Paradise preview 01 - Gila Bend

A large Bounder motor home sped east on I-10. The Cruise Control kept it at a steady 55. Edgar knew he was running old tires and figured he could handle a blowout below 60. He did not want to buy tires because their money was running out. The stock market had been lousy since George W. gained the presidency--something about M2 or M3 money. Then came 911 and the market did not even open for days.

Kermit curled sleeping on Edgar’s lap. Edgar had just enough space left to turn the wheel and operate the pedals.

The cassette player played a tape of the Crusaders, just loud enough to override the hissing air conditioner. Edgar welcomed the cool Texas jazz. He had waited for Natasha to fall asleep to swap it for her favorite Bruce Springsteen tape.

A dirty smudge grew on the horizon indicating a large concentration of humanity congregated into a desert metropolis up ahead.

Natasha had drunk too much Vodka to swing out the sun visor side-flap to block the sun.

☼

Two nights ago, they had slept in Hope, Arizona--a good place for aging desert rats.

The night before that, they had laid over in a Yermo trailer park run by a spiky-haired lesbian. Actually, she had moved on, but Edgar felt like kissing the ground she had walked on. After 911 they had elected to layover an extra month in snow country rather than travel through paranoid country. The sultry Mojave air had been a breath of heaven. That morning they had pulled up stakes in Minden, Nevada, sniffling in 18-degree weather. Snow had fallen and still covered the surrounding hills. Coyotes had howled all night long. Edgar had been sick with the flu for a few days and had known he had to reach the desert quickly. One long day’s haul, down 395 to Spike’s, had brought relief.

This morning, they had dropped down to Parker to cross the Colorado. Edgar wanted space between their crossing and Boulder Dam. Who knew what Al Qaeda would blow up next? The feds had even banned motor homes from crossing over Boulder Dam.

☼

A sign came into view--Palo Verde Exit ½ Mile. Edgar peered off to the south, out Natasha’s window. He could not see the largest nuclear reactor in the U.S. Still he knew it was there. Boulder Dam and Palo Verde Power Plant--two prime targets for terrorists--stood out like milestones on their trek.

A sign came into view--85 South Exit to Gila Bend ½ Mile. Edgar pumped off Cruise Control and allowed the behemoth to slow to exit speed. Last year he had gotten lost, pulling through Phoenix out of Wickenburg. He hated Phoenix and had vowed to give it a wide berth by traveling south on paved state highway 85 to I-8.

Less traveled and more remote, State 85 followed a lonely route. Midway across 85, they passed through the Maricopa Mountains. A midday breeze picked up and rocked the vehicle. Something felt strange.

Edgar pulled to the side of the road. The motor home leaned too much for the slope of the dirt.

Natasha woke up. “What’s wrong Daddy?”

Edgar, “Shit! I don’t know! The tires feel funny. I wanta take a look.”

Natasha, “Shit!”

Edgar stepped down off the automatic steps. His driving moccasins scrunched the desert soil. He slammed the door and walked around. Everything looked okay. He hunkered down on his hands and knees between the left rear lights and the left Honda headlight and sighted through the left double tires. Okay! He walked around to the right side.

Natasha slid a bedroom window open. “It’s getting hot in here can we go?”

“I’m almost done! Hold your britches. Better, why don’t you go pee before you wet yourself?”

When Edgar sighted through the right rear tires, he saw the problem. It was the inside tire. “Damn!”

He pulled out on the road. The air conditioner kicked in.

Natasha took a swig of straight vodka. “You look depressed.”

Edgar took a hit of cool Coors. “It’s a tire.”

“Now what are we going to do?”

“It’s the inside right tire--right behind where I loaded the safe. It’s going flat fast. It’s bulging against the outside tire. It has to be fixed.”

“We don’t have any money for a tire.”

“I know! I know! I’m 60 years old. My eyes are failing. Nobody will give me a job. I couldn’t work at MacDonald’s, ‘cause I couldn’t find the key on the cash register with the French fry picture. And besides, my sinuses would drip into their colas. I tried to get a job at the Nevada Department of Transportation.”

“You shoulda kissed more ass at your old job!”

“I got tired of those CIA creeps and they didn’t want me around after I told them about my Mao Tse Tung dream.”

“That was stupid!”

“They had hosed me for seven years.” He crushed the Coors can. “Maybe the stock market will go back up. I think I’ll see if I can find a job when we get settled.”

“Where you gonna find a tire that size out here?”

“I  don’t  know. What’s worse is we have to slow down so the outer tire doesn’t go too!”

“We’re screwed! I should have married a Republican!”

“Maybe we can find a tire shop before the other one goes.”

☼

The last seven months in Minden had given them little solace. They had made friends with a Mexican family who worked as servants in Incline Village. Several people in the campground had worked in Incline Village. Next thing they knew, one of their major credit cards had an Incline Village address and new charges at Harvey’s in Lake Tahoe.

One of the neighbors had tried to recruit Edgar to be responsible for the computer support of a secret redneck invasion of China. “We’ll get our cargo planes landed in China with heavy armaments by bribing the Chinese radar operators.”

The bump on Natasha’s arm had grown as big as a cherry while their health insurance had almost run out. Only seven months earlier she had had surgery to remove a growth on her eyelid.

One morning, as Edgar had watched MSNBC, the market had begun to tumble. Then the television had shown one of World Trade Center towers on fire. Natasha and Edgar had looked on mesmerized, as the second plane had hit. The market had closed before Edgar could find his slippers. He had sent an e-mail to a friend about the symmetry of the buildings collapse, comparing it to a banana being peeled. At the time, his friend had thought the remark to be traitorous. More recently, callers have expressed the same feelings on Coast to Coast radio; using the symmetry as a basis for their conspiracy plot that the government had set off pre-positioned charges in the buildings.

Edgar had predicted such an event, but had hoped it would not happen in his lifetime. Now, he was looking for signs that his second dire prediction might be in the offing--a major epidemic of gargantuan proportions.

They had acquired Blue Cross health insurance at $700 per month.

Things had gone crazy in the camp with pickups carrying banners about killing the frigging rag heads.

☼

The first thing Natasha saw as they approached I-8 was a giant ‘TIRES’ sign.

The mechanic had to call out to have the tire delivered. He jacked up the rear end and removed the outer tire. Grease streaked the inside tire in a radial pattern. “You’re losing your bearings.”

Edgar, “You can say that again. Can you fix it?”

“$65 for one Michelin radial! Nothing fancy! $85 and leave it overnight for bearings on this end of this axle!”

“We can’t leave it! We can’t afford the bearing.”

“You ain’t gonna go far.”

“Quail Canyon Trailer Trails! Between Phoenix and Casa Grande! Over by Gila Bend Indian Reservation.”

“You got enough bearing for there and back for the bearings. You’re lucky they deliver propane to your motor home in Arizona. Drive Slowly.”