Like New, Lo Miles Part 3, Texas, beyond and back © Russ Walling Sixteen hours of surprisingly uneventful driving landed us on a dirt road mere meters from the hueco tanks front gate. Angus had been sleeping for hours and I was working a case of highway hypnosis that a month of therapy couldn't dent. I parked the bucket about a quarter mile down "Texas farm road number 118" and went to sleep before the engine stopped turning. "Ok fellers! Nobody move! You in the front there--with the hair--keep them hands where I can count the wrinkles on 'em!" A burly law man was standing near my door and waving his service revolver with frontier authority. "When I say it--and no sooner--both you boys exit the vehicle and lay down over here." He motioned with the revolver toward an open area just off the dirt road. "Ok--start movin'--like grannys molasses in winter." "Y--y--yes sir," I mumbled not fully grasping exactly what was going on. I tried to get a better look at the lawman but the morning sun radiating over his shoulders made my eyes squint. This reminded me of an old Clint Eastwood movie, the one where he taught the importance of always having an edge. sure--the sun from behind is an edge, but a surprise wake up call at six a.m., complete with badge and gun, was easily enough to handle me and Angus. "Is this slow enough?" I asked while trying to move like that molasses he spoke of. "Yeah--that's fine. You there with the hair." He waved the gun at Angus who instantly froze. "Come on around here and join your partner--face down." The lawman watched as we receded to knees, then lay flat on the ground. "Good. Now what are you boys doing out on this here road anyhow?" I started to explain, "well, I was kinda' tired last night and--" the lawman cut me off. "Now you boys wouldn't have any surprises in the trunk now would you," he asked while pacing nervously near the low slung rear end of the bucket. "Surprises--heck no, not me. I don't have any surprises, how about you Angus? Got any surprises?" Angus replied in a very high voice, "no, none." The lawman paced around at the rear of the car a bit more and then cautiously released the bungy cord. In one quick motion he pulled the trunk lid up and threatened my pile of laundry with the gun. "Shit!--you boys had me worried for a moment there." He wiped his brow and holstered his weapon. "Get up boys. I guess your not the coyotes I thought you was." He let the trunk lid drop and leaned against it. "Coyotes? What the hell are coyotes?" I asked while dusting off. "Coyotes? Them is bad boys that bring e-legals over from Mexico. I reckoned you fellas might have been some--I mean you are out on a dirt road, in a junky car, with outta state plates. Hell, the rear end is so low it looked like there might be a handful of the little bastards in there." The lawman pushed his hat to the back of his head and laughed. "So--what are ya doin' out here anyway?" "I'm on me holidays--seeing America," Angus said. "Boy, wait till the folks back home hear about this! Just like the movies! Texas law, pulling guns on us!" I interrupted the overly enthusiastic Angus, "as I was saying. We got tired and just pulled over to get a few winks. We're on our way to Hueco Tanks, from California." I threw in, "were rock climbers." This was to verify our motive for visiting the "Tanks". The lawmans jaw dropped a little. "You mean with the rope and spikes and all that?" He was hammering in the air with a fist, the other hand held a mythical piton. "Exactly," I said, not wanting to push our luck with corrections. "Well no more sleeping out on these roads," he said with a relaxed drawl. "This is private land and I personally don't think it's safe--there's Mexican e-legals crawling all over these hills, hiding in them rocks, running wild in the brush--" The talk of e-legals got him pumped up and he panned the horizon 360 degrees and camped a hand on the oversized metal residing in his holster. "Anyway, you boys have a nice time here in the Lone Star state and be careful with them piters--pritons--hell, spikes. I've got to get back to work, findin' e-legals. Adios amigos." He walked back to his truck, fired it up, then and hung a wide u-turn through the brush and vanished. "Man that guy was a psycho!" Angus squealed. "What a maniac! He was a classic! Him and his e-legals, the molasses in winter, counting the wrinkles on me hand! Fabulous!" It was obvious Angus had never encountered local color of this variety before. I was hoping we didn't again. Angus continued to bubble over with quotes and observations about our Texas lawman encounter as we got ready to go. Once we were back on the highway it was only minutes until the rocks were visible. Angus immediately forgot the lawman and craned his neck for a better view. A stout payment at the kiosk gave us a campsite and a pass good for unlimited travel on texas park lands. It seemed like a bargain at the time. Before we left the kiosk the woman at the counter warned us to be good--or else. We motored away from the kiosk and parked in our assigned site. Before we could unload a single item from the bucket the local law had parked behind us. the officer confidently approached and then warned us that drinking, debasement, public nudity, profanity, and various lewd acts would not be tolerated. He said he'd heard about us "Californee climbers", and wanted to "nip trouble in the bud" as it were. I assured him we were different from any past trouble makers, and had no intention of performing any illegal acts. He gave me a sideways glance, eyeballed the bucket one more time, then took off on his rounds--at 3 m.p.h. During our exchange angus had managed to conceal our "travellers"--a couple of forty ounce bottles of malt liquor good for at least a week in the Texas Parks Department slammer. We collected our bouldering accoutrements, complete with eight foot extendo brush, and went in search of problems. A five minute walk put us at the base of the "Mushroom Boulder". Angus laced up his boots and warmed up on a few problems I probably couldn't bag after ten days of tries. I worked on my "pathetic" b1's and kept an eye on angus. He was pasted under a large roof, clinging like graffiti, crimping molecular holds. With two small lunges and a bit of an inversion, Angus had the holds over the lip--monstrous buckets the size of pabulum. Seconds later the summit was his. He mumbled about the rock being quite sharp and trotted off to the down climb. As most climbers will do, I immediately went over to give this problem a bit of my magic. I touched the first holds, attempted a pull and almost raised my ass off the ground. Needing some down time while I repsyched, I brushed all the holds and tried to piece it together. "Good scramble!" Angus said, now back from the summit. "Need the beta?" "Beta my ass! Just stand back and watch me work," I said and positioned myself on the first holds. I drew a few quick breaths and then began a mighty pull. Fifteen seconds later found me on the same holds, making a noise like a faulty whoopee cushion. Upward movement had stopped right where it began. "Jesus! this is horrendous" I bellowed and plopped back down into the dirt. "You're going at it all wrong," Angus offered. "Try to use your feet a wee bit more--I mean if you can get them off the ground." Angus laughed and motioned for me to try the problem again. "Ok--ok--use the feet you say." I crawled into the maw and crimped on the first set of holds, began to pull, and actually got both feet off the ground. I smooshed the ball of my foot on a protrusion and popped for the second hold--a razor. "Yeeyow!" I yelped. The razor had just filleted my index finger. Not being a total masochist, I quickly dropped back on the dirt, and grasped my bleeding appendage. "Aaach! Ya gave up too easy," Angus said in a disgusted tone. "I think you might have had it if you hung that wee razor." "Had it hell! What about the rest of this beast--it's easy or something?" I looked at Angus and checked my finger again. "Well, not exactly easy--for the crux is near the lip, but you looked good on it." Angus looked at my finger and declared it a wound a washwoman wouldn't be proud of, and offered me some tape. My flapper was sitting up like a drive-in movie screen with a red parking lot, so I was glad to hide it under a few wraps. "Another try then? A bit of a redeemer? A Yankee on the summit? Let's go then, give it another shot," Angus said while gesturing at the problem. "Maybe later pal," I said. "I've got to pace myself. I'd hate to blow up on the first day of a road trip." I felt stupid saying this with a finger already severed into the tendon sheath. I decided to do some really light bouldering, like 5.0, and Angus went off to find something "hard". Over the next three weeks or so, Angus had managed to do problems that would give a gecko the shakes. S few of the problems he had flashed, I worked on for my entire stay. My progress was slow, often times painful, and aesthetically unappealing to any onlookers--but not Angus. He made it look easy--rough estimates would tally between ten and fifteen quality boulder problems per day, every other day, for the entire stay. Pretty impressive. Trying to follow in his wake had reduced me to rubble. Tape held together every finger on both hands. I had a groin pull from trying to "use my feet", a "wee" head injury still gave me occasional headaches, and my shoulder was acting up. Now i spent most days like a nomadic janitor, following Angus around, scrubbing the occasional new boulder problem, and carrying the ghetto blaster. My present condition told me I was overdue for some "R and R" back in L.A. I ran this by Angus. Angus said he wanted to get a few more feathers in his cap, then would hitch a ride back to Josh in a few weeks. It sounded good to me. The next morning in camp Angus landed a twenty on me for "highway incidentals" and retrieved his valuables from the trunk. His hearty "Adios Ah--mee--gus", complete with authentic drawl, sent me down the road with a grin. The drive to L.A. was arduous. An exhaust leak had me as loopy as seven Swedes before I reached Lordsburg. In Bowie, a shock absorber had dislodged itself and rifled through the floorboard on the passengers side. By Quartzite, a tire was delaminating with every revolution above 45mph--at least this kept the cops off me for speeding. The fun of this cross country drive was escaping me. Dinner in Indio was a pleasant highlight until young ruffians stole my ghetto blaster from the front seat. This proved to be worse that just no more tunes on the drive--my favorite Dean Martin tape was in the damn deck! Two more hours of monoxide and toil landed me in the driveway of my L.A. rental. Through the mindfog it looked like a palace. I left the bucket dieseling and headed inside to a good nights sleep. In the morning I placed an ad in the local paper: 1962 Olds Cutlas. 500 bucks, cash. Good transpo. Needs minor adjustments. Call Philo at 976-9233. hoping for the best, I cleaned my junk out of the car, then hosed it off. Over the next few days I fielded a dozen or more calls without setting the hook in a single consumer. I decided that a spattering of lies might get a few buyers out to see the car. On the next call I pumped up the story a bit. "Sure, sure. It's a beauty. Hardly driven, and certainly never over fifty mph," I said into the telephone receiver. "How's that? The tires? Tread as deep as the Grand Canyon. The mileage? Oh--45 in the city, about 60 on the open road." I was really getting the hang of boldface lies. I decided to try a few more: "In fact, its got a dashikioverdrive that will boost that ole mileage up to near 90 mpg on the highway, Lotus suspension, unborn platypus interior, ermine head-rests, and an eel skin covered steering wheel." I added: "Plus, for and extra C-note there's a timeshare program that includes my girlfrien--" a hum in the earpiece told me the caller on the other end had hung up. Maybe I was trying too hard. The next call went smoother. I deflated my big lies with little lies and arranged a meeting. The caller agreed to meet me in my driveway in about one hour. I told him I'd be ready and to bring his wallet. Fifty-eight minutes later there was an alarming amount of noise coming from the driveway. My guess was the prospective buyer had arrived. As I went closer the sounds rang foreign to my ear, each word thick with strenuous accent. I peered around the corner and saw troupe of bedouins groping and prodding my Detroit steel. Two veiled women, barely five feet tall, were kicking the tires. A small child with a day-glo turban was behind the wheel, steering with enthusiasm. The apparent head of the household, a large, swarthy, strapping fellow with a silken turban, was fidgeting with the hood. I put my shades on and approached with a quiver full of salesman jargon. "Howdy folks--you must be the people interested in this fine auto." My arm swept the entire length of the auto with a "Vanna White" wave. "She's a beaut--boy, I hate to give her up, but i need the money for an operation." I put a hand on my side and sighed heavily as i rubbed a rib that felt just fine. The troupe retreated to the rear of the car and the swarthy fellow approached me.I had to crane my neck just to take him all in. "Mr. Philo--I am Mammoud Hahkehnna Khurma Shibam Ali." He extended a hand that looked like a flank steak--well done. I shook his paw and started to crank up some more salesman flap--"enough talk Mr. Philo! I will make up my own mind--silence now." He moved along the side of the car. His hand scanned the surface of each panel like a pool sweeper that only cleans dents. With every depression found he looked at me and groaned like Lurch. After each groan the troupe would rubberneck around, confirm the dent, then chortle to themselves. I was starting to regret letting Angus pile the rig into that boulder back in Josh. "Let me see it run, Mr. Philo," barked Mammoud. "Yes sir-ee, no problem," I said and hopped in. When I pulled out the screwdriver key I knew I looked like a fool. Mammouds big face watched through the windshield as I frigged with the ignition hole. "Any second now," I said with a fake smile only a plaid sport coat could lend credence to. I frigged some more, then the splutter of ignition, a big bang, a bit of a whir, then nothing. I smiled nervously at mammoud and continued to work the screwdriver into the hole. Eventually she started to turn over, yet just wouldn't start. I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders at Mammoud, then pumped the accelerator furiously--no dice. "Sit tight Mam babe," I said and hopped out of the car. I went to the front and popped the hood. "I'll have this baby going in no time." Hidden under the hood was a Pharaoh sized Pepto Bismal bottle filled with methanol for just such occasions. I opened the bottle and drained it into the throat of the beast. "O.k. Mammoud, hop in and hit it." I stepped back about five yards. Mammoud slid behind the wheel and turned the screwdriver--bingo! A sub-atomic blast sent flames leaping over the hood and sent the troupe scurrying for cover. Plumes of putrid smoke belched from the tailpipes and the entire car shuddered trying to purge the evil mixture thrust down its throat. "Holy lights out in Mecca!" Mammoud yelled from behind the wheel. "What's going on up there?" I yelled over the din: "Nothing Mam babe, just keep giving it gas until she settles down a bit!" I sneaked forward and slammed the hood down on the flames. "See, purring like a kitten. How's about landing some dough on me and you can drive her away?" Mammoud looked at me with leery eyes, and asked in a questioning tone: "I think this car is maybe in need of more work than you are telling me! "Nah--this rigs mint. I mean hell, it is over twenty years old and all--but it's still nearly factory fresh." I nodded my head affirmatively, hoping Mammoud might join in with a few nods of his own. He didn't. Mammouds family cautiously approached the car again and were talking to him at a rapid clip. The veiled women were doing most of the talking while Mammoud feathered the gas pedal and shot back answers to their questions. My gut feeling was that he wanted the car. The women, being much wiser, were trying to talk him out of it. I stared at Mammoud as if I were waiting for a jack-in-the-box with 500 bucks taped to its head to spring out. For ten minutes the troupe bickered back and forth, then I decided to speed up the process: "Well folks," I said while looking at my watch, "lets cut to the chase. Do you want to be the new owners of this fine ride, or are ya goin' away empty handed?" I panned the group and waited for an answer. "We have decided you want too much Mr. Philo--perhaps 300 dollars American is more fair," Mammoud said and adjusted a jewel in his turban while waiting for my reply. I rubbed my chin, stared at the sky, then said: "Mam babe--I like you. normally I wouldn't think about lowering the price on a vintage auto like this one. But for you--lets call it 450 American. Whaddya say?" "250 American--no more." This brought nods of approval from the entire troupe. "Hold on a minute here Mam. Just hit that gas pedal and tell me this is a 250 dollar car. Go on--tell me with a straight face." Mammoud gunned the engine and it spluttered up to full r.p.m.'s in a heartbeat. "That there is no 250 dollar roar of power," I added with confidence. "O.k. Mr. Philo. I give you 350 dollar, all cash, all now." "Deal!" I blurted instantly. The women started squawking immediately. Mammoud silenced them with a wave of his hand and instructed the old woman to give me the money. Reluctantly the old woman hiked up her dress to the navel and pulled a wad of bills from her control top panties--a spot safer than Brinks. As she handed me the money, I wished I had some foundry tongs to grasp it with. I wiped my hands on my Levis, took the dough, and thumbed it to get a count--350 big ones. "Looks good Mam. I'll generate some paper work for ya and be back in a minute." I went into the house and prepared a bill of sale that looked like it might pass as a legal document. I figured I'd just skip the pink slip and all that crap--especially since I had none. When I returned to the bucket, Mammoud had the family inside with junior and his day-glo turban right up front. I passed the paperwork in the window and waited while he looked it over. I quickly pushed a pen in the window and pointed to the bottom line. "Sign here pal and it's a done deal," I said while trying to concealing my excitement. Mammoud signed and took one of the copies I prepared. Just as I put my hand out for a farewell shake the Olds erupted. Smoke spewed from the rear and a bushel of flames was leaking out of the hood scoop. A stratospheric explosion blew the hood clean off and had the troupe fleeing the olds and scrambling for cover. I courageously went and hid in the bushes. Mammoud found me through the smoke, declared he did not want the car, and demanded the return of his money. I explained to him that the paper he signed was valid from the moment the pen left the paper and no refund would be given. This didn't go over real big with Mammoud. His grasp of the language faded as his voice rose to a little above yelling. Hearing the ruckus, the small old woman approached me through the smoke. I bent down close to her to hear what she might have to say. She let a piece of decorative red brick coping from my weed infested garden do the talking--flush on top of my pate. Fade to black as they say. I drifted back among the living just as the sun was finishing its business for the day. I gingerly felt for the knob I knew would be waiting for my hand. Yep, thar she blows and it's a beaut. The first pass told me it was sticking out about a foot--and it felt like it. I struggled to my feet and staggered to the charred shell of the bucket. I persuaded my lid to recount the events leading up to this disaster. Slowly and painfully it all came back to me. I checked my pockets for Mammouds money--it was gone. I guess I'm still the proud owner. I picked up the paperwork scattered on the lawn and went inside. The freezer was holding some needed relief in the form of block ice. I strapped a fist sized cube of ice to my nuggie, then went to the phone. I called the local paper and told them I needed to change my classified ad. While on hold I composed a new ad line reflecting the now depleted glory of the bucket. A nasal voice came on the other end, "automobile classifieds," she said. I gave her my particulars and said: "I want to retool my ad a bit. Make it read: 1962 Olds Cutlas. 300 bucks, cash. Could be good transpo. Needs minor bodywork. Call Philo at 976-9233." The voice said "thank you," then hung up. The pounding in my head made me wince as I hung up the phone. I walked my fingers around the nuggie as though they were disarming a neutron bomb--in the dark. Something just didn't feel right. Apparently the heat coming off the nuggie had burnt a hole through clean through the ice block. This ice doughnut, now perched around my cactus of pain, sat there like the winning pitch in a ring toss game from hell. The thought of this ludicrous vision made me laugh, but that hurt, so I stopped and headed off to bed. The ringing of the phone some thirteen hours later woke me up. I rubbed my head, confirmed the pain, and picked up the blower: "yeah?" "Say, do you have a car for sale?" a voice inquired. After what had happened yesterday, I thought for a moment before responding--then began giving the "mildly embellished sales pitch."
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