“Yep,” I glumly told my wife on the phone, “numbers nine and ten”.
There was a long pause before she replied. “I’m in shock. This can’t be happening. What if you get blown in a ditch next time and I get a call from the morgue?” Taking a ragged breath she continued, and I just let her because I really didn’t know what to say.
“I’m scared to death. And it’s all because of your goddamned air compressor.” She gave a short gasp and completely broke down sobbing.
“And you’re selling our stuff on top of it all. I’m sorry, I just can’t take much more of worrying about you and putting up with your mother who criticizes me morning, noon and night about one thing or another. Everyday your daughter asks when you’re coming home, and I don’t know what to say anymore.”
Finally, I heard her take a deep breath. “I’m gonna make it by tomorrow night, really” I told her. “Las Vegas isn’t far. Hang in there gal, I’ll be alright.”
“Really, by tomorrow night,” she sounded unconvinced. “What time tomorrow night?”
“By dinner. I can’t wait to see you. It feels like I’ve been on the road for months not days.” After making a promise I was hopeful of keeping, we exchanged smooching sounds and I hung up the receiver of the pay phone with a sinking feeling.
My wallet containing five dollars confirmed my desperation. There were two flats to pay for and so I did the unthinkable. Still parked in the rest stop, I scratched out a For Sale sign, nailed it to the open doors of the trailer, and went looking for buyers.
“Want a good deal on some tools?” I asked a couple of guys talking in the parking lot.
“Are they hot?” one asked.
“No,” I replied with shock. “I’ve been having travel problems and need money to get home to my family by tomorrow night.”
“Where are they?”
“The tools are here, and my family is in California,” I explained.
“Whatcha got?” the taller one wanted to know.
Following me to the orange crate, they walked around it, frowning at the flats. “You know,” one commented gravely, “that’s a single axle, you could be overloaded.”
“Mmmmm, yeah well thanks,” I answered, glad my wife wasn’t around to hear that sage advice.
Seeing the doors wide open they hopped up and started eyeing the load.
Spying Bertha, the taller man was sizing it up when I intervened, “No, that’s not for sale,” I gruffly informed him. A vision of my wife scowling immediately flashed before me.
The two tools I figured would bring the most dough were my miter saw and set of expensive Stanley tools, a gift from my father. “I want a hundred bucks for either one,” I said, guiding them to the objects.
Clearly knowing a bargain when they saw one, I cringed, but inwardly celebrated, when the taller one said he would take the saw.
Grabbing my coat, I explained to Clyde he needed to be strong. After filling his bowls with fresh water and food, I set out to thumb another ride.
A quick look in the rear-view mirror before walking toward the highway, gave me a shock. My reflection revealed a face grizzled and worn. Knowing I didn’t present an ideal candidate for hitch hiking, I tried in vain to slick down my dust encrusted curly hair that was beginning to turn into dreadlocks all by itself. Patting down my jacket and pants, my thumb went out as soon as I reached the onramp.
Amazingly, the third car stopped and waved me over.
Walking over to the silver, two seated Jaguar, piloted by a striking blond woman, made me think again of my scruffy condition. She motioned for me to open the door and as I did, she asked, eyeing my boots, “need a ride cowboy?”
As I was squeezing my six foot- three frame into the almost ground level passenger seat, a clod of dirt fell from my boot unto the floor. “Oh sorry,” I looked over to see her eyeing me with a vague smile on her face.
“I’m a mess,” I apologized. “Been on the road a while,” adding, “had some bad luck.”
Casually motioning to me with a lit cigarette in her hand, her smile widened, “Well cowboy, maybe your luck’s about to change.” She put out her smoke, adjusted her voluptuous bosom and said,
“I’ll bet you clean up mighty fine.”
“Ahhh, well, gee I dunno,” I stammered.
“I hear they have showers with soap and everything at some of the Vegas hotels,” she said, watching me squirm in that small seat with my long legs.
Well, that got my attention. Looking closer, her gussied up stature labeled her as either a show girl, high- end call girl or a mafia mol. Maybe all three. She was stacked, with shapely legs nicely displayed in a short tight skirt, and the heels of her spiked shoes had rhinestones on them. Holy crap. She was gorgeous.
For a fleeting moment my brain transported us to a tropical beach, bathing suits optional. Thanking the powers that be, my brain engaged before my mouth and I heard myself say. “Well, thanks for the offer. You’re a beauty. I’m flattered, but you see I got a wife and family 100 miles from here and they’re waiting for me. I gotta be home by Christmas.”
Leaning over lightly touching my thigh with the lacquered tips of her fingers, she purred in a gravely tone, “lucky gal. I hope you make it.”
“Thanks,” I croaked. “Let’s find me a service station.”
Before dropping me off at a large tire store, she gave my cheek a stroke and wished me luck. Mmmmm….another time…another place….I fleetingly fantasized, and pried myself out of the rocket-ship like bucket seat.
“You’re a peach. Thanks for the hitch,” I said, meaning it with all of my heart. If I’ve learned one thing from this horrible trip it’s that folks are mostly nice.
Tire stores in Las Vegas are huge. Buying only two because I couldn’t hitchhike with three, in fairly short order I was back on the on-ramp, thumb out in the opposite direction.
No, there was no spare, but surely this was the end of my bad streak. I had almost fifty dollars and was only hours away from being home for the holidays. This was starting to feel like a sappy Christmas story where the father barely makes it in time.
Clyde, lay on the dashboard when I pointed out my monstrous form of transportation to the nice guy who had picked me and the tires up. Earlier, riding in the cab of his truck, while shoveling in drive-in burgers, I had a bit of meltdown. His eyes got wider with every tire mishap I related and the frustration I was feeling.
“You’re traveling with a cat?” he asked, eyeing Clyde with no small degree of incredulity. “You didn’t tell me that part.”
“Ten flats, in six days, with a cat in the cab of a truck, is some real bad luck,” he commiserated. Walking around commenting on the bummer of having two flat tires at the same time, he looked closely at the two deflated lumps of rubber on the ground.
“Hey, you only have a single axle trailer here, mister. No wonder you’re having a tough time. It’s overloaded.”
No shit Sherlock.
“On the Road Again,” I whistled wearily, with two newish tires installed, approaching the off ramp that left me now only a few hours from home. “Nice, slow and steady,” I told myself seeing miles of straight road ahead.
Good weather and little traffic I thought and allowed my mind to wander back to the Iowa experience.
In late summer, when the corn was way taller than knee high, but not quite ready to harvest, I got a call from the local police. A two-year-old boy had wandered off into a several hundred-acre corn plantation during a picnic his parents were attending at a nearby farmhouse. The attendants, realizing him missing, called out and searched farm buildings. He must be lost in the cornfield they surmised. For a toddler it is more like a corn forest. Helicopter to the rescue. It wasn’t long after flying up and down the maze-like rows, I saw movement in the stalks. Doubling back, I could tell it was the object of our search.
“Drinks all around to the hero,” the grateful father toasted, tipping his mug of beer to me.
It felt good to be called a hero. I liked that….a lot.
One hundred miles from home, stopping at a gas station, I called home to give good news.
“Oh my god, are you still planning on being home tonight,?” my wife sounded like she just got a death sentence reprieve.
“Yep, that’s the plan,” I assured her.
“By dinner?” she tentatively speculated.
“Mmmmmm…well….I’m sure gonna try.” Nobody wanted to be home in their own bed more than me. “Clyde says, ‘meow.’” I said, trying to keep things light.
The last stretch had been smooth but slow sailing. I could almost smell dinner just a few more miles down the road but realized I wasn’t going to be on time. Another call to my wife came with another apology. I’d be late but would be there very soon.
“Really? You’re only an hour away?” my wife questioned, needing additional verification.
“Yep,” I answered reassuringly. “I’m gassing up now, just outside of Hesperia, and after I get over the Cajon Pass, it’ll be smooth sailing.”
“Oh my god, I’ll believe it when I see the whites of your eyes,” she responded.
“Sorry I couldn’t get there in time for dinner. But just thinking of a warmed over feast will jet propel me,” I stated. “And then, it’s a long hot shower before ravishing you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she agreed in a low husky whisper.
As darkness set in it started to rain. When approaching the El Cajon pass, funneling us into the San Bernardino basin things got dicey.
The wind blew hard to the south as I pulled out of the station back onto the Interstate behind a semi-truck. Staying well behind him in the slow lane I fought to keep going straight as my load pulled me toward the shoulder. Cars and big rigs whizzed by us throwing up walls of water leaving me with a sinking feeling about my one hour from home prediction.
Holding my breath as we struggled up the 4,500 foot crest of Cajon Pass, we reached the summit and I let loose with an ear piercing wahoo and horn honking. Startled, Clyde gave a screeching howl, springing out of his blissful curling pose into that of an arched back Halloween cat.
“Oh, sorry old boy,” I apologized in a lower voice, stroking his neck. “We really are going to make it home tonight.
Braking carefully, creeping down the crest I boasted to Clyde, “Well Bud, it was worth it. I always believed I could fly and by god I’ve done it. What a year.” Looking a bit skeptical he curled up in his usual position.
As I crooned my off-key harmonic version of ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You,’ along with the radio, I thought more of what my wife had been through this last year too. I sure was looking forward to holding her in my arms.
Just as my fantasy of plans for later were getting juicy, I heard the blast of a horn frantically blaring and saw through the downpour, lights flashing in the rear-view mirror. “What the hell now?” I screamed, startled out of my reverie.
Clyde leapt onto the floor and assumed his cowering position. The lights got closer, the horn louder. A huge semi was right on our tail. “Oh shit,” I yelled, yanking the steering wheel hard to the right toward the narrow shoulder.
In the mostly rainless months of the year California vehicles dribble motor oil on dry roads. When wet weather finally comes, mixing water and oil creates a film slippery as ice.
The driver of the out-of-control semi quickly appraised his perilous situation.
Pull left, his instincts screamed. And he did. But the slickness of the road resulted in what truckers dreaded most, a jack-knife.
Imagining how terrified the trucker felt, I watched in horror as his cab arched to the left, while the enormous trailer whipped around to the right. Skidding sideways it barely missed hitting the broadside of my flimsy wooden orange crate.
Pulling over as much as I could, given the time and space, I thanked my lucky stars to only feel a light graze of his load against the corner of mine.
The rate of rain, as darkness closed in offered only blurred glimpses of the helpless fifty-foot coach twisting and turning as it slid down hill smashing into vehicles in its unpredictable path.
Although the humongous trailer only nudged the back corner of mine, it was enough to send it smacking into a boulder. By the sound and feel, the wheel took the blunt force of the collision leading me to wonder about the tire. Home was less than a half an hour away.
Scrambling out of the cab on the traffic side, where we had come to our halt, brake lights zig-zagged down the highway ahead. Vehicles blasted horns as they futilely tried to dodge the cascading hulk of truck and trailer. Even through the downpour I could hear squealing brakes and the sickening sounds of metals colliding. Finally, the air grew silent except for the pounding rain.
I must have been in shock because it felt like my feet were welded in place rendering me totally unable to move.
Within minutes far-away wailing sirens announced the arrival of rescuers. Mute and still anchored to one spot I observed the chaos downhill.
Legions of squad cars, ambulances and firetrucks sped by. I remained transfixed, hanging tightly to the side of my truck terrified that letting go would plummet me into the mix. Jarred out of feeling utterly helpless, I realized one screeching howl I heard was Clyde. Scratching furiously on the window, his eyes twice the size as normal begged attention.
Finally, my mind and body reconnected. I reached for the door handle and carefully squeezed in. Holding him close, stroking him slowly, I took my first deep breath in the short amount of time it took this disaster to unfold.
Unsure what to do after Clyde calmed down, I continued to just sit and watch the scene of carnage sort out. Slowly, a police car pulled up rolling down his window, “are you alright?” he mouthed.
Opening my own window a crack I answered, “yes, but how bad is it down the road?”
“Lots of crumpled cars, blood and scared folks, but nobody died. It will however be a few hours before the road reopens.” He noticed my face fall. “Hang tight,” we’ll get you outa here before morning.”
“Morning?” I gasped. “But, but, but, well damn,” I muttered, looking at my watch that read nine.
Giving me a sympathetic but harried nod, he drove off.
“Well, Bud,” I caressed my faithful companion purring in my lap, our family is going to think we’re dead for sure if we don’t show up soon.” Wiping my face with a dirty towel I felt the urge to scream and pound the steering wheel, but saving whatever energy left gained priority and tentatively I grabbed the door handle and stepped out.
Stumbling around the back of the marooned mess, I stopped in my tracks. The tire wasn’t flat, it was gone. The axle rested in the mud. Another foot further and the whole side of that trailer would have been hanging over the edge of the precipice I quickly deduced the tire had rolled down. My heart sank as I stood staring down the steep brushy and rocky side hill. Somewhere down there in the muck and mire was the wheel I desperately needed to find.
This can’t be happening, my brain screamed silently. So close, so far. So close, so wet.
Flashlight in hand, descending the slope, the heel of my boot slipped and immediately launched me down a mud-soup chute. Stopped by a boulder, I struggled to my feet, beamed a 360, and seeing a glint of silver lodged in the crook of a scraggly tree, I hoped for the best. Jubilation propelled me when recognizing the object of my current desire. A cursory inspection gratefully revealed the tire itself wasn’t flat but had just lost some air. Hauling the now heavily mud encrusted wheel back up the cliff that spewed enough runoff to be classified an official river, completely exhausted me. Covered in grime and soaking wet I gratefully climbed in my truck to take a short rest.
Clyde and I huddled together sharing the narrow front seat. Drifting off, I woke up to a strong spotlight through the window.
“Hey, bud.” a Sherriff rapped loudly on the window. “Just wanted to let you know, we’ll have you out in a few more hours,” he announced.
“I got a problem,” I wearily replied. “The outta control semi ran me off the road flattening my tire.” Clyde stretched toward the crack in my window.
“You got a cat with you?” the tired looking guy asked.
“Me and my kids love cats,” he elaborated. “You know, most folks, if they have pets are either cat or dog people. Me? I have both, but think cats are the coolest.”
“Yep, me and old Clyde have been on the road for eight days. But we’ve had a bit of bad luck. Fifteen-hundred miles and eleven flats. Bet that’s a record,” I blurted out.
Knowing I sounded and looked totally pathetic, I whined further.
“Now I’m a half hour from my wife and kids and can’t make it. For Christmas and all,” I added unabashedly.
Well maybe it was pity or the spirit of the season, in any case this nice public servant rolled up his sleeves, produced a tire pump from his trunk and insisted on helping me fix what I surely did hope would be the last flat of my life.
The last thing the good samaritan sheriff said before he escorted us through the pile-up was, “Merry Christmas kid, and next trip get a double-axled rig. That one is over-loaded if you ask me.”
“Yep,” I freely admitted, feeling sheepish and dumb.
It was 2a.m. on Christmas Eve morning. I’d missed dinner by eight hours.
Uneventfully we pulled up in front of my mother’s old two-story Victorian house.
In between the fatigue and relief, I felt a spark of anticipation. Without so much as a glance in the mirror I hugged Clyde to my chest and walked up the steps to the front door. Quietly I nudged it open.
On the bottom stair leading to the second floor there snoozed my wife.
The closing of the door startled her into a wide-eyed awakening.
“Oh my god,” she squealed, standing up. “My boys are home.”
“Hi baby,” I whispered, setting Clyde down and holding my arms out.
“Sorry we’re late, it’s a long story.”
Breaking into a big grin she melted into my arms. Surprised how much strength I still had, I almost crushed her. Unbuttoning my shirt her hands stroked my bare chest.
After a few gritty kisses she pulled my arm, and said, “You look like hell, let’s get you cleaned up,” and beckoned me upstairs.
Smooshed close in the stall shower, it was ecstasy feeling the hot water and her fingers caress me.
“Boy honey, you’re sure skinny,” she remarked running the bar of soap over my bony frame.
“First time I’ve ever seen your ribs,” she laughed. It had been almost a month since she and the kids left.
“And your hair is so long and dirty you’ll need a pitchfork to untangle it,” she further observed.
In my haste to wrap things up and get on the road, nourishing meals and personal grooming fell by the wayside, I explained.
Later, snug in our flannel sheeted bed, between making up for lost time and talking, we watched the sun come up.
Stumbling down the stairs at two o’clock that afternoon good old mom welcomed her favorite son home with a five-star breakfast.
Watching us eat and appraising my slim self, she commented to my wife, “Well, for a change we’ll get to fatten him up.” I sure looked forward to that.
What I didn’t look forward to was facing the battered trailer.
In the bright light of the sunny California Christmas Eve day I was as shocked as my wife when we walked out to see its condition. As well as the paint being scraped off in various streaks, and peeling off in others, there was a hole on the starboard side the size of a grapefruit, and the lop-sided doors were secured with baling wire. Old orangey was a sorry sight.
“So, what about our stuff,” my wife asked tentatively.
“Hmmmm…well,” I began, “I only sold things that were mine, not yours.”
Slumping, I went on sheepishly. “But there was one thing of yours that has a wee bit of damage.”
Untying the wired doors, I helped her into the disheveled interior of the ill-fated contraption. Looking around, sighing loudly, she waited for my confession.
“Well, when the doors flew open going up a hill, the first stuff to fly out were some of our clothes. I managed to find most of them,” I told her, “but, there was a lot of traffic behind me and I did the best I could, but, oh here.”
Slowly I revealed what I held behind my back.
“I’m sorry, maybe you can fix it?” I suggested hopefully.
Surprisingly, although her eyes widened and her lips pursed, she said nothing, as she examined her beige lace wedding dress.
Running her hands over the blackened tire print embedded with gravel that ran across the entire front of her treasured garment she then looked at me and wadded it up in a ball.
Walking over to Bertha, the guilty cylinder of steel that was responsible for the last unforgettable eight days, she started gently caressing its smooth exterior while looking passively back and forth between it and me.
Then, with a complete change of attitude she screamed, “FUCK”, kicked the side of it and turned her back to me.
Speechless, I just stood there waiting to see what would happen next.
I could see her doing her deep breathing thing.
Slowly turning around to face me, she dropped the damaged garment on the floor and gave me the smile I’d fallen in love with.
“Ah well,” she lamented, “it’s only a dress.”
And it was.
So good! More please