Chapter 12 A.D.
Almost Idaho Road
Battle Mountain, Nevada, they tell me it’s my home Mark Weigle
I began writing this story long before a friend gave me a copy of Mark Weigle's first album, "Truth Is." I have never had an album affect me like Mark's did. The man brought me to my knees. I know of no one who has better captured the draw of perpetual motion, the lure of a western interstate, and the wayward soul of a long hauler. Mark, thank you for saying what you say so beautifully. And for reminding me of the beauty… of 450 miles to go.
They call it shadow dancing. I am no shadow dancer. But he sure was. Standing there, holding up the walls against the back corner blackness of the Symons Valley Ranch dance hall, I felt drop-kicked on the edge of Calgary. A lonely awkwardness overwhelmed me. Flash-frozen, senseless, and wondering how obvious I looked. I didn't know anyone in a room full of strangers who all seemed to know each other. Well, what else was new?
Pushing harder against the wall, watching as he followed his partners in a blur of synchronization, intertwined legs, boots, and tall-hatted, taller steps, I became fixated on his movements. Intrigued by the olive-skinned, mustached man guiding those gliding partners past me, I mouthed the words to the Collin Raye song "On the Verge."
I was on the verge myself.
Watching him, almost as if he was removed from the blur of the other dancers. Watching him, lost in his own rhythm, navigating and winding around the circle of painted smiles, drink nursers, and wistful sidelined cowboys and cowgirls. Spectators whose eyes longingly followed each luckier-than-them pair circling the floor. Watching as the collective souls of gathered bystanders sought the same sort of rhythm and motion and touch.
My eyes kept traveling back to him as he rocket-shipped around the log room, knees bent, his partner moving in perfect time. I was hypnotized by the 'round-and-'round she goes of the Shadow Dancer among the two-steppers. Darting in and out of cowboy-heeled traffic, head back and delirious with the speed of motion. His partner anticipated each half-beat pause. Form bucked against style replacing both with a slow-slow, quick-quick, slow-slow, quick-quick-stepped signature illustrating individuality. Those breathtaking pauses bordered on reckless. Just before regaining the step, he appeared disoriented, in search of a beat and the regular comfort of rhythm. His brand on that dance floor, his stepping out style, told more about who he was than I think he knew.
I again felt for the wall behind me, leaning into it and crossing my legs. The roughness of the logs gave solid support. As more people gathered in front of me I lost sight of the Shadow Dancer. Swallowed by the flanks of the crowd, I didn't feel so obvious anymore. Shadows of light played wicked games with everyone's faces. I saw high-spirited men in Brushpoppers and Cinch Up! shirts and warm, smiling jean-clad ladies.
But I saw no one I knew.
After a bit, the people around me unexpectedly parted and I stood alone. Suddenly very aware of myself, self-conscious, and increasingly awkward, I wondered where Justin might be. This cattle-ranching golden boy was my driving partner and we had just driven nearly a thousand miles from Seattle to Calgary. Now Justin was nowhere to be found. Less than five minutes in the place and he'd already been whisked away by the draw of an Albertan cowboy, a man whose sun-blazed smile seemed to match the one of my California friend.
They'd hit it off instantly.
Sighing while remembering that Justin charmed the pants off of everyone, I resigned myself that I was on my own for the rest of the night. Dropping my gaze to my own solo shadow, I too was shadow dancing against the shadows. Drinking another sip of Kokanee beer, I contemplated my options.
Overcome, I walked outside. Silhouetted forms, single, paired, and grouped, collected and dispersed near the entrance. Heading back to the truck, I walked head down, shy. Watching the image cast by my cowboy hat dancing in the 11:30 PM last light, my stance against the prairie grass seemed tall. To the south, the lights of Calgary started to shine. Although it was well past normal dark, this was summer in Alberta. Twilight and predawn were locked in a struggle that seemed destined to end up in a draw.
Joining a bow-legged parade of cowhands heading back to their digs, I tried to guess who would stop at which rig. Campers, stock trailers, and even a few bobtailed semi-trucks filled the overflow lot of the ranch. I guessed right on the lesbians heading to the Powerstroke with the 11-foot camper on it. I also picked right on the two older gentlemen who found their motor home. Soon enough I was solitary again and I found my tent. The one I was destined to spend the night alone in. I was riding solo.
As the cool prairie air refreshed, I wondered if the weather would hold. I watched the towering thunderheads casting the last pinks of a beautiful sunset to the east and decided that it would. Stars began to make their appearance and the loud country western music from the dance hall mixed with other assorted music coming from campsites. Sitting on my tailgate and watching nightfall, listening to the noise of so much festivity intensified my inner struggle.
At the edge of the field my tent seemed like a last outpost. Behind me the prairie bucked and rolled. The tall grasses resumed their domination of the land. Studying my tent, I confirmed that Justin's sleeping bag was gone. His luggage remained strewn about the bed of the pickup, but all other traces of him had vanished. The breeze stirred and I shivered. To the north a lightning blast lit the sky.
I debated what to do and decided that sleep was best. To the accompaniment of crickets and renegade music, I stripped down and climbed into bed. I listened to the laughter, the breeze against the tent, and the loneliness that seemed louder than everything. Sleep, when it finally came, was restless.
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My dreams revolved around the waitress that I'd met the week before in a truck stop perched on the edge of the scablands. Lonely and desolate, the place was a dive, but also the only sign of comfort for miles. I awoke, remembering the breakfast of eggs over medium with brown toast; breakfast with an extra helping of wisdom on the side.
Lying in my tent, I savored that morning. Ordering coffee with cream, I'd chosen the number seven farmer's breakfast. The woman bending over her pad wrote quickly. Finished taking my order, she asked if I wanted ketchup or Tabasco sauce. I said neither.
"OK, we'll have that up for you in heartbeat, hon," she said, sorta like she cared but sorta like she probably said to everyone. Her blond hair was pulled back, and she showed a few more years on her pretty face than I suppose she liked to admit. Her name tag said "Gina." I wondered how much older she was than I. I decided not to ask. I don't know why, but something told me that I just better not and that it was best to ponder the woman, her age, and her story in silence. There is a safety in observing things from a distance and staying out of the crossfire. Sometimes I actually remember important commonsense things like that.
Two other customers sat at the counter to my left. Standing in front of them, behind the coffee counter, Gina warmed their coffees. Based on the chatter coming from the counter, I figured they were regulars. Men who probably wasted a lot of Gina's time seeking her undivided attention. As I sipped the bitter, too long in the pot coffee, I concluded that the two round men, whose butts were larger than the stools they sat on, liked to work together on gaining that attention.
The man on the right pointed out the truckstop window toward a car parked at the far end of the blacktop. "Gina, what happened to that pretty little car of yours?" Gina's car stood alone near the gravel where the tractor-trailer rigs idled. I followed his gaze, studying the purple Ford Probe. The car was missing most of the driver's side front end. What remained was mangled. A frozen, disjointed left headlight pointed up to the sky. The license plate spelled "DEADLY."
Looking over the counter, the waitress glanced my way to see if I had looked. She realized I had, quickly averting her eyes, her face reddening. Looking at the man disrupting her peace, she launched her first retort.
"Dave, you would notice. That's my new look. Nothing happened. I just got bored with that car the way it was. I wanted a change. So I sculpted it."
The man on the other side of Dave was halfway through a swig of coffee and choked. Coffee spewed from his mouth onto the counter. Gina handed him a bunch of napkins without looking his way.
"Sculpted it? That's what you call what you did?" Dave was enjoying the conversation. Chuckling, he kept pushing. "Gina, what in the hell? 'Sculpted'? C'mon give me a break!" "Yes," she continued. "Sculpted. Some days you just get so tired of things the way they are you need a change. It don't matter if the change is good or bad. You just need some of it. I sculpted my car." She paused for a minute, looked around, and then lowered her voice as if she was telling an important secret. "At first, I thought it was an accident. But now I know it was meant to be. Now I like it. It's me. And I am NOT going to fix it."
There was another pause while she let her shocking disclosure settle on the men. "And you're not going to either. My headlight hasn't worked since the last time you 'helped' me fix my car. Besides, I'd no sooner get the thing fixed and I'd do something else to it." Regardless of how intentional her modification act had been, I couldn't help but notice that as coolly controlled as she was, she had a hard time pulling this latest "it's all a divine plan" bullshit over on her two tormentors.
Everyone looked out into the parking lot as if they were admiring great art, a flea market, or a barn fire. The headlight caught my attention. The one that was supposedly "fixed." Staring oddly into space, the damaged light was apparently left over from another incident. Gina, having been conned into letting Dave replace a headlight, was left with a light permanently stuck up and out of alignment.
The other man, still wiping his face with napkins, looked up at her. "Gina hon, maybe I don't want to know the answer to this, but how did you 'sculpt' that car?"
He and Dave both snickered again as they kept spinning in their chairs to get another glimpse of her car. In spite of the humor of the situation, Gina remained composed. She matter-of-factly turned her attention to the gentleman at the counter still dripping coffee from his chin.
"Henry, how I did it doesn't matter now, does it? You shouldn't concern yourself with the who, what, where's and why's of my driving. And, why do you think this is so funny? See the mess you made of my counter. Look at this, there is coffee everywhere. Were you raised in a barn or what?"
"Sorry, Gina. You know I didn't mean to. It's just the sight of that, uh 'sculpture'… well, it uh took my breath away." Henry was again overcome with laughter.
Grabbing a menu, Gina threatened to hit both of them. While Henry pretended to cower, Dave stood with great effort and told Gina to leave his friend alone. It was all in good fun until I made the mistake of smiling as I watched. Gina noticed, making a beeline in my direction.
"What do you think is so funny?" She asked holding a coffee pot in one hand and the same lethal menu in another. Keeping my eye on the menu she held, I managed a weak, "Nothing."
"You don't like my car?" She asked. "Ain't never sculpted something like that have you?"
Actually I had, but I'd never attempted to convince anyone that the accident was on purpose. Or that the reshaping somehow made the car better than it was originally. Waiting for my answer, she remained at the table. Shrugging, I knew I'd rather not get into it with her. She was satisfied with my humility. "You! You can live," she decreed, grinning as she refilled my coffee mug.
I looked at her hands. She wore no rings but sported a charm bracelet dangling on her wrist. Her nails were painted with colorful designs. "Those are nice," I said pointing at her fingers and hoping to change the subject. She looked confused for a minute, almost defensive. I explained myself further. "I mean what you did to your nails."
Gina brightened.
"Yeah, you should have seen 'em last week," Dave chimed in. Had racing stripes and flames on 'em 'cause Gina had a date with a figure eight racer." Gina whirled around and as she did, I watched that coffeepot in her hand almost take my glasses off.
"Dave those were not "racing stripes and flames." They was Aztec Indian designs. And it wasn't no date. We just went out for coffee after the race."
"Was too a date," Henry insisted.
"Was not. I have no intention of being Johnny Cousin's fourth wife. He just wanted to talk."
"Oooooohhhhhhh!" Both men raised their eyebrows.
They weren't buying any of Gina's explanations. To her credit, she refused to admit whatever secret truth they were after. My breakfast arrived in the midst of further bantering and my coffee remained full. Finding myself staring out the window, her car became the focus of my attention. I decided she probably "sculpted" her pride and joy racing some local high school kid. She was probably even winning until she dropped that damn cigarette in her lap.
In the background, country music played. It blended into the simple atmosphere of the place. My mind wandered. I thought a bit more about the secrets held by that sculpted car. Thinking about Dave, Henry, and Gina and the pleasures of such company, I found myself smiling as my vision blurred, the coffee grew lukewarm and philosophical thoughts made mincemeat of logic.
Gina, the small town Zen waitress was wiser than she knew. Discovering freedom by acknowledging the proper perspective objects hold in one's life. As hard as her life must be, she appeared to have it all under control, bumps, dings and body shops be damned. I liked her attitude and wondered why more people, even myself, have such a hard time celebrating the blemishes in our lives. Rather we spend countless amounts of energy trying to bury the embarrassing or fixing the difficult to explain. Frantically we dedicate our lives to a dance with damage control before too many people witness the results of our missteps.
Contemplating my own "sculpting" and the crashes, both literal and figurative I've experienced, I had to admit that Gina seemed to know far more about inner peace than I. Expending much of my energy trying to prevent and avoid other people’s perceived rush to judgment, I've learned to avoid disclosing the latest whatever. These days it's all about "no comment," keeping things quiet, and minimizing exposure.
Somehow, even though I know better, I kid myself. Minimizing the pain of coming out, the disappointment of failed relationships, and the trials of living through day to day situations far bigger than I, the pressure to have endless happy endings is enormous. Avoiding unpleasant issues is the rule. It is as if by denying the scars, the bad decisions, and the consequences of all of those errors, I become a better, self-actualized person. Or at least look the part on the outside.
Life is messy. Truly flawless heroes are few and far between. The perfect ones that do exist live lives relegated to the comics. Track records are for athletes. Failure is neither an exception, nor worst case. Teaching me volumes about the sanity of making a public spectacle of herself, Gina didn't care what anyone thought. She neither celebrated nor wallowed in the "sculptures" of her life.
Wondering if I could follow her example, shrugging carelessly when life erupted all over everything, or remaining oblivious to others’ scrutiny, I turned and watched Gina with a new appreciation. Humming silently, she filled the sugar bottles in her station, ignoring Dave and Henry's endless attempts to draw her into their fire.
So what if she was only working her way through life at minimum wage, with minimum love, and maximum scrutiny? She was already far wealthier than I with her, "Don't like the damage? Want an un-test-driven model? Then move on, buddy" attitude.
Getting up, I stepped toward the cash register to settle up my bill. Meeting me near the clear glass counter with its candy bars, mints, and Washington Desert picture postcards, she rang up the till, smiling as she counted out my change. Looking at her car and then back at Gina, I couldn't help but laugh. Trying to act tough but finally softening, she seemed to know what I was thinking. Winking, she giggled, "Don't tell anyone I said this, but my car is hideous. I hope it will grow on me though." She shrugged.
I nodded. Yep, I hoped it would too.
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I was awakened by a strange flashing. A light breeze flapped against the tent. Otherwise, the night was still. Silent. The cowboys who earlier had been drinking, dancing, laughing and partying near my tent now slept. All was calm. Closing my eyes again, I chalked up the unsettling flash of light to my dreams. Dreams of truckstops and waitresses, lukewarm coffee and spilled pride. I lay partially awake. Listening.
Then I heard them. Off in the distance, faint but agitated. Coyotes.
Another flash ripped across my eyelids and then God's entire china collection fell down the stairs and I was sitting straight up. Damn! An Alberta thunderstorm. Directly overhead. No! This simply could not be. A lone coyote howled somewhere off behind me to the left, followed by the answer of a collected chorus of loud yips. Then, boom, more thunder. Remembering safety messages about the inadvisability of waiting out electrical storms in tents supported by metal rods, I debated my next move. I also considered that my tent was one of the tallest objects perched on the entire prairie not grounded by rubber.
I lay there for the next two hours, unable to hear anything besides God's crashing teapots, serving platters, and gravy bowls. Wide-eyed, awake and pathetically arguing with myself over the merits of evacuation verses electrocution, I recalled the distance to reasonable shelter. I decided that flight was unreasonable. Electrocution seemed less messy. So I remained stationary, listening as God's entire 32 million piece matching service bashed endlessly down the stairs, against the walls and even out the windows. I cringed. I tossed. I turned. But stubbornly, I remained huddled where I was. Bang, boom-boom-de-boom, this was the sound of domestic violence in Heaven.
I knew better than to think it. I swear I did. To consider such thoughts always asks for trouble. But I did. I shouldn't have but I couldn't help it. I tempted fate. I dared add fuel to the fire. I simply pondered a singular sentence. One that began with "at least its not…"
"…raining."
And God answered. Faster than you can say "Noah, is that Gortex you're wearing?" the skies opened. Torrential rains fell. My "waterproof-yeah right!" tent was definitely not up to the challenge.
Rolling away from the side of the tent I briefly found relief from the leakage dribbling down the walls. My relief was short lived. It never occurred to me that the center of the tent marked the lowest point in the tent's circumference, until it was too late. How was I to understand that the spot where my tent was pitched, a spot strategically chosen by Justin for unknown reasons, was also the lowest elevation in the entire area?
The miracle of drainage is a wondrous thing. Sometimes humanity celebrates drainage. At other times we curse it. Water magically migrates, collects, and follows principled direction dedicated to the paths of least resistance. One would think that after thousands of years, humans would clue in to this very simple concept. It's not like drainage is a new idea.
Propelled ever forward, water is destined toward a rendezvous with the lowest common denominator. The simple translation of these laws of physics states that water rarely "just sits there." Rather, water has a severe case of attention deficit disorder or WADD. We tell water where we want it to go. Sometimes water pays attention. Sometimes it pretends its paying attention. H2O has a manifest destiny. And unfortunately for me, not only does water ignore the best laid plans, but I also believe that water and its sister, drainage are magnetically attracted to idiots. Idiots like me.
Idiots paralyzed through their own stupidity.
Idiots born without the common sense to seek shelter.
Idiots who actually believe statements like "waterproof for 18 hours straight," "guaranteed to repel water," or a personal favorite, "weatherized."
Lying in the tent, determined to make a stand, I decided that while Calgary is famous for its Stampede, I wasn't giving in. I was not going to run. I was facing my demons. Calm prevailed. Panic was not in my vocabulary.
Drowning was.
At first, I bravely accepted the wetness that dripped down from overhead, rose up from the ground and mocked me from all sides. Choosing to look at this glass as neither half full nor half empty, but rather as bottomless, I celebrated my preparedness. I was the uber camper. I was also an American. Americans love adversity. We overcome all. What was to fear? I had a waterproof sleeping bag. I had a Super-sized, weatherized tent. And now, overcome by the rising tide of reality, I realized that I was a Supersized, waterproofed, weatherized sponge.
Oh, Canada! You shouldn't have. But you did. You lived up to your reputation. Calgary, the rodeo that separates the men from the boys, the roughstock riders from the puffstock, the swimmers from the drowners.
The next day, curious Canadians came to see the spectacle of my campsite. Bravely I faced them as they reassured me and made concerned comments about my situation. Being that my campsite was the only one as far as the eye could see that retained water, I sacrificed my comfort for the good of the whole. They offered dry towels as we rung the water out of my sleeping bag. They offered to take me to the Laundromat. They offered to loan me dry clothes. Then they took pictures. And as Justin returned from whatever stock trailer he had spent the night in, they went for the kill. Spying the lone solitary sleeping bag, the one still dripping water and hanging over the pickup truck hood to dry, those Canadians demonstrated great tact, restraint, and sensitivity.
"Oh my! You poor thing, you mean you endured this tragedy alone?" They asked. "Was there no one with you in your tent to celebrate this Canadian miracle of drainage? Only one sleeping bag? Such a shame."
The carnage at the campsite was nothing. I stood there looking at the mess and realized that it served as a metaphor for the whole stinking summer. I could sum up my entire dating experiences so far under one title: Water Damage.
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This whole new single thing was one sopping mess; unconditional awkwardness and playing by rules that were invented by sadists. First impressions followed by familiar depressions. The crazy dancing of people who shouldn't be dancing together.
Justin looked at me and laughed. Like he was really sympathetic to the whole concept of water damage or dating damage. He with the perpetual stock trailer rash. I briefly thought about telling him that this wasn't my first drenched moment of the summer. I briefly thought he might be sympathetic. But I saw the joy this tight-fitted, way too handsome for his own good, wrangler in Wranglers was having at my expense. And for once I kept my mouth shut. It was his loss.
He would never hear about the worst date of my whole life. The one that was over before it started. The one that resulted in a lifetime ban on Ford F-250 4x4's at an automated car wash at a certain Seattle Texaco station.
The date. The one featuring a handsome, classy cowboy who seemed interested. A man who had a job, didn't use crystal meth and who actually knew the differences between snaffle bits.
And I was looking pretty classy myself. All I had to do was pretend that my overstarched Wranglers were a natural fit for me. And remember how to breathe. I also had to be careful to not drop my keys; with all that starch, bending over to retrieve them would be out of the question.
This date was really important to me. It signified my new dedication to being available. And it signaled the first time that I would ever be on time anywhere in my whole damn pathetic life.
I have never been anywhere on time in my life. Clinging to the hope that tardiness is a hereditary quality, I pray that being perpetually late is out of one's control. It must be genetic. Unlearned behavior. Like sexual orientation, I view promptness as a highly complex combination of nature and nurture. I have a certain peace about this.
For the last ten years promptness never really mattered.
I am single now.
It matters.
This whole dating thing revolves around being on time. People read great meaning into one's arrival time. Get there too early and you appear desperate and anxious. Too late and you’re disrespectful.
In fact, dating is full of perplexing rules about all kinds of things. Phone calls must be timed properly. Arrivals have a certain flow. Departures, courtship, and introductions all revolve around time. I don't get any of it. I tried. I gave it my best shot. But I do not have this divine skill. The more I consider the proper role of timing, the more I see Satan's presence in all of it. Things happen. Horrible, terrible, troubling things. Random events occur which prevent promptness. Situations that just don't seem to happen to everyone else. Or if they do, people keep quiet about such adversity.
People say they are laid back. They claim they are easy going. They write personal ads portraying simplicity, that they are "just" like the guy next door. A blue jeans kind of dude. My kind of people, right? That's what I used to think, but now I know it's all evil trickery. Show up an hour late and just see "laid back" in action.
I never had a prayer of passing these simple tests.
"Free Car Wash with 8 gallon minimum fill," said the sign underneath the glowing Texaco Star. Eight measly gallons of diesel for a wash job. It seemed like the ultimate full meal deal. Looking at my watch I knew I had time.
After fueling, I received the coupon from the automatic payment keypad on the fuel-island. Pulling ahead, I approached the car wash and double-checked to make sure the windows were rolled up. Confidently I keyed in the 5 digit access code from the coupon. When the green light came on I pulled into the wash rack. Proceeding forward until a red light told me to stop, I waited for the car wash to begin and congratulated myself. I imagined showing up at my date’s front door, my pickup looking spotless and still on time. Deep and considerate and laid back and whatever else he might be looking for.
For the very first time in my life I was on schedule. I wasn't stressed. I wasn't rushing around in a frantic race against the clock. I alone controlled my destiny. Heck, I even had enough time to grab a latte should the passion strike.
Sitting in the belly of the car wash, I surveyed its impressive technology. Fully automated robotics protruded from the giant contraption. Rather than moving the truck on a track, the car wash revolved around the vehicle. Computerized and super high-tech, this was my crowning moment, my sophisticated baptism to life in the big city. No rubber hoses and bucket here. No spray nozzles and leaking washers. No drenched shoes.
The machine came to life with a giant roar. Attentive to the wonder of this experience, I watched as giant arms maneuvered scratchless brushes into place. Signs lit up around the vehicle to inform the motorist of his progress through the automated process. In mere minutes my truck would be spotless and I would emerge from this giant machine with not a hair out of place. If Jonah could see me now!
The first step was called the "Pre-Soak Rinse." A delicate mist descended from the heavens above. The water beaded around the windshield and soon the sign was obscured by the gentle drops of water. Next came the "Post-Soak Jet Wash" or something to that effect. Targeted sprays swept the sides of the vehicle, gaining intensity as the ruckus of the first brushes made contact with my beloved truck.
The arms descended and lifted and the "Tough Grime-Scrubbing" brushes began their first pass. All this special treatment! All this luxury! I felt pampered and basked in the attention paid to my soon-to-be clean truck. Signs lit up and then extinguished. "Undercarriage Protection", "Tire Sealant" and "Triple Hot Wax" flashed on then off, hypnotizing me.
I believe it was that hypnotic affect that lulled my senses and postponed the alarm that should have sounded much earlier. Remembering that I'd only received a standard wash for my 8 gallons, it never occurred to me that I was getting something more than I deserved. Not until the 15th complete pass of the "Tough Grime-Scrubbing" brushes did reality set in.
Suddenly sitting straight up in my seat, I realized that I had memorized the complete sequences of flashing lights. I knew in what order "Tire Sealant" came. The tires were attended to before the "Spotless Rinse" but after "Undercarriage Protection". My spontaneous realization brought about a general sense that something might be wrong. But I did not understand the gravity of my predicament.
Yet.
Calmly I assessed the situation. I couldn't see if anyone was behind me because of the spinning brushes overheard. Looking forward, my view was also blocked. On each side of the vehicle, brushes spun. It was at this point that concern progressed into alarm.
Oh God of Mercy, this simply could not be happening!
But it was.
Somewhere in the midst of my panic a voice spoke to me. I understood the message immediately. It simply said, "You are being given the deluxe wash. Over and over and over again."
Shit! I began calculating and timing the movement of the arms. Each brushing arm passed by every 3.5 seconds. The wash cycles lasted anywhere from 6 to 10 seconds. Occasionally, all of the cycles unexplainably ran as all of the corresponding lights lit up.
I began sounding an SOS on the horn, but my Morse code honking was drowned out by the roar of the dryer fans overhead. Sitting back in my seat I deflected the panic that threatened to paralyze me. "Think Tim. Just calm down and think."
I thought. I was rational. But panic was far more fulfilling.
Timing the brushes, I knew I would have to make a run for it.
I counted again as the brushes moved by, noting the amount of time that the driver's door remained free of any obstacles. One thousand one. One thousand Two. One Thousand Three… "we’re back….scrub scrub scrub Scrub Scrub SCRUB SCRUB SCRUB SCRUB. I moaned. At most I had three lousy seconds to get the door open, get out, and make my escape.
Which brings me back to those overstarched Wranglers. The ones I worried might prohibit bending over. They become crucial in the next paragraph. They almost caused my death. For those of you in Oklahoma, Texas and Arkansas, pay real close attention here. Learn from my mistake. This is your warning! Nothing, not even Texas-sized vanity, is worth death by car wash.
After the next pass of the brushes I held my breath and pushed open the door. One thousand one. I struggled to get out but those damn stiff jeans refused to cooperate. I slammed the door shut just between one thousand two and one thousand three.
"Damn, Damn, Damn!" I was still trapped in my truck.
I thrust my hips up in the air to try to free my ass from the seat. The brushes made another pass. My lower ribs passed my right ass cheek. Finally, as I was released from the starch death grip I felt a new and unpleasant sensation. For a brief moment, I feared my jeans had given me a hernia. Then I was free. I bounced up and down on the seat to make sure. I tried to force my knees to bend.
I timed the brushes again. One thousand one. The door was open and I was out of the truck. One thousand two…
No way ! I could barely move. My legs were willing but the jeans weren't. I couldn't straighten up. Permanently formed into a sitting fetal position, I squatted in horror. Trying to straighten out my legs, I fought a losing battle against the starch.
"Nooooooo!" I screamed into the swirling wet chaos.
The brushes returned. As I hobbled around the hood of my truck, I could see them heading straight for me. I staggered. All of a sudden a strange sensation shocked me rigid. Involuntary reflexes forced me erect. The under carriage cleaning nozzle sprayed God knows what combination of chemicals straight up into my undercarriage, aiming them right between the cheeks of my starched-past-stiff Wrangler ass. Before I could recover from the shock, the tire cleansing brushes captured my boots. My safe escape seemed perilously out of reach. I lunged forward, arms outstretched.
All I remember of what followed was a weightless sensation, and a nauseous absence of balance. Immediately followed by the embrace of wet concrete and the accompanying splash. I lay in front of the truck, my boots somehow freed of the tire scrubbing brushes. Rolling away from the other whipping and whirling brushes that pursued me, I encountered many sensations at once. Wet hot wax and several different types of detergents caressed my skin. Overhead the dryer blew. I briefly considered how unclean all of this cleanliness felt. Gritty, grimy and slimy, I could taste the soaps and smell a potpourri of fragrances that reminded me of a Laundromat. Although my eyes were closed, I could see all of the flashing lights above. It felt like a soggy, soapy, near death experience.
Dazed and struggling to all fours, I tried to stand up, still in the clutches of my now sopping Wranglers. Slop slop, slosh slosh, I waddled out of the car wash toward the cashier. I looked ghastly.
I believe it was at this point that my great revelation came. I'd been treated to something that I hadn't paid for: a complete, complimentary, 8 gallon minimum fill, Texaco Timmy Wash.
I wasn't angry. I didn't want to yell at anyone. I didn't need to vent. All I wanted was my truck. I didn't think this was unreasonable.
And my desire might not have seemed so unreasonable to the cashiers working behind the counter…had either of them spoken English.
But they didn't.
I can sympathize with the horror marking their faces when I stumbled in and appeared before them. Water still dripped from everywhere. My hair had soap and hot wax in it. My skin felt like sandpaper. I could barely see them. All I could see, behind my rapidly fogging glasses, were two fuzzy forms cowering behind the cash register.
"Out!" A stern finger pointed in my direction. "You leave now. I call Police!"
I turned to look behind me. There must be some mistake. Maybe they were chasing out a drunk transient.
No one was behind me.
"Now! You go. No trouble. O.K.?" The cashier was picking up the phone. I tried to explain and pointed at the car wash next door.
He shook his head. He wasn't interested.
I turned and looked for someone to assist me. Anyone. I didn't need the police. They didn't need the police. What we needed was an emergency shutoff switch. There had to be one somewhere. I looked toward the fuel island and spied a red-haired lady rapidly walking toward the convenience store. Smartly dressed with a black leather jacket, she brushed passed me and stormed up to the counter.
"Excuse me," she said in a whiny perturbed voice, "But did you know that some jerk just parked in your car wash and left his truck in there?"
The cashier didn’t understand her either. The woman pointed in the direction of the automated car wash and thrust her receipt toward their faces, pointing at the words "Free Wash." The cashiers looked at the receipt. Then they looked at the red-haired lady. Then they looked back at the receipt.
At last, in some kind of petroleum-inspired harmonic convergence, the woman and the two clerks all turned and looked at me.
Duh.
Finally! Everyone was on the same page. The smaller of the two cashiers dashed around the counter and headed toward the car wash. The woman eyed me up and down, shaking her head. "You're a mess!"
She looked back at the lone remaining cashier, then turned because it was obvious he wouldn't understand anything further she might have to say. As she passed me by on the way out the door, she gave me a final look. "Well, I am certainly not putting my car in there after what they did to you." Then she was out the door.
Figuring any further attempts at communicating with the remaining cashier would be pointless, I slogged my way back across the station lot. Near the fuel islands, I met the other cashier returning from shutting down the car wash.
"So sorry. No more wash today. You come back again," the cashier managed, without looking me in the eye. Then he was gone. I stared after him. That was it? Come back? Again? Was he nuts?
I walked toward my truck. I felt horrible for my poor pickup sitting in the middle of the wash bay. Part of her was clean. Part of her sported the last remains of all those cleansing suds. Part of her had to be covered in about 3 inches of wax. Slowly making my way to the driver's door, I wiggled in. I put a jacket under my ass. The cold wetness of my jeans again sent shivers up my spine. Remembering the very personal undercarriage treatment, I realized there was a good chance my Calvins had dissolved.
Recalling the importance of first impressions and dating, I looked at my watch. I was now late. Way late. I did not have time to run home and clean up.
Weighing my options as I pulled out of the gas station, I sought guidance. I could call my date and say something came up and of course be branded a liar for the rest of my life. I thought about just not showing, standing him up. This choice would be easiest for me. But for him it would be messy and unfair. Getting stood up is the worst emotion known to man. It's like Christmas with no presents under the tree. Disappointment reigns. Self-doubt raises its ugly head. Being stood up rips off layers of soul and leaves everything in the lurch.
Sadly, idealism still makes up the thirty percent of me that isn't water. As easy as it would be to just drive home and start over, I couldn't. Looking at my watch I knew I was at least thirty minutes late. But I still drove toward my destiny. Arriving at his place, I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to ignore the gross sensation produced by touching anything. My fingers were wrinkled, my clothes were drenched and I felt disgusting. Taking a deep breath, I got out of the truck and headed up the stairs to his front door. I wondered how I was going to explain this.
I rang the doorbell. Nothing. Then I spied the yellow sticky stuck to the inside of the screen door. Opening the door, I peeled the paper off. I held the note in my hands, already knowing what it would say. "Tim, something's come up. We will have to make it another time. Hope you understand. R"
Turning away from the door and facing the world, I couldn't do anything but laugh. Walking back to my truck I got in and cranked her up. I didn't feel too bad. If anything I felt relieved. Life is messy.
Especially when you try to clean it up.
_____________________________________________________
It was the final night of the rodeo. Most of the spectators were gone and some of the contestants were ready to pull up stakes and hit the road. The remaining men and women were there to party and cut loose in the cavernous dance hall. All in all, the rodeo had been a hoot. The stock was good and the contestants were committed to sportsmanship and giving it their best. Justin seemed to be at ease among all the various communities of the rodeo and while we'd barely crossed paths, I knew he was having the time of his life.
Entering the dance hall, I ordered a Diet Coke and once again stood against the wall watching the dancers and the crowd. I didn't feel so alone anymore and more than a few folks had offered me their hand on the dance floor and in friendship. Some were already coupled while others were single like me.
The Shadow Dancer was back, and Justin seemed real hot on the idea of encouraging me to get to know him better. "Tim, go over and talk to him. You have a lot in common and I think that you would make real good friends."
Watching the Shadow Dancer glide past us, his partner oblivious to the other dancers, both of them lost in another world with smiles as big as Alberta plastered on their faces, I wondered if I needed anymore "good friends." What I really longed for just that one special one. But I wasn't desperate. I didn't look at every possible person who crossed my path as that certain "special one". If it's meant to happen, it'll happen, I kept telling myself. I had much to be thankful for.
I did like him, the Shadow Dancer. He with his Basque heritage, olive skin and blinding smile. Each night I'd watched him tear up the dance floor. And each night I'd wondered if I could ever dance like him. In the grandstands we'd chatted some and I'd learned that he taught inner city kids, that he also owned a horse, and that life had some twists and turns with his name on them as well. He knew heartbreak and lovesick and now, life without either. I felt a connection but I still didn't trust anything I felt. The only sure thing seemed the wall that I leaned against.
Thinking about the magic of first meetings, when everything is new and fresh and the baggage hasn't been unpacked, I considered my experiences to date. First impressions and infatuations, those innocent free-fall times, are tempting moments to savor. Some folks never get past them. Often it seems like people are more in love with the idea of falling in love, than with actually being in love for the long term. They become bored with the idea of waking up with the same old someone day after day, the steady as she goes, drama-lite sort of heart trail that has little to do with missed heartbeats, roller coasters and somersaults.
Wondering when and where I would emerge on matters of the heart, I found myself mentally drifting amongst the jubilant crowd. I felt like I was reliving that Garth Brooks song, "The Dance."
"Looking back…" The words of the song recount how often our lives don't turn out like we hoped that they would. Looking back on that day when I met Dallas, I'd known that he was special from the get-go. Initially I kept my cards hidden and hoped for the best. When eventually our lives merged and became one I fell deeply. And when it came time to come up for air, I almost drowned.
Looking back, I also know there will never be another Dallas. But I remain grateful for the chance at that dance. Looking back also means looking forward. Comparison and re-creations are unfair. And that means the future will be unfamiliar and that all the rules have changed. Still there are other dances to be danced and I am thankful that the rhythm of life keeps me poised and ready. Ready to dance, ready to move to the beat. Ready to see where the day takes me.
Grieving and burying the past, the horizon beckoned. I tried not to think about the journey that lay ahead. I tried to forget about this whole single thing. But I still felt awkward and unsure.
Looking up, I watched the dancers, the drinkers and the lonely wall-hugging thinkers. People who seemed like me. Most folks despise change. Security in a turbulent world gives us breathing room and we try to create peace among the craziness. For some, the desire for security becomes so strong that when something solid appears, they jump on, threatening to swamp the boat before their ticket is purchased and safe passage is assured.
I didn't know how I was portraying myself to those around me. Could people sense my awkwardness? Did they read the loneliness? Or were they inspired by the exhilarating freedom being unattached provided? What did they see? A reckless fool? A hip boy from the states, cool and in control? A train wreck heading for them with their name on it?
Sometimes I rush too quickly ahead. Sometimes I forced what shouldn't be forced. Sometimes I made a mess of things.
Interrupting my thoughts, the Shadow Dancer stood in front of me. Smiling he asked if I liked the song. It was the latest hit by Reba. I nodded.
"Good. It's one of my favorites. Let's dance."
I froze. "Uh, I can't really two-step. I'm terrible."
"Trust me, you can. It's easy."
And we were off into the whirling, circling mass of Stetson hats, Cinch Up! shirts and Wranglers. Two hours later we were still out there. Just us. And Collin Raye and Tim McGraw and Faith Hill and Reba. If only those artists could know the joy their voices provide and the meaning their songs give to lives out in the middle of windswept nowheres. The dance hall seemed lit with magic. And while I don't believe for a minute that I learned to dance that night, I did dance like no one was watching. And I did so with a man who deserved to be watched.
Afterward, the Shadow Dancer and I walked into the dark night. I wondered what I should say next. The awkwardness returned and the only sound was that of the gravel crunching beneath our cowboy boots. To the north, the sky remained twilight even though it was after midnight. Approaching the junction where he would head to his campsite and I to mine, we paused and listened to the voices and laughter coming from the still lit campsites.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" I asked.
We stood in the darkness, aware that we had arrived at an intersection which was both literal and figurative. He looked down. "I want to go with you, but I can't," he stuttered. "It's kinda' well, I don't know, awkward. Someone I am staying with sort of likes me and well…" He didn't need to finish. I understood.
"Gotcha. Guess I'll go it alone. Have a good night." I gave him a hug and started walking toward my tent.
"Hey, Tim?"
I stopped. "Yeah?"
"What about breakfast? You want to meet up for some grub before we all have to head out?"
"OK. You're on." The last thing I saw before he disappeared into the darkness was his blinding smile.
Returning to my campsite, I noticed the gentle laughter drifting back to where I sat on my tailgate watching the night. I felt that familiar loneliness return and decided my tent could wait. Zipping up my duster, I set out toward the grandstands and a view of the northern sky. Along the way I heard coyotes, the sounds of passionate encounters, and the slight whisper of the breeze. Breathing deep, I savored the smells from the prairie and held onto the glow from the dance.
As I approached the grandstand I could tell there were other folks there. People locked in embrace or engaged in heartfelt discussion. The night was beautiful and still. Looking around I realized I was the only solitary person present. Climbing to the top of the stands, I tried to be inconspicuous. Sitting down on the top bench I wrapped my arms around my self against the chill. Leaning far back into the bench, I stretched out my legs, then propped them up on the top of the next bench below. The sky was already showing signs of dawn and I thought I saw a hint of the northern lights. The breeze caressed and licked my face while the crickets kept heaven's time.
Closing my eyes, I pondered my life and the roads I'd traveled. Somehow I'd escaped my worst fears after Dallas' departure. I wasn't bitter and my heart didn't seem any harder than it was before. I knew that I would always love him and that indeed he had become a part of who I was. His absence formed a void in part of my heart but that void was also now a part me. If anything, I hoped my experience might make me more sympathetic to losses experienced by others.
For a minute I didn't think about anything other than a series of warm recollections of Dallas. What others might describe as living in the past, I could only define as celebrations of a very special time in my life. Some of the memories were of our time together. Others were A.D. After Dallas. I held him in my thoughts for a few more seconds and then released his image with a sigh. I wished him well wherever he was.
I shifted my weight and thought about the weekend. I thought about Calgary and her gentle souls. I thought about new friendships and opportunity. I wondered about The Shadow Dancer.
I tried to focus on the future, yet kept looking back on the events of the past year. I knew that if I had been able to read the future and seen the things I'd face, I would have thought my endurance wasn't up to the test. I wasn't that strong. But looking back, I'd emerged mostly intact.
Long before the movie "8 Seconds" I had heard the phrase, "Cowboy Up!" If you get bucked off, you have to get back on. Before the fear paralyzes you. Before you can't move and everything closes in. Cowboy Up!
Opening my eyes, I watched the horizon turn pink and then red. My mind wandered toward home. I thought of the ranch that held so many memories. For some reason one particular scene came to mind. It was a simple image but it reminded me of Gina, the truckstop waitress who sculpted her car, and of the silliness of dancing against the howl of the coyotes. It also reminded me of my ten years with Dallas.
_______________________________________________________________
During the horrible winter of 1996-‘97 Pend Oreille County broke all previous records for snowpack. We went without power and phones for weeks. People's roofs caved in and we found ourselves hosting our neighbors because we had a fireplace and they had no source of heat. The winter was long and cold and I never thought it would end. Every trip involved chaining up and long cold hours waiting for the passes to open. I buried my grandfather that winter.
Everyone I knew wished for spring and when it finally arrived in late May, it was sudden. All that snow and ice melted at once. The river flooded and the main road was under several feet of water. The only way into town involved a series of high country trails, lanes, and logging roads. A trip to town that normally takes 15 minutes stretched into an hour or even longer.
One day while coming home on that mountainous detour, I saw a homemade road sign as I skirted the Idaho State line. Marking the intersection of two logging roads, the sign was spray painted in abstract and unevenly-sized red letters on a roughly cut piece of wood. "Almost Idaho Road."
After stopping at my favorite view, an outlook above the valley a mile down the road, I was so taken with the sign that I turned around and passed it again.
Now as I sat in the bleachers I thought about the sign. "Almost Idaho Road." I promised myself that someday I would return and follow that road. I want to see what "almost" looks like. "Almost Idaho." But not quite.
Almost healed. Almost in love. Almost ready. Almost. But not quite.
My father is fond of saying, "Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and love." But I think it counts in many more ways. We get dinged up and broken down. We accumulate road rash. Love rash. We break hearts and we get heart broken. We love and lose. Sometimes we show our scars. Sometimes we camouflage them in miraculous ways. But just by living and loving, the paths of our lives will never be the same again. Risk is everywhere. Change is constant. Grace must abound. We move on from our whatevers. We emerge better. And worse. Though altered, we are almost the same. Almost. But not quite.
Looking back, I’m still Tim. But now it’s Tim A.D.
Almost the same.
But not quite.
“Battle Mountain, Nevada" © 1998 Mark Weigle, Pet A Luma Music, used by permission
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