishing,  more than unforgiving – out here the sun is not trying to teach you a lesson,  but to make an example out of you.

You see, that is the problem with the desert. It lacks compromise.  It is out of balance with the very nature it claims to be. Days and nights out here are like night and day.

The days are brutally hot, the nights are bitterly cold. Neither will budge.

I decided to tackle this bitch.

 

About 15 minutes into setting up, I decided a break was in order. Since the nearest shade was 45 miles away at Archie’s Bar & Grill in Calipatria, I elected to crawl into the EM-50 Phantom Rambler, stretch out, and turn my powerful floor fan all the way up to HIGH.

When I awoke, I wasn’t so much refreshed, per se, as I was completely sapped of energy from the mild exertion.  But,  the Old Man had ducked behind the ridge of Chocolate Mountain and provided an artifical dusk. I needed to work quickly.

(Editors note: In the above paragraph,  the author intentional used the word “ducked”. Auto-correct changed it to”fucked”. So, it goes both ways.  Just thought you should know).

The three Fs of survival are: Food, Fun, and Trixie. (Trust me – she begins with an F).

I kept her in my thoughts as I focused on having fun, and planned my evening meal.

Prepare yourselves,  I am about to regale you with culinary delights that will tweak your appetite and send you running for the break room vending machine.

Let’s start with chicken snausages. Not much, you say?  You’ll pass, you say?

Well how about perfectly seasoned, sun-dried tomato, chicken snausages made from only the finest cuts, with no artificial flavors, no preservatives, no filler, no GMOs?

Trust me – they are a gourmand’s delight.

And, though they are fully cooked, nothing so accentuates the rich flavor as grilling in the great outdoors over mesquite charcoal.

I temporarily suspended setting up camp while I grilled. I hovered over those snausages in much the same way the sun had unblinkingly stared me down only hours earlier. I don’t mind the hypocrisy,  for I was taking no chances.  I studied the meat with the concentration of a diamond cutter before making his first calving. Anything short of perfection would not do. And…I NAILED IT!

When I sliced the meat into bite-sized chunks, it dribbled with juicy flavor.

I’m not much of a cook, but, I have to say that I was so pleased with my attention to detail that I decided to reward myself with some comfort food as a side dish.

In retrospect, part of me wishes that I had saved some intellectual energy for the choosing of my main course’s running mate. In the end I went with generic, microwavable, packaged, mac & cheez, with a “cheese” powder so orange that it carried a faint hint of tangerine.

Then with an absolute minimum of forethought and consequence consideration, I dumped my wonderful and perfectly grilled meat into this glop

As I stirred my meal, you know, to make sure all the meat was completely covered by the chiz sauce, it occurred to me what I had done.

As I continued stirring it dawned on me further that this meal was a perfect metaphor for the desert. If I could bridge the rift between these two opposites, it would be a harbinger of what I could do with nature.

I sat there staring at my dinner…pondering.  It would come down to the beverage.  What could I pair this mess with that would not only complement both ingredients, but get them to hug it out and be friends?

I had on hand:

Cold water, warm water, coffee, hot tea, iced tea, Diets 7Up, root beer, Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew and Hawaiian Punch.

Hmmm. Each had its merits, but seemed to appeal to only one ingredient.  Being exclusionary is what got us into this mess.

Hmmm.

I needed to think outside the bun.  There are only two things that could make this meal, not only edible,  but amazing.

The first, of course, is ravenous hunger.  Get hungry enough and this combo becomes the stuff minstrels pen tales about. But, the food was already prepared and cooling, so…

 

The other, also of course, is being high as fuck. But, being a licensed commercial driver, federal regulations prohibit me from using marijuana, no matter which state of the union I am in.

It does not, however, hinder me in anyway from drinking alcohol to excess.

And, that is what you call an “Aha!” moment.

 

Several apertifs is all that I would need to bring about the desired state to make it all work.

I chose a full-bodied Irish Whiskey.

It had a chemical bouquet that was bold to the point of arrogance without being presumptive.  The bouquet was consistent with the flavor and took me back to the days of my youth – specifically, NBC gas chamber training in the Army.

 

It was effective. The meal was a success. PM for the recipe.

Now, satiated and pleasantly detached,  I decided that I needed to do more naturey type stuff to validate my mission.  To build a fire, that’s it!  Nothing is more fundamental in the conquering of nature than building a fire from scratch.

 

I was a tad rusty at this, so I allowed myself the slight cheat of using my tinder kit.  This consisted of a full-sized DuraFlame log, a shrink-wrapped bundle of dried firewood, a bottle of lighter fluid and a half a box of Strike Anywhere matches.  And…piano (because no one noticed when I said viola)! A camp fire!

 

I sat in my camp chair, sipping more of that amazing elixir that bridged the meal so nicely and admitted to myself that this was all too easy. Nature was laying down and letting me roll all over it. I needed a challenge to prove my worth.

Sometimes, all you have to do is ask.

 

As I gazed into the fire,  I saw a vicious pack of feral predators approach from the other side.  Coyotes. In point of fact, I only saw one coyote. A baby. But, this is the untamed wild. Niceties don’t apply.  I was convinced the rest of the pack had surrounded me then pushed the youngster into the light to gauge my threat level.

Last year, I discovered and came to grips with my dread fear of chipmunks all in one fell swoop. This was something all together different.

He was as cute and as cuddly-looking as a dingo – and we know how ferocious they are.  He (and they…probably) must be driven off.

Most folks would have been too scared to think straight. Not me.  I acted without thinking. It was such a rush! When confronted by a blood-thirsty pack of wild animals, I resorted to my own animal state and instinct just took over.

I supposed if I had had celly service I could have Googled what to do when coyotes attack, but the results would not have been better than what I came up with and employed in the blink of an eye.

For those of you softies out there, I will walk you through it.

Coyotes are a species of canine. Probably. They have definite dog-like features.  And, as we all know, dogs are big about using their scent to mark territory. They do this on the form of peeing on stuff.

So, what the internet would have eventually advised me to do, I’m guessing, would be to mark the boundaries of the claim I was staking by pouring some of my urine all around.

Research would have taken forever and been my undoing.  I’m pretty sure that I can take a 6 month old coyote pup in a fair fight – and, besides,  I fight dirty – advantage T-Moose. But, win or lose, I’m the only one who has to undergo the rabies spectrum after the scrape. Best to avoid it altogether.

So, buried in the rarely accessed depths of my brains, covered by all this useless book larnin’ is my survival instincts and they came rocketing to the top!

I was so proud of myself. As soon as I saw that wild animal, instinct became action and I just started urinating all over my campsite without fully processing what the situation was.

The coyote stopped, pricked up his large ears and just kind of looked at me. Then he started backing away.

I saw him again a moment later when he darted through camp and practically across my feet.

Then once again as he made a mad dash from behind with a discarded hamburger bun in his jaws. He was really booking that time. He knew he was stealing.

Pleased with my victory, I stretched, checked the time – 6:30 already! Where does the time go?

I decided to repair to, and button up the Rambler and attempt a deep but fitful slumber.

 

Thinking about contacting The Acme Co for some mail-order Trixie action.

When we last left off, I had set out to find myself by taking to the road.  Along the way I got lost three times.

 

Being lost is ok. Hell, I stay confused most of the time anyway. Being lost is just an extention of that feeling. And, that is a feeling I have become so familiar with as I have aged that, it is kind of reassuring. It has a homey feel to it.

 

Beyond getting lost, I have also had my van break down and get hopelessly mired in sugar sand as a plague of biting flies descended to devour me.  But, for this trip, I thought of everything! Well, everything I could think of, anyway.  And, I remembered almost half of that!

 

One of the things I either didn’t think of, or forgot I had thought of, was insect repellent. Not to worry, though, the mind-controlling, brain-washing, social-engineering, puppet masters in corporate marketing departments had my back.  They had done some thinking for me. They manufactured a handy bottle of this product and packaged it in such garish, eye-catching colors,  then positioned it right on the check-out counter of gas station/food marts around this great nation so, that while I stood in line waiting to pay, hands full of soon-to-be-purchases to the point that I could not flip through my phone while I waited to see what is happening on FB and such,  I would have no choice but to combat the boredom and look around for things I didn’t know I needed and…viola…bug spray!

So, I moved my package of Twinkies up under my chin and ever so gently lowered my jaw to maintain my grip on the fragile pastries, thus freeing up a hand to reach for the bug spray.  I can’t set my stuff down because the guy in front of me won’t slide his 12 pack of Bush Light further on up while he directs the clerk to the exact brand and packaging of the cigarettes that he wants.  Which takes at least 10 attempts. I don’t get that.  Smokers are so weirdly loyal to their particular brand and will never under any circumstances veer from it.  Unless of course, they don’t have any of their own, in which case they will take whatever someone else has.   What’s up with that?

 

Of course, by now, the bottle of Mountain Dew that I had wedged into the crook of my left elbow has shifted with all of this repositioning I have done to grab the repellant,  but I don’t notice because the cold of the bottle has caused that whole area to become numb and…everything falls to the floor as if I had just opened the bomb bay doors… except my Twinkies, which are now smushed under my chin as I stoop to hurriedly retrieve my stuff because the guy in front of me has moved on and the guy behind is making moves like he is going to jump line.  I’m pretty sure we’ve all been there.

 

But, the point is, I got the bug spray. Now that it was my turn at the register, I was in no hurry and engaged the clerk in conversation.  He was a young, beefy fellow who wore an unbuttoned dress shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, and one of those brown camouflaged baseball caps with the mesh netting in the back. It advertised something rural like tractors, or chewing tobacco,  or salt blocks or something.  I don’t remember. His name was appropriate to the setting, Cletus or Jethro…again, I don’t remember.  What I do remember was asking him about the bug spray.

He explained that this was the most powerful stuff that they could legally sell up here on the counter next to his unpackaged, homemade deer jerky, which he pointed at by darting his eyes in that direction as he mentioned it. He seemed solemn and sincere.  He made the sale.

So, when the swarm descended, I laughed at their coming fate as I rummaged around looking for it. Deftly, I  whipped it up, took aim and depressed the plunger!

Of course,  this sleek, futuristic packaging that folks on Madison Ave had spent a fortune designing  in order to draw me in (pic related)…

 

…also left me at a disadvatage.  I guess the “Sportsmen” part of the brand refers to the “sporting chance” you give your quarry when the hunt is afoot.

The 360° swivel action with no real reticle, gives you a 50% chance of a complete miss, a 25% chance of a direct hit and a 25% chance of a critical failure that takes the form of spritzing the chemical directly into the fleshy part of your firing eye.

When it comes to sportsmanship, I am a purist.

I don’t think we need to run the numbers to know that what I did was assume a disciplined shooter’s stance and inflict myself with some instant regret.

How can I describe the sensation? Hmm.  Have you ever, through blurred vision and weakened grip brought about by illness, squirted yourself on the lip with Chloraseptic? Well, squirting 40% DEET into your eyeball at point blank range is not that.  But it does make you wish for that uncomfortable numbing sensation that Chloraseptic brings. This is more of a burning, stinging, oh-god-take-me-now-and-end-this-agony sensation.

And, to make matters worse, it had an even stronger effect on me because, the consensus is, I’m pretty FLY for an old guy.  Done in by a homophone. Drat.

And, just to compound my plight and give the fates a chuckle, I had to use my non-firing eye and extreme wariness as I pursued those fuckers, and pursue them I did. This was payback for what they made me do to myself by not being repelled when i wanted them off their turf.  But, this slowed my reflexes and left them free to consume my flesh to their hearts content.

I have proven that, indeed, you can’t win them all.

 

But, as was told in the last installment, I managed to get extracted from the Pit of Despair and made my way away from The Slabs. I paid 10 bucks (on the honor system) to the state of California for the privilege of parking the EM-50 Phantom Rambler along the coast of the Salton Sea and made camp.

I unpacked my provisions, and having thought of everything, soon realized there is no way I would get it all back in.  But, that was a problem for Future Tommy to work on.  In-The-Moment Tommy set about making a fire and blazing up the grill

 

Now, with room to spread out and get myself reoriented with my mission, I decided to work on another, often-overlooked obstacle that comes with living on the road. Laundry.

Back home we have all the modern conveniences that come with living in the future. One has simply to discard his clothing where he stands, then, while he sleeps off the lingering effects of a few stress-reducing beers, miniature elves or invisible robots or something, silently make a sweep of the premises, gather the garments, wash, dry, fold, hang, stow and otherwise put away said clothing.  It is amazing how it works. I don’t even want to know. It is like a very entertaining magic trick.

However, one can become spoiled by this convenience because, on the road, laundry is smelly,  time-consuming, space-consuming, expensive, and physically strenuous.

 

I needed a work-around.  I found one while cruising Amazon before I left. It came in the form of the Wonder Wash!

What will they think of next?!

It is said that anybody can build a bridge that won’t fall down, but to build a bridge that just barely won’t fall down, you need an engineer.  I’m so glad those brainy fellows took time off of improving our nation’s infrastructure to draw up the schematics for this puppy.

I ordered it immediately.   The design seemed so much better than the other thing I found, which looked like a plunger with a bunch of holes cut in it and you had to supply your own bucket.

The Wonder Wash was a one-stop laundromat…or so my imagination and their marketing department led me to believe.  Here is the thing itself. ..

It has about 200 essential parts (SOME assembly required) but only one of them can be classified as a “moving part”.  The rest are designed to fall off as you carry it from your house to the driveway for storage in your vehicle, thus rendering it completely useless except in taking up valuable space (note the missing cotter key).

It is roughly the size of R2-D2 but with none of his whimsical charm or usefulness.

It is said to pay for itself after only a few loads. But, more accurately,  what it does is,  after a few loads you no longer mind paying for public laundromats.

It is brilliant in its simplicity.  Here’s how it works:

You have a seemingly spacious drum that serves as the washing area.  You fill it with dirty clothes, then add water and detergent.  You assemble the stand and the braces, and the crank handle, pressurized lid, then you look for the missing cotter keys, can’t believe your luck that you actually found one. Then you go buy some thin gauge wire to hold the other end in place and crank the handle like an organ grinder (though you feel more like his monkey). Immediately you notice that something seems…off. and, it isn’t just the sheer weight of the thing, which is impressive for something that started out as hollow plastic.

Nothing seems to be…tumbling.  you open the pressure valve, remove the lid and do a visual inspection with your one good eye. The clothes have absorbed all of the water. There is nothing flowing freely.

Next, you feel the slight tug of panic because it dawns on you that this is going to take a lot more water than you had first calculated.  You are on the beach, but this is California. The water is about 600′ away and they don’t have sand like where normal people live – they have beds of tiny, sharp, tubular (in shape, not surfing lingo) sea shells that work their way into your shoes in a matter of a few paces and begin cutting your delicate feet to ribbons.

You put your thinking cap on. It is no shade from the punishing sun, but you do realize that, if you somehow make it across this gauntlet and to the water’s edge, you will still have to make it back across while carrying your weight in water – a substance, much like myself, by virtue of its fluidity, has an unpredictable center of gravity.

As difficult as it is to admit, you hear yourself quoting Kipling, “…you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din”. I have zero chance.

I subconsciously re-calculate my laundry water needs against my drinking water needs.  I factor in such things as, this is the desert, when you pour a bottle of Aqua Fina into the Wonder Wash you only get about half. The other half falls victim to an invisible sluice that is the dry, desert air and you can watch it turn into gaseous form and flow upward in a seperate stream as it comes into contact with the atmosphere.

But, like with most things, you have waited until the absolute last minute to perform this essential task and you must sally forth at all costs.  You pour in more water. The clothes absorb the water. You pour a bit more. It is absorbed.  Soon, you are standing like Aquarius dumping all of your life-sustaining supplies from every vessel on hand into this stupid little Wonder Wash (pic related)

 

Eventually, your T-shirts and socks have reached maximum saturation and expanded to the point that, even if they weren’t too heavy to crank one full revolution,  there would be no space left to get any real agitation going.

So, you pull out some of the load. Then some more…aaaand some more.  About when you get it to a workable amount, it occurs to you that one of these garments sucked up all of the detergent. But you have no way of knowing which one. Even if you sniff them, all you can smell is DEET, still.  So, you add more Tide.

Pleased with your grit and determination you proceed to crank the handle.  The drum spins (that is the moving part…the now 200 lbs drum). After a few revolutions, when you are teetering on the brink of complete exhaustion (and you refuse to think about how many times you will have to repeat this process to get the single small load done) you decide they are probably clean enough for hobo life (even though there is no way they really are) and stop cranking. You hook up the attachment that allows the soapy water to drain out of the bottom and THAT is when you realize you didn’t save any water for the rinsing cycle.  All you have is soapy clothes that need to be wrung out by someone with more wrist strength and enthusiasm than you now or ever will possess.

You release the pressure, open the lid and inspect the damage.  You have three “clean” socks – one white, one black, one gray – two undershirts and a pair of cut-off sweat pants (shorts).  You look around for something to kick that won’t hurt your foot. You find nothing.

 

You decide that you are a natural delegator, and that this will be another perfect assignment for future Tommy.

It takes an uncommon mind to draw up that design, but dammit, they nailed it…but just barely.

 

Speaking of uncommon minds…I miss me some Trixie.

 

I went to a Starbucks for only the second time in my life.  They have unisex restrooms.  The problem with unisex bathrooms is that women use them.

As anyone who has ever been to a concert or met a woman in person for that matter could tell you, they take a very long time to go to the bathroom.  Unnaturally long.  So, when Starbucks provides two unisex bathrooms, and you need to use one of them really badly, you can bet that both of them are occupied by women and you, as a man, cannot even begin to gauge how long you will have to wait because you genuinely have no idea what it is they are doing in there.  But, I’m guessing it has something to do with cottonballs.  I dont know what, exactly, but the purchase those things in the same size sacks that peat moss comes in and they store them in their bathrooms. So, I had to wait an unfair amount of time to use a restroom. That was an adventure.

 

I have been on the road for a while now. I can’t remember when I left, but it has been long enough to have the EM-50 Phantom Rambler break down, get repaired, and drive across the country, where I got the vehicle promptly stuck in a patch of “sugar sand”. My first thought upon getting hopelessly mired was, “Oh good – an adventure.  Now my readers can experience this nightmare without actually doing it themselves.”

 

This happened in Slab City, Ca.  Sugar sand, which was featured in the classic movie, “The Princess Bride” under the name of “lightning sand” is ordinary-looking on the surface, but is loose and doesn’t become hard packed until you get near the Earth’s core. (pic related)

 

When I realized that I was hopelessly stuck in a seriously godforsaken section of nowhere, I was elated and delighted to have to opportunity to solve the puzzle and extricate myself and my trusty mount.  I love using my lateral thinking skills.

I rooted around through my supplies until I found some 550 cord…

 

…next, I “went shopping at Slab Mart”, which is the local term for digging around through the ubiquitous mountains of refuse until I found a fairly sturdy 2 X 4.

My plan (and MacGyver himself would have sure been proud) was to lash said 2 X 4 to the buried tire thus creating a virtual snowshoe to bridge the rut and give incredible traction.

 

Affixing the board took longer than it should have because I had to pause my work frequently to giggle at my own brilliance.

 

About halfway through the project, I broke a sweat in the unbearable heat and a swarm of flies, the likes of which have not been seen since the time of Moses, spontaneously came into existence  and covered me so to drink in the salty goodness coming from every pore on my body…except my forehead – they left that part alone, thus ensuring that I would have a constant torrent flowing in to sting my eyes.

Eventually, I had it in place. It worked perfectly for almost an entire revolution. Then the weight of the Rambler snapped the board like a toothpick. Oh well.

 

I tied my underwear to my head and set off to find help.  I found Donny.  A full-time resident of The Slabs since 1968.  As I approached his abode, two dogs came charging at me.  Donny hollered out not to worry about Sarah, she was mostly harmless.  He followed that by screaming, “Duke! Stand down!” Duke did not.

 

I had always heard that when a vicious dog comes for you, your best option is to confuse him by pretending you are calling him.  In the wide open spaces, with nowhere to retreat to, I gave it a shot.

“Come here, Duke!” I trilled. “That’s a good boy! Come here!”

It worked. When I said it, he pulled up like Tony the Wonder Horse about to step over a rattler. I swear his violent barking stopped instantly as he made sort of a “hunh?” sound, then eyed me suspiciously. Duke knew a nut when he saw one.  But, by then, Donny was on him and had a grip on his collar.

 

I explained my situation to Donny.  He said that I wasn’t the first person to get stuck out here and, that if I like, he would call Gary for me. Gary had a rig capable of tugging out derelict like mine.

I thought it over for a minute then decided that, yes, yes indeed I think I would like it if he would call Gary to drag all of my worldly possessions back out and enable to be mobile again. Good idea.

A few hours later Gary arrived and set me on my way.

 

And on I went.

Happy to be stuck with…Michelle Long.

 

The road be a harsh mistress.

 

But, I already knew that.

I also know that I am prone to fits of rebellion and calculated moves so illogical it leaves me scratching my own head.

In order to be somewhat prepared in case this characteristic ever took the form of my packing up and hitting the road again, earlier this summer I dropped the EM-50 Phantom Rambler off with the family’s trusted mechanic. I asked him to give it a “once over” to determine its road worthiness.

Good ol’ Wayne took his time and spared me no expense as he set about replacing every part of the vehicle with a new or refurbished counterpart, except for something small, like, oh, I don’t know…the bolt that holds the pulley tensioner in place…or something otherwise insignificant.

 

The procedure left me wrestling with the age-old philosophical paradox: if, as he replaced each piece – one at a time – he took the old ones to his backyard and slowly reassembled them, which one of us would  have the EM-50 Phantom Rambler?

The stress of this universe-shattering riddle caused me such distress that I began to feel the pull of the road.

 

I explained to him that I was hearing the siren song and asked him to hasten his repairs.  He slammed the hood and pronounced her fit.  As I paid him off, he explained that there was a lingering and powerful odor of gasoline emanating from the van, but he could not find the source and was sure it was nothing to worry about.

 

He assured me it would make it to Alaska and back as he gave the vehicle a sound smack on the ass.  Something rattled. We both pretended we didn’t hear it.

I departed Sunday evening. I made it all the way across the border into Pennsylvania before it died.

 

AAA, who has a policy against rendering assistance to travelers in perilous distress, transferred me 4 times before finally dispatching a tow truck.

Even though I felt frazzled, and harried, I maintained a casual aplomb as I explained to the local mechanic how I didn’t understand how this could happen since I had just had extensive work done.

He was a beefy, red-haired teenager, who went to work right away.  It took him about 10 minutes to diagnose the failure and come to the waiting room, where he spent another 10 minutes giving his interpretation of how he perceived my explanation, complete with exaggerated pantomime which included flapping his arms like a chicken as he sprinted circles around the room.

 

He was laughing so hard that he could barely get it out that the problem was that the bolt holding on my pulley tensioner has rusted through and snapped.

I was relieved. Sort of.  I braced myself as I asked, “How much does that cost?”

He was still chuckling as he waved me off, indicating he wouldn’t charge me for one lousy bolt.

He got serious,  though, when he told me that in order to get to it he would have to completely disassemble my vehicle. The labor costs would be high and I should come back tomorrow.

 

Eventually, all was made right, except for the gasoline smell. And, I am now in the Land of Lincoln.

With all this going on, I barely found time to miss Trixie.  But, I did manage to squeeze that in.