Chapter 16
A Meal and a Prayer
This story is dedicated to anyone who has ever been on the edge. And fallen off.
On the edge. These words summarize and tell the stories of the brave hearted travelers. Nomads extensively wandering across the barren belly of the sage filled expanses of Nevada. Or those who have lived there. And to live there is to live on the brink of society, civilization, creature comforts, and loneliness. This is the land of the great American Outback and great distances that can't seem to be covered fast enough. Ground zero for the intermountain west, here is where clear channel A.M. radio stations are impossible to hold onto for long and the ever present silence is, well, ever present. Save for the wind.
Nevadans know life is hard. Abandoned mining town after abandoned mining town attest to such realities. Boom bust economies chasing Gold and Silver and Copper. Nevada's forgotten highways are the stuff of Stephen King horror novels. The ‘now you see 'em, now you don't’ images shimmering and reflecting off the dry, lake bed valley floors are some dance of God or spirit which tempts travelers to keep going. Even though there may be nothing waiting for them at the end of their destination. Save a mirage. The same western reality casinos are named after. And, sometimes dreams. The Mirage is the state’s calling card.
The Donner party once crossed this desert. Chasing mirages and dreams. Gambling on something better over the next rise. Then the dessert was even wider and more forlorn than it is now. There weren't any Winnemuccas or Wells or even Renos to take up some of the slack. It was just nothingness from the Wasatch to the Sierras. Some would say much hasn’t changed since then.
Winnemucca is Cowboy country, the home of cowboy poet gatherings. Even now, perched on the verge of the new millennium, she is still but an outpost. Blink and you miss her. Yet, she is "it" for hundreds of miles. Winnemucca, the only topic on brightly lit billboards, seems so long in getting there, that folks almost expect something when they do get arrive. Instead their patience is rewarded with a Wal-Mart, a few fast food joints and a Flying J that doesn't even sport a restaurant. Her few casinos are small, nameless entertainment outlets that serve to wet appetites for Vegas or Reno. The city is old school west and its sole function seems to be the separation of the barren, sparse traffic on Interstate 80 from the entirely deserted traffic that funnels north on US 95 towards Burns and Boise. Highways that go through almost impossible to pronounce places like the Owhyee and Malhuer country. Places that hold secret treasures like Jordan Valley, home to Bask restaurants and range men practicing traditions that long ago were forgotten in other parts. And places like the Steens, an isolated and dramatic mountain range that rivals the Tetons in beauty. Here is the doorstep to the land of the wind walkers, the sky riders and the cloud dancers. And it also seems to be the permanent residence of winter.
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The early winter storm that swept down out of nowhere and spit snow all over a perfectly good highway still had me shaking. US 95 is exposed to all the elements and seems to hold open a perpetual welcome mat and fondness for mad side winds ferociously gusting out of nowhere. The highway runs southwest out of Boise towards Winnemucca. Most of the narrow blacktop traverses broad valleys where the unbroken ice wind blows constant and seems to tease drivers with the notion that at any second they will find themselves sideways, upside down and a long ways from help. The snowplows are nonexistent and travelers have been stranded for hours if not days waiting for help. Today's rocket ship ride down out of the Owhyee was no let down in the adrenaline department and at one point I thought the ditch had our name on it. By the time I made Winnemucca, I was shaking and considering another career.
Pulling into the Flying J, I was amazed at the sheer amount of snow and ice that had accumulated all over the Lady in Red. The only place where there was a hint of Mr. Clean was the path through the grime on the windshield. I kicked the snow and ice off the mud flaps and was trying to fill up the long ago used washer fluid when a man walked toward me. He was studying me and as I eased the hood down on the Lady and recovered her privates. The man approached me.
"You sure got balls!" he exclaimed with a warm smile and a gleam in his eye.
I didn't know what he was talking about. I looked at his face. He was young and handsome. His smile was slightly imperfect with broken teeth and he had a few scars running across his cheek. I reckoned he was a bull rider or some other cowhand. Still I did not know what possessed this man to approach me and comment on the family jewels.
"What? You mean the snow? Hell, I 'been running in this shit since Boise. It’s a mess up there if you’re headin' up 95…greasy and nasty as all get out…two trucks in the ditch up near Burns Junction," I answered him before he interrupted.
"No, I mean the sticker in your wing window. The Pride Flag. That takes balls out here!" He was still smiling and he offered an outstretched hand which, as I shook it, made mince meat out of my own shake. 'Hot Damn who would have thought,' I laughed as I looked at him closer.
Strong and confident, he smiled back at me and I found myself asking him if he "was family too".
"Yep. But I am not as brave as you! Or crazy," he added.
"Well I don't get much trouble from the flag…and if I did I am usually faster," I grinned. "You drive?" I asked.
"Nope, not any more. I just got out of the military but I drove when I was in; Freightliners and classified cargoes. I liked it. Wasn't anything like your rig though," his voice trailed off before he continued. "I don't expect the military has much use for putting us into Kenworths…'guess they figure a freightshaker is all we are good for."
The wind kicked up cold and again the flurries were spitting on us out of the north. An awkward pause grew and I couldn't think of anything to say and so I looked at him and said, "Well I suppose I should move so those bullhaulers can get on the island and fuel."
He seemed as if he was going to say something else and then he nodded and walked across the island while I kicked myself all the way into the truckstop for not thinking of anything additional to say which would have continued the conversation.
I didn't see him again until I was pulling out of the Flying J and I noticed him sitting on the hood of a US Express truck washing the windshield. It was an odd sight since no driver I knew would ever allow someone to climb up onto the hood of their truck. The hoods these days are made of fiberglass and subject to cracking under any weight, much less human weight. I considered turning the truck around but I also knew that Dallas was out of cigarettes and Lord Help Nevada if he woke up and I hadn't restocked his supply. I rolled over to Wal-Mart, the stranger still on my mind.
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At the Wal-Mart, I grabbed two cartons of Marlboro Lights. Unfortunately, that Wal-Mart didn't have any new Hot Wheels so my time in the store was quick.
Hot Wheels. Matchbox Cars. Johnny Lightning. As long as the toy was die cast, it was to die for. These small $.89 bits of joy fulfilled my compulsive/obsessive addiction and I knew just about every Wal-Mart toy aisle by heart. Most of the time, my searches came up empty, but as is true of many things, the joy of the search is often more enriching than the actual discovery. Dallas and I both have our addictions, but mine is less deadly. After ensuring that Dallas would find a fresh carton once he woke up, I made a few lines on the log book. As I lied my way across the pages, I wondered if new 'cigs' still reassured Dallas that he would always be "my little smokey". Having long ago given up on trying to bribe, threaten or whine my way into convincing him to quit smoking, I figured that if he could stand the nicknames then his continued enjoyment of smoking was his just reward. And he does love those smokes. All my mental snapshots of him include one of his 'heart lights' poking out of somewhere. Damn large tobacco anyway. We probably got more Marlboro miles on the odometer than the regular miles.
Once again I got behind the wheel and set myself up for making some real miles. Fresh diet Pepsi, a donut, and Rush Limbaugh. aka 'Drink, doughnuts and duh.' As I eased my way out of town I heard a voice call over the CB. "Any drivers out there want their windows washed?"
I realized instantly that it was the same stranger whom I'd seen earlier at the truckstop. I wondered if he was a drifter. I wondered if he was stranded. Or if he wasn't, which way was he heading? I wondered if the drivers were paying him enough to clean their windows to make it worth his while. I wondered if he was in trouble. I wondered why I was picking up the CB mic to answer him.
"Hey, window washer….This is that hand you talked to a few minutes ago with the red KW. You live here? Or just passing through? Which way you going?" I asked.
"I'm trying to get to Sacramento," he answered. "You want me to do your windows?" "No I cleaned 'em myself when I fueled. They're fine. You got any gas in your car now?" I asked.
"A little. Not much," he came back. His radio voice was fading.
Already on the interstate, I reached for the tall gears and the truck roared to life. I had a mile of radio range left before I knew I'd lose him. "Look, there is another truckstop about 25 miles from here. It’s the Burns Brothers in Mill City. I'll meet you there and I'll fill up your tank. That should be just about enough gas to get you to Sacramento. And it's only 'cause your family. You still copy me? I asked.
I thought I heard the words "Gone" come back at me through the static.
But I wasn't sure. I set the cruise and listened as Rush talked about his talent on loan from God taking on the evil and vile "Slick Willie". Several callers were insistent that Rush run for president but mercifully Rush seemed more excited about the holiday music he was playing from Manneheim Steamroller than about running for office. Whether I liked it or not, I felt the music putting me into the spirit of the holidays. How amazing that the same studio musician who coined the song Convoy could be responsible for such uplifting holiday music. How discouraging that I had even this much in common with Rush. We seemed to love the same music, had the same desire for freedom and independent choice but yet, he was without remorse in his desire to drive the country into political mudslinging. I never felt fatigue when I listened to Rush. Often Rush and his Dittoheads would anger me to the point where I was arguing back. Sometimes with enough emotion that Dallas teased me unmercifully every time he caught me debating an idiot thousands of miles away. And Dr. Laura produced far worse reactions as she told three million rolling truckers to "go take on the day." Truckers are her captive audience. Addicted and loyal to her, we sort through all our dysfunctional relationships that are as much a product of our careers as ourselves.
I once thought, what kind of idiot would call up a nationwide talk show for advice? Who would spill out their hearts and problems to thousands of total strangers? Who would expect a three minute answer to fix a lifetime of everything going wrong? Who would have so little pride as to allow themselves to be humiliated, judged and corrected by a stranger? Dallas once overheard me asking these questions to no one in particular after Dr. Laura reduced a seemingly well intentioned woman to tears. He painfully reminded me of my own moment in the spotlight before a radio show therapist pouring my heart out to millions and I too was shit canned as a simpleton. Who needs pride when you have talk radio? It isn't easy being so easy.
The honking horn next to me diverted my attention. It was the stranger. Holding the CB mic across the passenger side of his mid sized, beat up Chevy and holding up one finger. Turning down the AM radio volume I switched the CB to channel one and upped the squelch so that I could hear the man.
"I thought I'd never catch you," he said.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't know if you heard me. So, I figured I'd just stop in Mill City and wait on you. See if you showed."
"Here I be!" he exclaimed and then he asked "You can't go any faster than that?"
I looked at the speedometer. I was already doing almost 80. I thought of the cost of the speeding ticket. that I would surely receive if I hammered down and played bull hauler. I thought about explaining a ticket to Dallas. To Safety. Then I thought not.. "Unless you want to run the front door, we are doing just fine, I don't think you can afford a ticket anymore than I can. But to answer your question, she will do well over three digits with 80,000 gross."
"Of course she will. Up hill. And both ways. In the snow. Barefoot!" He kidded.
"Damn straight," I answered.
"Are not!" He came back.
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We rolled into Mill City and I put fuel in his tank. As we stood next to his car I learned that he was just out of the Marines, and that he was having a hard time getting home. Hitting bad weather in Wyoming he'd lost control of his car and spent almost all of his cash rebuilding his front end. Everything he owned was piled into the car. And although he was finally almost home, he was also as far from home as one can get. Nevada has swallowed up many such travelers. So close and yet so far.
After filling his tank we again hit the road and Dallas stirred and awoke because of the constant noise from the CB. Climbing his way out of the sleeper he asked who I was talking to and I told him to look in the car with all the Marine stickers on it. He did and looked at me shaking his head.
"Only you, Tim" was Dallas response as he listened in silence to the story of a man who had fallen in love with his CO (Commanding Officer) resulting in a secretive and neurotic relationship that lasted for several years. Leading us across sage and dry salt flats framed by tall dry mountain peaks, was a man whose journeys of the heart were as numerous as his assignments in the service. Tired of don't ask, don't tell, he had his honorable and he was done with it. He was also hoping that his fortunes outside of the military might be lead to something more fulfilling. He, the blond, muscular stranger and he of the few and of the proud planned to pursue a prosperous career as a stripper.
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For reasons far beyond our understanding, the highways we often travel become 'home' for those that have none or, at least temporary replacements. Half forgotten places that now, for one reason or another, no longer provide shelter. Shelter from the storm or shelter for the heart. For many, they are the same issue. The homeless live on America's highways. Low on resources and hungry for a more than just sustenance, the 'hungry' that we've encountered sought a smile, a touch and the ear of understanding. Who to trust? Who was really in need and who was on the take? Buy them a meal or give them cash? And, always looking into lost and weathered faces, trust and the emotions of judgement played leapfrog as they stood before us in this rest area or that truckstop the silent companions of travelers without a paid ride.
These nomads are more than just weary. They are short on dreams and those dreams that remain, seem distant and far away. Their hopes remain untouchable, unlived, and beyond visualization. These are tired travelers who have traveled so far only to have gotten nowhere. And as they ask for assistance, under the constant barrage of such requests, we become hardened and skeptical and capable of judging our fellow man. Yet because we ourselves have been on the edge and at times not known where the next meal was coming from, our souls cannot hide from theirs. Our red truck rides through the night aware of the uncertainty that only uncomfortable moments generate.
Over the years we have fed families and rescued women from abusive husbands. We have offered rides to those who have been abandoned by others. We have returned runaways to their homes only to later answer the phone and listen as they asked for help back out. We have bought meals and given our clothes away. Sometimes, when we didn't have much left to give away, it seemed like there was someone who had even less. In the face of this unsettling awareness of need, we have sought the comfort of understanding. Witnessing these complexities is never easy. As imperfect members of an imperfect world, unanswerable questions seldom comfort those who might question. Nor does seeking understanding in a world where somehow everything always seems beyond grasp. It would be far easier to turn away. To only travel where the questions have answers. Neat easy ones.
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Together, the Marine and Dallas and I drove through the late afternoon. The serviceman's radio kept cutting out and between long silences I thought about his tales of wild times in the marines. His wholesomeness and his can do approach. The way he handled being in a bind. Eventually we reached the cutoff for US 95 and a small rest area 75 miles east of Reno. A mere fork in the trail that from either direction served as a vanishing point dot, lost in the broadest valley, this was were our paths would part. I told him that we had plenty of food in the truck and that we'd fix him a good meal before we hit US 95 heading south. Already dispatch was asking us over satellite for an ETA to LA. Our time was short.
Parking in a dirt lot across from the rest area, the dust kicked up by the setting of the air brakes caught wind and dispersed into the sky. Looking south, I studied where our road cut south from the interstate. Imitating perpendicular as the road ventures away almost into a no man's land nothingness. Yet I knew the highway did have a destination far beyond the vanishing point I could see. The road rolls towards Fallon and the Navy's nuclear arsenal hidden in the high dessert. Eventually it passes Area 51 and then lumbers on towards Vegas.
Climbing into the truck the Marine flirted with us and Dallas and I made it a point to rib him in return. The harassment wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Or give back in spades. "Marines can't dance. How you ever gonna strip if you can't dance?" we joked with him. "Oh it ain't all in the feet", he claimed and as I looked at the gleam in his eye I had a feeling he knew what he was talking about. He pointed towards the sleeper. "I can show you…"
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We talked as we ate and tried to put off leaving as long as possible. He flirted and we matched him, then we flirted and he matched us, 'Verbal Tag style'. The additional opportunity for conversation seemed more important than the freight and for the moment collective loneliness quieted. But time finally ran out and after some more good natured banter, we each turned, looking towards the direction of our destinations. He west and we south. After a moment of silence the Marine climbed out of the truck and I walked him over to his car while Dallas did his logs. Handing him my card, I told him to stay in touch. He turned over the engine of his car and there was nothing but a series of clicks. He repeated the attempt, and again there was nothing. The wind howled and dust seemed to get everywhere. Blowing into our teeth and into our eyes the weather was getting nasty. We popped the hood and checked the battery cables. His repeated attempts to inspire motor and ignite spontaneous combustion responded only with a series of clicks. On his final attempt a small could of blue gray smoke rose from under the crack of his hood. Now even the clicks were silent.
Other truck drivers approached us offering to assist. Between the gathered truckers, we had enough basic tools to fix easier difficulties but this problem required parts: A new starter and possibly an alternator. The battery seemed fine but his earlier problems with his C.B radio cutting in and out seemed at the root of the problem. The gathered drivers diagnosed and directly related the problem to the hot wired CB. The one wired into the electronic heart of his engine. Sadly, we realized he wasn't going anywhere.
Offering him a ride toward the next town, he was hesitant to take our offer. His car contained his life's possessions. All he owned. The sum of who he was. He refused to consider accepting any rides.
Yet there was no phones at the rest area. No service stations for at least 50 miles. He needed help. More help than we could provide. And more money than we had. After a final offer of a ride, he again choose to stay with his car and face fate rather than go with one of the truckers to find help. He had no one to look to for aid. There wasn't any family nearby. He was on his own.
Eventually we couldn't postpone our departure any longer and we eased out of that gravel pull out. Leaving him standing by his car facing uncertainty. A solitary figure alone in a desert, save for the companionship of the roaring icy wind and the shape of his vehicle with its hood up. I watched that image in the mirrors as it kept getting smaller and smaller and farther and farther away. Until, finally the image was gone. Swallowed up by the desert.
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The image haunted us for the next week. We wondered what happened to the assured young soldier heading home. We never heard from him again and the unsettling image of the man left behind in the desert was not an easy one to forget. Every time a car full of holiday travelers sped by our truck I wondered about the fate of the man. What would his Thanksgiving be like? Did he make it home?
Not long after leaving LA our freight took us back through Nevada and past the place where we left the stranger. I dreaded looking as I neared the rest area and the gravel lot where we last saw him, facing the wind and uncertainty. I expected to see only the shell of his stripped car, a carcass of steel and parts. A last testament to the sometimes ill fated destination of dreams. As I got closer, I saw nothing. Instead, the lot was deserted. I sighed in relief.
Like many of the stories we have been apart of, this one is unfinished in our minds. We never learned its ending. Yet the mile marker of that junction remains burned into our minds. The location of a breakdown,. a place of uncertainty, and a holiday memory of a hope and a prayer all jumbled into the fabric of our nomadic life. Unknown outcomes that still signify the unsettling reality of lives lived on the edge and unanswered questions. Unanswered questions that sometimes force us to take stock. Say a few silent thank you's. And fix our gaze directed toward the light. Hoping for a few more answers and a little less uncertainty and left with faith on the wings of a hope and a prayer.
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