Nothing says “terror” like a hot desert breeze and the slow sputter of a car dying on the side of Nevada’s Highway 95. It was 12:30 PM, and I was three hours outside of Las Vegas, on the way home to Reno. The trip one way takes an efficient driver 7.5 hours, including a ten minute stop in Tonopah to use the restroom, refill the gas tank and avoid the stares of the small-town locals.
So as my 1989 Volkswagen Cabriolet (also known as “Gretchen”) decided it was time to take a break, my heart leapt to my throat, beating double-time. There was no chance of cell phone reception here in the middle of the desert. It seemed as though the towering telephone poles - the only tall things in plain sight excepting the distant mountains - stood testament to the foolishness that was the thought of using a wireless phone. I quickly took stock of what I’d need to get to the next town. Tonopah was an ominous 30 mile hike from my position, and while I knew there was a small town just on the other side of the hills, I had no idea what the mechanic situation was. I’d been through the town tens of times before, on my way to or from the only two outposts of humanity in Nevada, and it seemed reasonable enough that there was someone there that could help me.
Upon further consideration of the mile-long hike uphill in the desert, trudging along the side of the road in the mid-day heat was not quite so alluring as sitting in my crippled car and baking to death slowly. It may not sound terribly palatable to those of you reading right now, but I assure you, when faced with miles of asphalt and sand, there is a certain something to be said about a slow, avoidable death. I wasn’t sure how long that would take, or if I would be served medium rare or medium well, it seemed infinitely more appealing than walking to Goldfield. Then again, I did have to be to work on Wednesday. Admittedly, my work ethic is a bit skewed.
I decided that avoiding being eaten by rattlesnakes and kangaroo mice was probably the way to go. Gathering the things that were most important to me (and most interesting to thieves, should there be any marauding coyotes waiting to ransack my car when I’d gone), I closed and locked both doors and turned toward the intermittent Northbound traffic. Thumb out, pointed skyward I squinted into the glaring sun that seemed to be only a few miles above my modest reach.
Thankfully, it took only two tries for me to impart some sort of sympathy from the passers-by. An elderly gentleman with his war-time Asian wife in the passenger seat of their heavy duty truck pulled off the highway, causing a cloud of foul-smelling dust to follow behind the RV that the powerful engine dragged behind. The man hopped from the truck and without hesitation asked what was wrong.
Was I out of gas? Was it overheated? Did I need some water; a ride to Tonopah? I was overwhelmed by his apparent concern for a stranger and answered as best I could. I told him that my battery had died and had been replaced while I was in Las Vegas. I also told him that my battery light had come on once more before the engine died. He seemed to think that the problem was the alternator, that it wasn’t charging the battery properly.
He was wrong. Clearly, he had no idea of knowing that I had replaced the alternator just two weeks previous. It was a Bosch. It was installed by a certified master mechanic. The week before that, the master fuel pump was replaced, and the week before that, it was the slave cylinder. I had just replaced the last of the four tires, as well. It boggled my mind, but as the large truck pulled back onto the highway and the wife turned to ask me if I needed some water, I was already attempting to figure out the best course of action. I had chanced to think that the alternator was bad as Gretchen rolled to the side of the road, but I had quickly corrected myself. There was absolutely no way my mechanic would do this to me.
The drive to what was charitably called a town was short, but no less awkward than I had dreaded. The wife kept asking if I wanted to go to Tonopah instead of Goldfield. Her broken English seemed to have been taught by the husband, given her southern twang matched his. Given the visual of an aged woman of Asian descent, it seemed to fit her awkwardly, like a little girl wearing her father’s cowboy hat.
I insisted that I would be fine, that I was neither hungry nor thirsty and that, if all else failed, I had family in Vegas who could come rescue me. As the buildings grew and faded in frequency all within eyesight, the driver and I both began to lose faith that this haphazard gathering of humanity harbored any manner of help for me or my car. Just as I thought to rescind my offer to tough it out in Goldfield and accept the ride to Tonopah, we cried “there we go” in unison.
Out of the truck I shuffled, thanking the man and his wife profusely. They wanted to know if they should stay and give me a ride to Tonopah if people aren’t helpful here. I said I didn’t want to hold them up any longer, though really the answer that first screamed in my brain was something akin to ‘just take me home with you, I’ll cook, I’ll clean, I’ll even wipe your ass if you say please.’ Perhaps I’m just too Midwestern farm-girl to actually say something even close to that.
As I approach the shack, I note the tow truck and the car in the front lot, which I suppose could be called a parking lot. Inside the car that had been towed were two boys probably in their early teens. When I say ‘inside,’ though, I mean quite literally inside... Standing in the engine compartment, rooting around for parts or some other such activity one would expect from vagrants/junkyard heathens. I suspect that when the apocalypse happens and monkeys start repopulating the world, they’ll do much the same thing; scrounging for useful parts left over from the humans’ habitation of the top rung on the food chain.
The car looked as though it had been sandblasted by a blind man; original paint was faded, and the primer gray shone through, giving me the fleeting thought of a jack o'lantern grinning a gap-toothed smile. A little macabre, and not the image I wanted burned into my brain, especially considering the fact that I was looking for assistance from these people, whatever sort of people they might have been. I started to hear imaginary banjos start to play in my brain. I’ve seen Deliverance; I know how this could end… Instead of indulging the fantasy, I focused on what lie before me.
The structure looked as though it had been there for eons. Each rusted nail seemed to be hanging on for dear life, determined to be the very last one to keep the roof attached to the rest of the ramshackle hull of the place. It was small, uninviting and infested with both children and rotting husks of ancient pickup trucks. . . but it was there. Settling myself into a hopeful smile, I opened my cell phone but I was quickly as disappointed as I had been when I’d opened it twenty minutes ago, nearer my car. No matter! I was with people now and not in the middle of the desert without human contact. This was certainly a step up from being stuck inside my car, slowly roasting to death in order to provide an excellent meal for the Gila monsters or whatever sort of animal lived out in the desert.
As I approached the building I noted the astounding plethora of dogs, children and Chevy parts surrounding me. Odd, but I grew up in a small, rural town, so I tend to consider myself adept at rolling with the rednecky punches (I was inclined to think there was no such thing as a 'rednecky punch'... this experience taught me differently). The children all stopped and stared, one taking the time to wipe his forehead with his arm. It was hot, nearly 95 degrees already and it was hardly afternoon.
None of the children spoke to me and seemed instead, content to stand and stare as though I were some strange, shiny thing that they rarely got a glimpse of. I had the feeling that in this town, I would be the pretty one. This is never a good feeling, as most of the time being the pretty one, the new one, the strange one or the weird one always breeds curiosity or contempt. Either way, I did not want to draw undue attention to myself so I disconnected my just-as-slack-jawed-as-theirs stare from the children and headed toward the building on the premises. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn I had entered one of the creepier, children-centric horror movies… the kind where you end up being chased through a corn field by the little blond-haired, blue-eyed kid.
Stepping into the decrepit structure, I decided it seemed more equipped to handle local flea market excursions than automotive needs. 8-track cassettes, Beta Max players, Atari consoles and black and white televisions were jammed up against the wall in hand-made shelves. The balance of the room was dominated by old appliances - most from the 1950's era - as well as magazines, shoes, clothing and kitchenware. All of it was covered with a rather well established layer of dust and desert grit that seemed to have settled over everything and everyone I'd seen since I hopped out of the Veteran's truck. Undeterred, I smiled at the early-teenaged girl who appeared at the counter. She, upon seeing a somewhat-distressed stranger, leaned back to yell “Gran’pa!” and then smiled, holding up one finger to me, as though she surmised instantly that she could do nothing for me.
Presently, an older man in black suspenders, silver crew-cut and a scowl appeared. He was wiping his hands on a shop towel. This was just the sight that I had wanted. The waving of the red fabric between his thick, greasy fingers made me breathe a sigh of relief. I was saved. Surely, this was an excellent sign!
He unabashedly assessed me as I told my tale of woe, then grunted and shook his head, “Sorry, but I’m tryin’ to get out of the repair business. I’m retired.”
I stood there; mouth agape for a long moment, staring at him as though he’d sprouted a second head on his shoulders. I nearly screamed. Surely he was pulling my chain. If what he said was true, the sign declaring “24- hour service station” was highly misleading. Instead of bringing this to his attention in a calm and rational manner, as I normally would have done, I started to cry.
I feel that at this juncture, it is important to note that I am not the sort of woman to lose my cool in a stressful situation. I have had a flat tire in the same county in which they filmed the move Deliverance; I have been locked in a bomb shelter; I have been surrounded by security guards who didn’t speak anything but Russian and I’ve handled myself well in most other sketchy situations.
Once more, a slow, hot death in the car was looking terribly appealing. Unfortunately for me, it was now miles away, baking in the hot desert sun as I should have been. I silently cursed the fact that I had decided to go and hitch a ride into ‘town.’ So it was with a sigh, I asked the man if I could use his phone, being that I couldn’t get my cell phone to decide it wanted to pick up any of the very weakest signals. He agreed and I called my boyfriend to tell him I was going to be ‘a little bit late’ coming home. He was understandably worried for me, but I told him that everything was fine. I lied, of course. At this point, I was fairly certain that nothing was fine and I would end up with my head on a pike placed near the roadside to warn all out-of-towners what happened to people who sought assistance.
After I finished up my call, the man who identified himself as CJ, asked if there was someone I could call to help me get back home. Explaining my situation further, I commented that my closest rescue was in Las Vegas, but that I needed to get home to Reno today. He pondered this for a moment, fingers dipping into the belt loops on his worn blue jeans.
“Tell ya what, hop in the truck. There’s a guy in town who could be able to help you out. He’s not a mechanic, really but he’s good with cars.”
I was elated. A ray of hope! My father, who worked with cars most of his life, and who is incredibly mechanically inclined, would never call himself a mechanic but I’m sure he’d have been able to assess and fix my problem. With this rationale, I was certain that the man CJ was speaking of was of the same ilk. Not a mechanic, but someone who could help.
Still a little teary-eyed, I got into the passenger side of CJ’s truck and buckled myself in. Undoubtedly, it was going to be a short trip, but I decided that obeying the rules of the road here applied. Once in the car, CJ informed me that not only was he retired and helping to raise his grandchildren, but that he was the county commissioner. A prestigious position, definitely. I congratulated him on his appointment and, between checking his mirrors, he eyed me sidelong.
“So what’s a good, god-fearin’ girl like you doing in the city of sin?” he asked with a decidedly biblical note in his voice. Clearly, this man doesn’t know me very well.
“Oh, I was just visiting some friends.” I add, leaving out the part that involved drinking, staying up ‘till all hours of the morning and generally marauding around barefoot in a public park wearing a bodice and armed with a dagger.
He left my trip to Las Vegas alone after that and started to describe the man with whom he’d be leaving me. It didn’t seem like a bad idea in theory; this man, Bubba, was good with cars and was always home. He didn’t charge much and had been able to help lots of people since the service station had gone out of business. He was a good, Christian man and shouldn’t give me any problems whatsoever. Bolstered by these descriptions, I watched intently as we pulled into a driveway between two double-wide mobile homes. Each was separated into threes, apparently because the rent on a whole double-wide was a little much for the residents of Goldfield. I began to get a little worried.
I reached for the door handle of the truck and started to unbuckle my seatbelt, but CJ put his hand on my arm and said “Wait a second, let’s see if he’s home.” He stuck the silvered head of a war veteran out the driver’s side window and bellowed,
“Ey Bubba… you home?”
From inside the trailer we heard rustling and then a muffled “Yeah…”
“You dressed?” CJ called from the truck. I immediately knew exactly why he’d cautioned me to stay in the truck. The response only confirmed my suspicion.
“…Gimmie a minute.”
I was truly glad that I was able to hide the look of horror that crossed my face for a split second. The thought of what a man named Bubba would look like without clothes made me shudder. Not only that but a grown man that answered to ‘Bubba’ was not exactly bolstering my faith in the fairytale that I had concocted in my brain that involved me getting my car fixed.
True to his word, Bubba emerged from the trailer a few moments later with a gap-toothed grin and a squint into the blazing hot daylight. Momentarily, I wondered how they had trained a bear to put overalls on without assistance. He was a larger man, easily six foot three and a biscuit shy of three hundred and fifty pounds. The tattered red shirt he wore beneath the overalls was covered in grease and sweat stains, but was passable for a man who was going to do some work on a car; trouble was, he didn’t know about that yet. The few silver hairs on the top of his head were all akimbo, giving him the appearance of a gnarled cockatoo. In his massive hands, he held a beer each and smiled at CJ as he lumbered down the steps from the trailer toward the truck.
I started sobbing. Uncontrollably. Like a little girl whose hamster has “run away” mysteriously in the night.
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