Mrs. Murray

A tale of a woman scorned...

           Mrs. Murray

“Breaker, breaker, is anyone there?” Patti spoke tentatively into the microphone.

Within seconds a husky baritone answered.

“What’s your handle?” he asked.

Quizzically, Patti looked over at Carol.

“He means what do we call ourselves?” she told her.

“Uhh, we’re the Road Trippers,” Patti answered, as she looked over at Carol who gleefully nodded her head.

Two months previously Patti called her friend and neighbor Carol with exciting news. “I bought a new car today.” 

“I didn’t know you were shopping for one,” Carol said with surprise.

“Yep, got tired of that old crap-mobile of mine breaking down all the time. Thought a person of my station in life deserved an upgrade,” Patti explained.

 “Hope you bought a red convertible with leather seats.” Carol teased.

“Oh right,” Patti snapped back. “Remember my three kids? It’s a station-wagon silly. But,” she added, “it zooms right up my steep drive”.

In 1980, Chrysler, under the American Motors banner, came out with the first 4 wheel passenger vehicle, an Eagle. Patti bought a budget two-toned blue one that fit a family of five.

“Does she have a name?” Carol asked.

Because who doesn’t name their cars?

“I’m thinking, The Blue Hornet, is fitting,” she answered proudly.

“It sounds fast, and certainly is more creative than ‘Greenie,’ your last car,” Carol teased.

Patti’s jubilation was short lived however when the next day she called Carol bringing bad news.

“Well,” she began. “So much for new cars. She’s already in the shop.”

“What happened?” Carol inquired with surprise.

“Wouldn’t start. Had all the kids loaded up and when I turned the key, nothing. Nothing,” she repeated with emphasis.

“Nothing? A brand new car and nothing?” Carol mimicked back with incredulity.

“Nope. Nothing, not even a click,” Patti howled. “When I called the dealer, Murray Chrysler, they sent a tow-truck out and gave me a piece of junk to drive until it’s repaired. This is not a good omen.”

And it wasn’t. Although the shiny new car was returned with a new starter, a week later Patti called her friend with the latest update.

“Well, you’re not going to believe this one,” she shrilly began.

“While I ran into the house to get my purse this morning, I left the kids in the car and one of them honked the horn to hurry me up, and it got stuck. Then Jimmy started screaming because I couldn’t get it to stop, and I had to drive all the way to town with the horn blaring and a hysterical child.”

Barely containing her laughter, Carol inquired, “Then what happened?”

“Tom, slunk down in the back seat with his jacket over his head, so nobody would recognize him, as we drove down the grade, horn blaring away, until we got to the gas station. That was one long twenty minute drive.”

 “Did they get it stopped?”

“Yes, good old John had to disconnect the wire though, and when he tried re-connecting it, the horn blasted away again. So, now it’s back at the dealers for a second time in less than two weeks.”

But it was the third faulty car incident that pushed Patti over the edge.

“The goddamn car’s a lemon,” she sounded on the verge of tears as she recounted to Carol the latest news. “We were almost killed this time.”

“Holy crap, what happened?”

“The brakes gave out,” Patti wailed.

“She started rolling backwards down the hill and finally came to a stop, just before we catapulted out onto the main road. We all could’ve died,” she rightly stated.

“This time had us all screaming so loud I’m surprised you didn’t hear us even inside your house.”

“What a piece of garbage,” her next door buddy concurred. “Now what?”

“It’s back at the dealers again. And this time I told Mr. Murray I wanted my money back, but he wasn’t going for that. He finally talked me into giving the car one more try, but I told him I was not going to drive any of his crappy loaners again, so he finally relented and gave me his wife’s car to drive til mine was fixed….and it better be this time, fixed I mean.”

Patti drove her latest loaner for a month while waiting for her own car to be repaired and grew quite fond of it. Because it belonged to the dealership it had all the bells and whistles Patti’s stripped-down model lacked.

Seats of buttery leather were Patti’s favorite upgrade, so soft they could have been worn as a luxury coat.  Her kids loved the skylight that allowed them to watch the rain fall. The sound system boasted top of the line speakers that transported them to a stadium rock concert and unlike Patti’s original generic blue version, a gold panel highlighted the mink brown outside paint job.

The mystery feature was a box installed under the stereo with a microphone. Later it was identified as a CB radio.

After announcing to Carol that she liked the loaner car way better than her own, Patti invited her to go on a weekend road trip, four hundred miles north, to visit her uncle in Reno, Nevada.

“Will Mr. Murray let you take it that far?”

“Screw Mr. Murray, I’m keeping her,” Patti scowled”.

“Huh? Did he say you could?”

“No, but his stupid other car almost killed us, and you’ve heard the saying about possession reigning supreme, or something like that? Well, I have the car and he doesn’t, and I’m not giving her back.”

Carol’s eyebrows raised to new heights, “Alright then gal,” she nodded, but suspected high drama was ahead.

“I am so ready to get outta Dodge,” Patti sighed, heaving a dufflebag brimming with foodstuffs, towards the confiscated vehicle she had christened Mrs. Murray.

“Geez, what is all this?” Carol inquired, her mouth watering merely glimpsing the delectable assortment of snacks. “We’re only going for a weekend, and it’s only an eight hour drive.”

“I know, I think I out did myself this time,” Patti nodded her head with approval, peering at the bountiful load.

“Road trips make you hungry you know. Hey, almost forgot the ice chest.” Waving her arm toward the kitchen she gestured to Carol. “Could you get that?”

Loading the cooler of clinking bottles Carol couldn’t help but notice how Mrs. Murray had quickly taken on the look of a well-used family vehicle. Once pristine carpets were strewn with wrappers, leaking soda cans and extra clothing. Former spotless windows, including the skylight, were smeared with child and dog goo.  

That observance prompted the question, “Heard from Mr. Murray lately?”

Patti rolled her eyes and let out a whistling sigh, “Yeah, he wants his wife’s car back.”

“And?”

“I told him to go bark up a tree. He’s got a whole car lot, he can give his wife a new one,” she hypothesized.

“And?”

“And, he said he’s going to call the police and sue me if I don’t bring it back right away,” she said slightly shrugging.

“Like when?”

“Like today. That’s why this is such a good weekend to take a road trip.” Patti said confidently. “Let’s go.”

“Then what did you tell him?” Carol couldn’t wait to hear this answer.

“I told him go ahead, sue me. To take his best shot at trying to pawn off a dangerous lemon of a car on a single mother of three.  So, good timing eh? Let’s go,” she almost commanded this time.

She then added, “Hope you remembered to bring your bathing suit, in case we find a hot springs to stop at.”

Carol, who liked driving, slipped behind the wheel while Patti, who didn’t, settled in the passenger seat with the bountiful bundle at her feet.

Not twenty minutes from home, after the first highway interchange, Patti began rifling through her stash offering Carol bagels smeared with imported cheeses, exotic fresh fruits and several varieties of salamis, all accompanied by strong coffee and fresh virgin Bloody Mary’s.

About an hour from home, picking up the microphone dangling from the radio, Patti started pushing buttons until she didn’t hear static and cleared her throat.  

Glancing at Carol, who was watching and having a hard time keeping her eye on the road, Patti took charge.

 

“So where are you Road Trippers going?” asked the voice hearing their tentative attempts on the other end. “Over.”

“Who are you?” Patti too followed up with an “over”.

“Look at your rear-view mirror Road Trippers. Zeus here. I’m the big rig struggling up this grade behind you in the slow lane.”

“Oh, over”.

Zeus? And so began a conversation, hardly private, on a trucker channel, that carried on for the next 50 miles. During the many threads with lots of ‘overs’ Patti hinted she had never ridden in a big rig, and sure would like to. Next thing you know the Road Trippers and Zeus arranged a rendezvous at a pull-out where Patti quickly packed some goodies and jumped in the cab of his truck, ‘just for the experience,’ she winked, climbing up.

Carol followed behind them, communicating via CB for an hour, recognizing the chorus of ‘Bobby McGee’ in the background, as the barren desert landscape flew by. At a junction of two roads in the middle of nowhere Patti bid Zeus a fond farewell and re-joined her traveling companion.

“Well,” she said, “that was fun.”

While Carol gunned Mrs. Murray, getting back on the highway, Patti offered up mixed nuts and Jelly Bellys, and picked up the microphone again.

“Breaker, breaker, it’s The Road Trippers, anybody copy? Over.” She was starting to get the hang of things.

After a bit of static, a voice on the other end said, “Hey, Grandpa John here, where are you headed?”

“How far to Bishop?” Patti mumbled with a mouthful.

“Well, Road Trippers, when you come up over the next grade you are only a few minutes away” the trucker answered. “Stopping to eat? Over.”

Shifting the mike from one sticky hand to another, she replied, eyeing their food supply, “Hardly.  We’re just looking to make a pit stop. Over.”

Bishop, 300 miles northeast of San Diego, is the business hub of the Owens Valley. With a population of 3,000, it limps along with vigor after William Mulholland stole most of their water, for Los Angeles, in the early 1900’s.

Agriculture plays a much smaller role in their financial world since, but they’ve managed to re-invent themselves in an unusual way.

Bishop distinguishes itself by holding the un-disputed title of ‘mule capital of the world’!

Mule Days, celebrated on Memorial Day, brings thousands to this small city, and is undeniably the biggest annual event in Bishop

Patti and Carol rolled into town on the day of Bishop’s second biggest celebration, Water Weenie Day.

A water weenie is a home-made squirt gun with a remarkably long range. To make one meant filling a large balloon with water, putting a small section of surgical tubing out the balloons hole and sticking in the end of that, the small end piece of a ballpoint pen.

Before the Road Trippers came to a stop at the nearest gas station, their car became the target of the revelry.

With wide eyes, Carol and Patti watched through the dripping windshield as their car was approached by assaulters, weenies pointed in their direction.

“Yikes,” was their response in unison.

Rolling to a stop at the gas pump, several of the partiers, all smiling, approached.

Patti rolled down her window.

“Hey,” she directed at two teenaged boys, weenies by their sides, “What’s going on?”

Cordially, the would-be stalkers briefly explained why large members of the population had armed themselves with these weird wet weapons.

A few years before, several ingenious youngsters fashioned what they considered the ultimate water toy. When school let out for the already hot summer, they instigated water fights with classmates. Somehow, it caught on and became a tradition to make one and after asking someone if they wanted to cool off, and hearing they did, they let them have it.

‘Good clean fun’, the grown folks pronounced and the next year made their own. Each year since, for one hour after the doors of knowledge are closed for the season, the whole town took up with glee, this watery pursuit.

After their assailants with emptied weapons left, the two passengers of the absconded Mrs. Murray collapsed in laughter.

When they finally caught their breaths, Patti sputtered, “That was awesome. I want one of those.”

Carol, never one to put the cabosh on a good time, agreed.

After that diversion, the two women of the road, once again set out on their ill-advised adventure, in a car that looked like it had been dipped in a vat of colorfully splotched camouflage paint. All guaranteed to wash right off, they’d been told.

“Gee, I guess not everyone had plain water in their weenies,” Patti rightly observed.

Doubling up in hilarity at that visual, Carol responded weakly, “Yep, I think some folks got real creative with the liquids they loaded up with. I’m getting a whiff of a grape Kool-Aid and chocolate milk combo.”

And so, windshield wipers flapping they drove out of town, with the once divine Mrs. Murray a bit worse for wear.

“Now, doncha think?” Patti suggested as she rummaged through the bounty stash, “That a good hot soak would feel great now?”

Carol, feeling their original destination was getting a bit off-track, just shrugged her shoulders and grabbed an offered artichoke crostini from her.

“Well then, that’s decided,” Patti nodded, wiping off her gooey hand and grabbing the microphone.

“Breaker, breaker,” she began.
“Road Trippers here. Anyone out there? Over,” she asked once again.

After only a few seconds, “Hey ladies, Tom Thumb here. What can I do for you? Over.”

“Hey Tom Thumb, we’re looking for a hot-springs that’s supposed to be around these parts. Any clue as to where? Over.”

“Well mam, you’re in luck. Got a pencil, I’ll tell you how to get there,” Tom Thumb quickly answered and asked if they were ready to write down directions.

“Wow, is this slick or what?” exclaimed Penny after a thanks a lot and an ‘over’. “Way easier than going to a gas station to ask directions, eh?”

“Sounds pretty straight forward,” Carol agreed.

He told them about an hour down the highway to start looking for an old billboard that had a faded Marlboro Man on it. Go past it and turn left on the second dirt road.

“Seems a little vague,” Carol summed up while Patti put together a fruit and cheese plate.

“Hey, have you ever heard of the revenge column in the National Enquirer?” Patti asked as she held it up.

“I don’t read that rag,” Carol answered, scrunching up her face in a scowl. “Where did that come from?”

“At the market. I thought it would be fun. Maybe we’ll find out where Elvis has been all these years,” Patti speculated.

“I can’t believe you’re reading that garbage…..But okay, so read me something,” Carol challenged.

“Well,” said Patti turning it to a page titled ‘How to Get Even with a Rotten Spouse.’

As scorned single mothers, this topic intrigued them both.

“Let’s hear it,” Carol encouraged as they whizzed merrily along.

“Well, one good piece of advice to get back at them,” Patti reported, “is to leave em penniless. Take a second trust deed out on the house and hire the most mad dog attorney you can find to leave them and their cutie pie younger girlfriends living in a tent and eating pizza every night.”

“Hmmm,” Carol sighed, “That one rarely works as we both already know. Next?”

“You’re right. Here’s one that says to get a hold of his address book and call his girlfriends and tell them you’re sorry to inform them he died.”

Carol gave a thumbs up at that one.

“But wait, here it is, my favorite,” Patti erupted in laughter with such force she could hardly tell her that one woman’s suggestion was to, ‘just put dog poop in his mailbox’.

When they caught their breaths and had cruised all the scandal ridden pages, it was time to start looking for the turn-off.

“Boy, a hot soak sure will feel good, eh driver,” Patti leaned over giving her shoulder a pat.

“Hey, there’s the Marlboro Man,” Carol announced enthusiastically.

Two roads further offered a left offshoot that looked more like a goat trail.

“This doesn’t seem right,” Patti lamented. “Let’s call one of the boys to make sure,” and picked up the mic.

No sooner did she get out the ‘Breaker, breaker,’ than a voice answered back.

“Hey Road Trippers, need some help? Danny Boy here. Over.”

“How did you know our names? Over.” Patti asked.

“Anyone can listen in on a CB call, he told her. “I’ve been going your way behind you long enough to hear your last one. Over.”

“We think we’re at the hot springs turn-off, but it looks like a weedy trail to nowhere. Over.” Patti told him.

 “Yep,” the answer came, “You’re on the right old road. It’s not far, less than a mile I’d say. Over”

Exchanging glances, Patti shrugged her shoulders, “How bad could it be. If it’s only a mile let’s give it a go.”

“ Hey, Mrs. Murray’s a 4 wheeler,” Carol observed, giggling then grimacing as the car scraped bottom over the pot-holed path.

“I know, we’re probably losing parts as we drive,” Patti agreed, grabbing the handle over her door, for stability.

As they made a hard turn the road widened and after another turn it opened up onto a spacious turn-around area where a lone Sheriff’s car was parked facing them as they drove up.

“Damn,” Carol turned to Patti. “Why is he here?”

Sitting tight, they watched the Sheriff’s car door open as he walked over.

Motioning for them to roll down their window, they did.

Bending down to see the two women, he introduced himself, “I’m Danny Boy, the Sherriff, he said solemnly. Nice to meet you ladies, but we’ve got a problem here.”

“I thought Danny Boy was a trucker. What kind of problem? Isn’t this where the hot springs is?” asked Patti, who was getting a very bad feeling.

“Get out of the car and please give me your licenses and registration,” the stout Sheriff commanded.

“Huh, why?” demanded Patti.

“Well,” the Sheriff informed them as he scratched his chin, “This car you’re driving has been reported stolen.”

“Well crap,” Carol and Patti sighed together, as they dug in their purses for their I.D.s, and sheepishly got out of the car.

“So, Patti,” the Sheriff said looking at the picture on her license and then at her, “Mr. Murray would like his car back.”

As the two women glanced at the vehicle in question, Carol, lips pursed, gave Patti an angry ‘I told you so,’ look.

Ignoring Carol, Patti, staring straight in the Sheriff’s eyes gave him her answer, “So here’s the deal. He’s not getting it back. It’s mine now. He tried to pawn off a piece of garbage on me.”

Continuing after a big breath, “My children and I were almost killed in that crummy car he sold me, and that was after three other malfunctions.”

Carol could see Sherriff Danny Boy’s eyes widen when hearing this far-fetched tale.

On a roll, Patti continued, “And, while repairing it for the umpteenth time, after having to drive one of his junkers, he finally loaned me this good one,” she said trying to brush some of the gunk off the now un-recognizable Mrs. Murray.

“And….I like it better. Way better. And, that’s the end of this story,” Patti defiantly summed up.

Carol had never seen her friend be so confrontational, but silently cheered her on.

“Miss Downey, you don’t seem to understand, the Sheriff explained, trying to keep his voice calm and steady. “I can arrest you for ‘Grand Theft Auto’,” and rattled the handcuffs hanging from his belt.

Softening their tones, the two women asked for mercy in their case. Nodding his head, the Sheriff conceded they had good points and commiserated, but that nevertheless, the car was reported stolen, and he no choice but to arrest them and put them in the hoosegow.

“So,” Patti asked when the tension lessened, “How did you get involved in this? We’re almost three hundred miles from home?”

Cracking a smile, the Sheriff explained that he heard all their chatter on the CB. Then he heard an ‘all-points bulletin’ from headquarters that a car like they were driving had been stolen. On a hunch, he asked if any of the truckers had the license plate number for the ‘Road Trippers’. One did and it was a match. All it took was more listening in and getting to the hot spring’s destination first.

“Well, this is a fine mess,” Carol sighed, staring at Patti. “Busted. Now what?”

Patti, meekly shrugged her shoulders and pronounced, “Guess our road trip is over.”

“So ladies, I’m going to make this easy for you,” Sheriff Danny Boy told them and gave them two options.

Number One was to turn Mrs. Murray around and head home. He would follow them to the county line and then another officer would accompany them the rest of the way.

Option Number Two was the rattling of handcuffs.

Quickly, the women took the path of least resistance and agreed to option Number One.

Once out on the highway again, this time headed south, Patti rummaged through the basket for the artisan bread and the ice chest for cold cuts and started smearing mustard.

“Sandwich? she offered Carol. “Gotta keep our strength up and we’ve got a lot of goodies to eat,” she rightly announced.

Noticing the sun beginning to set, Carol speculated they wouldn’t have much daylight left and asked Patti if a phone call home was a good idea?

“Ahh, let’s don’t,” Patti answered. “It will be hard enough to explain this to the kids when we get there.”

Sheriff Danny Boy turned out to be quite chatty on the CB. By the time he handed them off to the next county’s officer, they knew all about his failed marriages, and blind dates woes.

Fifty miles from home, with the new officer on their tail, Patti finally displayed some repentance.

“I’m sorry gal,” she told Carol earnestly. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. Hope we don’t get a police record, but this doesn’t mean I’m giving Mrs. Murray back without a lot of kicking and screaming.”

With the San Diego Sheriff’s car close behind, it was after ten o’clock when they pulled into Patti’s driveway, where the officer left them with the promise to return the car in the morning.

The next day Patti, with her three children in tow, pulled in the parking lot of Murray Chrysler.

Mr. Murray was standing outside his office with arms crossed.

As she and her brood stopped and got out, he walked over and without a word took stock of his wife’s once immaculate vehicle.

Clumps of dried mud hung from the fenders, and it was hard to tell the color of the once shiny exterior. A single glance at the grimy interior prompted a large moan but validated the hard decision he had already made.

After imagining what further damage this enraged woman standing before him might do next, he had reluctantly but wisely concluded it would not be good for his business to challenge this determined mother in court.

Glaring and seething inside, he calmly reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the car’s registration and handed it to Patti, who had been primed for battle, but was now rendered speechless.

Then Mr. Murray, with hands in a prayer position, pleaded, “And please, the next time you’re in the market for a new car, go to a Ford dealer.”