In the Middle of Somewhere: An Adventure in the Arizona Desert Pt. 1

by Joe Barnes

Arizona and New Mexico have little to offer bored eyes. I’m stuck picturing the large, three-pronged cactus as Native American people waving goodbye. Every five miles or so, an old cowboy appears in the mix. It becomes apparent that the desert is truly forsaken when you realize that both the Indian and the cowboy are waving goodbye with both hands, instead of just one. Once you reach Texas, it takes a couple of hours before you start enjoying the scenery, and by then you’re almost home.
My 22-year-old brother Luke sat next to me driving his ‘98 Jeep Grand Cherokee. Earlier that morning, Luke and I had woke up at 6 a.m. to begin the tedious task of driving 22 hours from Santa Clarita, California, to Austin, Texas. Luke had received his college degree the day before. Once we arrived home, he planned to continue his physical training in preparation to enter the Marine Corps as an officer. He’d been running and weight-lifting since February, although this training was merely an extension of playing soccer for four years at The Master’s College.
When I thought about living at home that summer with all of my old friends, I became nervous and anxious. I didn’t know how I would withstand the pressure to abandon all I had learned and simply pick up where I’d left off, or what they would think about how I had changed. I didn’t know how I would tell them what I had learned and if I should even hang out with them. I looked over at Luke and smiled as I turned up the music.
Luke is five foot nine and has a shaved head (he shaves it instead of leaving his thin hair). I’ve heard girls compliment his clear blue eyes, which create an attractive contrast to his thick black eyebrows. Some have said he’s “dreamy.” His posture and walk are confident, not to be mistaken for arrogance, and he has a sarcastic sense of humor. He’s known for loving sleep and never saying more than necessary in the morning.
Therefore, we were silent as the loud old engine and the air against the windshield formed a mind-numbing vibrating noise as we rode. Two of our friends, Rob and Kelly, also soccer players, were headed to San Antonio, Texas, and caravanned close behind us. Rob was the tall, dark and handsome type and Kelly the short, sweet and cute.
We reached Phoenix in six hours. I stepped out of the car into the Subway parking lot, glad to stretch. After we ate, we walked through the parking lot back to the cars and noticed a long trail of liquid streaming slowly down the asphalt, coming from under the hood of the Jeep.
“Man, what is this!” Luke exclaimed.
I opened the driver door and pulled the handle to release the hood. Kelly and Rob stood by as Luke and I examined the engine. The antifreeze had been seeping out, nearly depleting the coolant in the tank. There was a hole in the tank near the cap. Luckily, an auto store sat in the shopping center we were in. It took us the next 45 minutes to seal the area around the cap with tar and replenish the tank with antifreeze. Hot and sweaty, the four of us climbed in the cars and drove back to the 10 East.
Thirty minutes down the highway, just as I had begun to get cool and relax, Luke noticed the engine temperature gauge running way too hot. “Joe, check this out! We need to stop!”
I sat up and leaned over to see. “Yeah, pull over.”
Luke slowed down to let Rob know we were stopping. Now slightly angry, we got out of the car and popped the hood again. We watched in wonder as blue antifreeze spewed violently out from under the lid, melting the tar we had just applied and making it bubble up. Baffled, Luke did what any Barnes boy does when car trouble arises: he called our dad, the self-taught, nearly-professional mechanic.
Dad told us to drive to the nearest gas station and then call him back. Luke had Dad back on the phone as I pulled up next to the air and water tank at the station. I got out and raised the hood, darting backward to avoid the geyser of hot antifreeze. As it shot up two feet in the air, Luke relayed instructions from Dad, shouting at me to cool down the engine with the hose. I sprayed water wherever I thought best, all over the dark, steamy abyss. Nothing was working. Luke’s tone was demanding and harsh as he instructed me to jam the hose in the radiator and flood it to cool it off.
Kelly and Rob stood by with their jaws dropped. I glared over at them as they tried not to laugh. Luke yelled to my dad that nothing was working, while hot antifreeze and water splattered all over me.
“Chill out, Luke!” I shouted.
Luke quickly ended the call. “Dad told me to call him back when I’ve calmed down and can talk in a normal voice!”
“Yeah, calm down, man!” I yelled.
Rob, Kelly, Luke and I stood staring in dismay, silently watching the geyser run its course and the hose flood the engine. Water spilled over the grill onto the concrete. Strangers looked on with glances I interpreted to be calling me an idiot. That was okay, because I felt like an idiot, and I knew I looked like one. With wet hair and a drenched shirt, I stood out of breath with my hands on my knees, bent over and blinking at the concrete.
The tank soon depleted itself of coolant. I got Dad back on the phone. He told me to fill up the tank with enough water to keep the engine cool and drive to a mechanic. But it was Sunday, and the mechanics weren’t open. Though they politely offered to stay and be of any assistance they could, Luke and I urged Rob and Kelly to get back on the road. I talked it over with Luke and proposed that we stay at a friend’s house 30 minutes away and find a mechanic in the morning. Pulling out from the gas station, Rob and Kelly turned right, back on the road towards Texas, while Luke and I made a left, back towards Phoenix.
Luke and I arrived at Justin’s around 4 p.m. While I hung out with Justin and swam in his pool, Luke continued to talk with Dad. He could not relax knowing there was a chance he could fix his Jeep and get us back on the road. I didn’t bother convincing him to swim, knowing he was too stubborn to relax and wait for a mechanic. I accepted it as pride of ownership, considering I’d probably do the same.
He disappeared and came back a couple hours later, explaining that he had replaced the tank cap at the auto parts store, refilled the antifreeze, and test drove the Jeep through town. He declared it would be okay to skip the mechanic and leave first thing the next morning. My desire to be home silenced my skepticism. We stayed the night to get some rest.
We left Justin’s house at 8 a.m. It was my turn to drive. The Monday morning traffic slowed us down while leaving Phoenix, so I suggested finding an alternate route. Before drifting off to sleep, Luke pointed out a detour on the map that bypassed the bumper-to-bumper traffic. I drove on the shortcut through the desolate, hilly terrain in the Arizona desert, making sure to constantly check the engine temperature.
Around 9:30, while going up a long and steady grade, the engine temperature started to rise, and suddenly the car lost power, locking the breaks and killing the engine. I quickly steered to the side of the road and made a sudden stop. Luke sprang up, and once again, we got out and popped the hood. The antifreeze bubbled from the same place as before. It wasn’t spewing out, but the engine was definitely overheated. With the loss of power, a new problem arose: our battery died. Being in the desert and off the main highway, neither of our cell phones had reception. I walked over and leaned against the driver side door, slowly knocking the back of my head against the window. A story I’d recently heard about a man whose car broke down came to mind. He had prayed, acknowledging that the Lord was in control and said that he would wait for the Lord to work the problem out.
Lord, I’ll trust you, I said to myself. I know You’re in control. I stopped the knocking and slightly grinned.
We spotted a house across the street and down the hill about 200 yards and began to walk towards it in hopes of finding a land-line to use. Walking up the dirt driveway, I stared at the rectangular white house sitting alone on a couple acres of desert. A chain-link fence bordered the property.
I walked up the stairs and onto the long, prairie-style porch, then knocked on the door and peered through the window, quietly repeating, “Hello? Is anyone home?” Never an answer. “Who would ever want to live here?” I asked Luke.
We walked back to the car. I retrieved the jumper cables and began swinging them around as a beacon to any car that passed by. Luke stood by with one arm in the air. In 10 minutes, two cars had gone by, neither caring to stop. Five minutes later, a two-door silver sports car made in the early eighties passed us, still running in spite of its age and seemingly-obvious number of wrecks. It slowed down to make a U-turn and puttered straight up to the front of the Jeep. The driver knew exactly where to position the car for a jumpstart.
As he pulled up, I walked to the right side of the Jeep and stood beside the hood, dangling the jumper cables at my side. Luke stood opposite on the left side. We watched the driver slowly open the door, use the top of the frame to hoist himself out of the driver’s seat, and then finally stand to his feet. He stood close to six and a half feet tall with scruffy facial hair and a beer belly. His skin was weathered and leathery and browned from the sun. His legs, arms and face were covered with a layer of dirt as if he had not showered in a couple of days. He wore thong sandals, baggy, gray cotton shorts, a white t-shirt and a trucker ball cap that didn’t fit. However, the wear of his appearance was not to be mistaken for weakness. He looked in our eyes as he spoke and seemed to possess strength and fury capable of being released at any time.
As he slowly walked toward the hood of the Jeep, Greg (that’s how he introduced himself) made a comment in his scratchy deep voice, acknowledging our car trouble. The way he walked made it look like he had just woken up from an afternoon nap and was trying to regain his balance.
Tucked in the slot behind his ear and skull lay a browned and rotten-looking cigarette. A cigarette becomes this color when it gets wet and has time to dry out again. After drying, the wet tobacco stains the white paper brown. Not only did Greg have a salvaged cigarette behind his ear, but the cigarette had ripped, taking the shape of an L.
Luke and I noticed the cigarette at the same time. We exchanged a smirk that said, “You see that, man?” We looked back at the cigarette, affirming that we had glanced at each other for the same reason, all the while holding back our laughter, so as to not offend the stranger. He was oblivious, and something about him made me assume he would rather wrap the broken cigarette with tape, dry it out and smoke it again, instead of tossing it in the trash.
Reaching the hood, he braced himself with both hands on the grill and hunched over, leaning his face close to the engine. He began inspecting it, swiveling and turning his head and upper body as if he were a snake looking for a way to slide through the small gaps and crevices under the hood.
“I think I can help you out,” Greg said. “Looks like your water hoses going to the engine are clogged. Yeah, you probably need new hoses.”
He stood up and took a step back. “Follow me to my house,” he said, looking at both of us. “I live about 10 minutes away.”
Greg stood with his hands on his hips and his head tilted to the right, waiting for a response. Luke and I stood silent. This seemed to be the best option, and a second longer of silence would have communicated distrust and fear. We glanced warily at each other and then simultaneously agreed to follow.