In the Middle of Somewhere: An Adventure in the Arizona Desert pt. 3

by Joe Barnes

By this time, I had been at the house for five hours. It was 3 p.m. We got in the Jeep and drove away, glad to be moving on. We pulled up to the auto store 30 minutes later, shocked that a Napa existed out here in the middle of nowhere. We went in, and Luke called Dad to explain what had happened. I bought a soda and took a seat on the bar stool at the long checkout counter.
As the two middle-aged women standing behind the counter listened to Luke, they showed a growing curiosity as to how we had arrived there with car trouble. Noticing this, I began to satisfy them with the story. After hearing everything I said, one of the ladies brought a man from the warehouse to take a look at the car. Luke hung up the phone and followed us to the Jeep. The big fat guy lay on the cement and looked at the engine. “Your water pump is shot. You see it leaking here?” He pointed up into the engine and then to the ground where the drips of water fell. “You need a new water pump. There’s not enough water getting to your engine to keep it cool.” “Are you sure?” Luke asked. “Positive,” the man replied.
Luke went back in the store and got on the phone to tell Dad the real problem. As Luke and Dad spoke, it became apparent that we needed to find a mechanic to put the pump on. One of the women interrupted Luke. “My husband is a part-time mechanic. He can do it. We live right down the street.” She had thin, light brown hair reaching to her waist. Her face was round with a double chin and a sincere smile. Luke paused from his conversation. We stared silently at her. The other woman chimed in, sensing our hesitation. “He’s a good mechanic — and a preacher. He won’t overcharge you. You can trust him.”
Luke ran it by my dad and got the okay. We bought two new hoses and a water pump. It was 4 p.m. as we followed the woman to her house. The medium-sized, tan and brown brick houses were much nicer than those in Greg’s town. We turned off the main road. The woman parked along the curb in front of a house, got out and ran to the edge of the driveway, motioning like an air-traffic controller. We parked under the carport over the driveway and got out of the car.
The woman, Shirley James, introduced us to her husband, Hosea James. Hosea stood just short of six feet. He was fit for a man in his 50s and had bristly brown hair cut high-top style. His tan skin showed the effects of long, blue-collar days in the sun. We also met an older couple, Dan and Marie, in the yard. When we pulled up, they were complimenting “Preacher James” on the message he had delivered the day before. Marie had shoulder-length, white hair. Dan’s head was bald with short white hair around the sides. It seemed that his age had caused his posture to slump.
Luke handed the water pump to Hosea. He immediately opened the hood and began to work. Shirley and Marie conversed while Luke and I petted the Black Labrador Dan held on a leash. “So Dan, what do you do out here? Are you retired?” I asked. “Well, I did work, until I fell off the ladder on the job and hurt myself real bad. I spent three months in the hospital. I’m still recovering. I got out in March.” His voice shook, and his words came out slowly.
Though his head slanted towards the ground, he made sure to look me in the eyes while he spoke. “Tell them Dan! Tell them what happened!” Marie said. Luke took a step closer to Dan and folded his arms to show interest. “Like I said, I hurt myself real bad. I broke three ribs, punctured my kidney, dislocated my hip and shoulder, and I had stitches all over my head.” He touched the side of his head. “I haven’t always stood this way, just since the accident.” “He’s always been real healthy,” his wife interjected.
Dan continued. “I was in a coma for two and a half months. While I was lying there one day, two tall young men dressed in black striped suits came in. They said, ‘Do you want to live through this, Dan?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. They told me they would only let me live if I denied Christ. If not, I would die.” By this time, Shirley and Marie had moved closer to Luke and me, listening as if it was the first time they had heard the story. “Now I gotta tell you, I had never been a Christian. She always wanted me to be, but I just didn’t care.” He pointed at Marie. “I’d been praying for him for 30 years,” she said. “For some reason, I knew this was not the time to deny Christ. So I said, ‘No, get out of here!’ They left. Then they came again. They said the same thing. I said no again, only this time, I got real mad and cursed and yelled at them. One of the men walked towards me, and I started swinging at him.”
Astonished, Luke and I looked over at the ladies. “It’s true!” Marie said. “The nurses had to strap his legs and arms to the bed. They even called me in to see.” I thought it peculiar that an injured man could be so rambunctious while he was unconscious. We looked back at Dan. “Right when I swung at him, a lion’s head lunged at me roaring.” He spread his hand wide and quickly moved it toward us to show the thrust. “It came out of his arm. I swung at it. Then it ended, and they were gone.” “It came out of his arm?” I asked, grabbing my arm and furrowing my brow. “Yes.” Dan raised his right forearm and touched the middle of it. “It came out right here.” “Wow,” I said, turning my head to Luke. We looked at each other wide-eyed. “Anyway, they came back a couple more times. When they were there, I felt like I was in hell. It smelled bad — and the heat. I could hear cries.” Dan paused to gather himself. “It put the fear of God in me,” he said in a severe tone. “I got out of there and gave my life to the Lord. I’ve read my Bible every day since.” “Thanks for telling us about that,” Luke said. I nodded my head to agree.
“We better get going!” Marie said to Shirley. “Nice to meet you boys. If you need a place to stay tonight, we have an extra bedroom.” “We’d appreciate that, but we should be out of here pretty soon,” Luke said. The old couple walked away. Shirley pulled out some chairs and began to tell us how Hosea and she had met, got married, become Christians and gotten very involved in their charismatic church. “The real preacher died, and they asked Hosea to fill in. He just kinda never stopped. He’s only been doing it a couple of years. Everyone loves him.”
Hosea walked over with the water pump and interrupted, telling us we had bought the wrong kind of pump. He said he had ordered the right one from Napa, but it wouldn’t be in until tomorrow morning. Also, he had found a crack in one of our cylinders, which he said he would fill with liquid glass. “I’m guessing you won’t be out of here until three or four tomorrow,” he said. Luke and I walked down the sidewalk towards Dan and Marie’s around 6 p.m., Luke with a duffle bag on his shoulder and me rolling a small suitcase. We laughed as people stared and gave us strange looks. Dan and Marie were happy to have us. Marie insisted on cooking us dinner. She made chicken and vegetable stir-fry with egg rolls.
After cleaning up, Luke and I walked through the living room and peered out the glass door. There Dan sat, shoulders hunched over and head down, holding a book very close to his face. Marie walked up behind us. “He reads his Bible there every evening,” she said. Luke slid the door open, and the four of us talked on the patio for a couple of hours. We headed back to the Jeep about 11 the next morning. Hosea had been working on it since nine. “I got the water pump on and the crack filled,” he said. “It needs another three or four hours to dry. It’s risky, but I think it should get you home.”
Once again, we sat underneath the carport and talked to Hosea and Shirley for three hours. They captivated us with interesting stories, telling us about the 10 years they had spent ministering on Indian reservations in northern Arizona. Time went by unnoticed. “Can we pray for ya’ll before you leave?” Shirley asked. “Of course,” Luke said. Holding hands, we formed a circle in the driveway. It was a solid, five-minute prayer. They agreed with each other’s requests and repeatedly said, “Yes, Jesus.” Their body movement caused Luke and me to open our eyes and watch them. They nodded and looked up to the sky and shook their heads. I looked at Luke, turned my nose up, and raised my eyebrows. He smiled.
We gave hugs and got into the Jeep. I drove out of Carney, Arizona on Tuesday afternoon at 4 p.m. I constantly checked the engine temperature, knowing that the engine could die at any moment. The mental video of driving down my street and pulling into my driveway played over and over. Luke asked if I wanted to listen to Mere Christianity on CD. Normally I’d say no, but I wanted distraction from looking at the clock every 20 minutes. I listened for 10 minutes.
My mind switched from dreading the remaining length of time in the car to worrying about the problems I would face at home. Milling them over, I began to speed. “Joe, did you hear that?” “No! What?” “What he just said.” “Yeah, I did. What was it, though?” He explained C.S. Lewis’ breakdown on the issue of hypocrisy in Christianity and then posed the same simple question Lewis asked. “Joe, are you a hypocrite? Think about it. Don’t be.” I drove in silence. Naturally, I wanted to ignore the difficult question. However, I fought my tendency and began to evaluate. Clearly, for me the question was not, “Are you a hypocrite?” but, “Will you be a hypocrite?” The only way to find authenticity at home would be the same way I had found it in Carney: by relying on and trusting in God. I drove until stopping for gas around 1 a.m. We were finally in Texas: time for Luke’s shift and my sleep.
Two hours later, I jolted up at a loud noise. It sounded and felt like we had just hit a car. “What in the —” I didn’t have a chance to finish. “I just ran over a deer!” Luke said. “He ran out in front of me, and I ran straight over him!” “Did it do any damage?” I asked. Luke leaned forward in the seat, trying to get a look at the front end. “I don’t know. I think it’s all right. I’m not stopping. I don’t care!” “You’re not gonna stop?” I said. “Whatever, just don’t hit any more deer.” I laughed and went back to sleep.
Thirty minutes later, I woke to the sounds of sirens. “Oh great, Luke! A cop! First the deer, now--” “Shut up, Joe!” Luke yelled. The Texas Highway Patrolman came to the window, giving the by-the-book statement. “Officer, I hit a deer a little bit ago. Can I get out and check the front?” “Sure, sure,” the officer answered. Luke and I got out and met him at the bumper. He shined his flashlight on it. “Yup, looks like it,” he said. “You can see some of the hair and the blood.” Luke gripped part of the plastic bumper, trying to force it back to the right position. Then he squatted to inspect the damage. “Is there any reason you were speeding back there, son?” Luke stood up and slowly turned to face him. “Actually, yeah, there is. I just graduated college, my car broke down in the middle of nowhere in Arizona for two days, and I just want to get home.” He pushed out a deep breath. “Be careful out there,” the officer said. He walked away.
We looked at each other, shocked. “Nice Luke!” I said. “Your tact worked!” We arrived home at 5 a.m. on Wednesday morning. I failed miserably that summer at being a Christian, and at the end, I was shamefully aware of it. Only now can I look back and see what God taught me through that experience and know that Hosea, Shirley, Dan and Marie would be proud of who I am today.

In the Middle of Somewhere: An Adventure in the Arizona Desert pt. 2

by Joe Barnes

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.

Five minutes later, we drove through a small town hidden between the desert hills. The inactivity and lack of color were eerie. Dilapidated houses sat on small lots surrounded by chain-link fences. The few parked cars I saw looked similar to Greg’s.

Greg slowed down, made a U-turn in the street, and parked along the curb. Luke stopped and rolled down the window, looking to him for instruction.

“Park right there.” Greg pointed to the driveway across the street.

Luke pulled in through the gate and parked, leaving 10 yards between the front of the Jeep and the trailer in the driveway. There was a house with a porch on the left. The piece of plywood sitting on the porch steps bridged the gap between the steps and the trailer door. The small yard was overgrown with weeds and scattered with empty garden pots, big desert rocks, a rusty bike, a golf club and empty spray-paint cans next to a multicolored piece of plywood.

Luke and I waited for Greg to walk past the Jeep before getting out. Greg abruptly stopped, turned around and put his hands on his hips. He glanced down at his feet and looked up at us with a serious expression.

“Look guys, I’m willing to help you, but we don’t exactly live by the law around here. So anything you see here stays here.”

“Yeah, sure,” Luke and I agreed.

Greg turned and continued walking. “My buddy lets us put our trailer home here in his driveway,” he said. “Come meet my girlfriend.” He walked up the ramp and into the trailer.

I walked behind Luke with my head tilted down, making sure to not kick his heels as we shuffled inside. The first thing I saw in front of me was a curtain. The space between the curtain and the wall revealed a small toilet. I turned left and took three steps down the narrow hallway and into a larger amount of space.

“Karen, this is Luke and Joe. They have some car trouble.”

Karen sat Indian-style on the bed in front of us, smoking a joint. “Bummer guys…want some?” Karen asked. She flipped the joint around and held it out toward us.

“No thanks,” Luke responded. I just shook my head. I didn’t say anything because in a weird way, I wanted some. I didn’t necessarily want to smoke with her; I just wanted to be high again. For a split second, I pictured myself grabbing the joint from her hand and taking a seat. I shook my head and rolled my eyes after the thought.

“Me and Luke are gonna go into town to Wal-Mart to get some parts,” Greg said. “We’ll be about an hour, an hour and a half. Take care of Joe…get him a soda or something. Joe, you want a soda?”

“No thanks, I’m good,” I replied.

Greg squeezed between Luke and me to walk out of the trailer. Luke followed him. I poked Luke as I walked behind him. He turned his head and saw me staring at him with raised eyebrows. He raised his eyebrows back and shrugged his shoulders. In the yard, I stopped by the porch and watched them walk across the street to Greg’s car.

“Have a seat on the porch, Joe. We’ll be back soon,” Greg yelled. Before Luke opened the passenger door, he looked at me. “See ya, Joe,” he said, giving me a look that told me to watch my back and be careful.

After the car disappeared from sight, I turned and noticed a bench on the porch. I went to the Jeep, put on my straw cowboy hat, and walked up the steps. I couldn’t help but notice the neon-colored swirls spray-painted all over the bench. I picked it up and moved it a tiny bit forward. Sitting down, I propped my feet up on the banister and started to observe everything around me.

The porch’s forest green paint was cracked and chipped. The rotted siding on the house was gray and faded. On the window sill behind me sat a spray-paint can, an empty Coke bottle from the ’50’s, a tin can with flowers in it, and two dirty, oddly-shaped glass bottles. Tiny, colorful rocks that looked like granite were placed in between each of these. Beside the bench sat a couple of larger rocks with geodes showing. To my right was the front door.

Thirty minutes passed, and four people stopped by. Each walked up to the front door, ignored me and yelled into the trailer at Karen. “Is he up yet? Are the girls up?” Every time Karen answered, “No, not yet, come back in a little while. They’re here…they’ll be up.”

My suspicion grew as I counted the people coming and going. I could only assume that the “he” they referred to was the local marijuana distributor. I wondered what else I didn’t know about this secluded town.

“Heeey!!” someone yelled.

I looked down the street and noticed a man standing there looking at me. I got up and walked to the front of the yard and faced him from a distance. He began to walk towards me.

“Where’s Greg?” he shouted.

“He went to town, to the store.” I pointed behind me.

“I’m Johnny,” he said as he came within feet of me.

“Joe. Nice to meet you,” I replied.

Johnny was six feet tall and had a shaved head. He had a hoop earring in each ear. His Mexican heritage was obvious from his dark hair and skin and his accent. He wore a black t-shirt and black pants and appeared to be in his late 30’s.

Without waiting for further introduction, I explained Luke’s and my situation.

“Yeah,” he said. “Greg called me and told me to come down. We work on bikes together.”

We went back up to the porch and sat on the bench. As I looked over at him, I noticed tears tattooed near the corner of each of his eyes. I remembered hearing that for every person a gangster kills, they put a tattoo in this spot by his eye. As I thought about it, I wasn’t sure if my memory served me right. Maybe the tear symbolized a friend or family member who had been murdered. Either way, he fascinated me. After a series of questions, I learned that Johnny had been released from prison 14 months ago, after serving two years. His demeanor communicated a mental distance from reality, yet he was polite and comfortable as he sat and talked with me.

Karen heard Johnny and me talking and came out of the trailer to join us. She sat on the steps, pulled out another joint, and asked if he wanted to smoke. He nodded.

“Johnny, you need to drive me up to the mountains,” Karen said. “I need to go back.” She looked out toward the horizon at the mountains she was referring to.

For 30 minutes, Karen talked about her mountain experiences. While on top of the mountain one day, God had written to her with clouds in the sky that she was the X that marked the spot where a meteorite the size of Arizona would hit the earth. She didn’t know why she was the X. All she knew was that she had to return to the mountain for further instructions. The FBI, CIA, U.S. military and local police were keeping tabs on her, because they knew that wherever she went, the meteorite would hit. She used to think she was the Messiah, but had disproved that on her own and now only claimed to be a messenger of God.

While she spoke, her eyes blinked quickly and the top of her head twitched to the left. She moved her arms around unnecessarily and changed her sitting position multiple times. She smoked the joint like there was a race to finish.

Except for a periodical “uh-huh,” Johnny remained silent. I could tell by his body language and lack of reaction that he had heard most of it before.

While listening, I inwardly prayed. If You want me to speak to her, give me the words, Lord. I don’t know what to say. I wanted so badly to interject something spiritual. I searched for the right words, but nothing formed into a coherent remark, and I was left speechless.

In the middle of Karen’s monologue, a car pulled up to the house. A thin Mexican girl got out and walked toward us. Her hair was braided, and she dressed minimally. She looked sloppy and unclean, and her teeth looked like they wanted to run away from each other. I knew right away that she was on some variant of meth. She walked up, stretching her arms and legs out in random directions and looking like a malfunctioning robot. Her mouth was wide open, and she kept moving her jaw back and forth as if she needed to stretch the joint out. She walked up to the porch and stuck her face through the wooden rods like a prisoner in a jail cell.

“Is he here?” she asked Karen.

“Yeah, go on up. Do you want to hit this roach?”

“No, I don’t smoke anymore,” the girl answered as she walked into the house. Five minutes later, she came out with her fist balled up. She walked down the steps, but turned around and pranced up to the banister again.

“I guess I’ll take one or two hits before I leave,” she said. She stuck her hand out to grab the joint, took a couple quick hits, and passed it back. She walked off in the same weird, stretchy fashion as she had walked up, got into her car, and drove away.

I now knew that “he” definitely sold something other than marijuana, most likely methamphetamines.

Karen probably would have kept talking, but luckily her Mexican masseuse showed up with his portable massage table, and they disappeared into the mysterious house. Luke and Greg returned just minutes after they shut the front door.

Luke walked up to me with a plastic grocery bag in each hand. “I got us some sandwich stuff. You hungry, Joe?”

“Yeah, really hungry,” I replied.

Greg, Johnny, Luke and I went into the trailer where the mayonnaise, mustard and drinks were. After we ate, Johnny and Greg started working on the Jeep. While Luke and I sat on the porch, Luke told me about the conversations he had had with Greg in the car.

Fifteen years ago, Greg had been released from prison after serving four years for smuggling marijuana into the U.S from Mexico. He was currently second-in-command in the Arian Brotherhood, a white supremacy group. Johnny was a lieutenant in the Mexican Mafia, and this town was the hub for the Mexican Mafia in Arizona.

Greg had told Luke about his spiritually-confused girlfriend after hearing that Luke had studied theology at a Christian college for the past four years. He said he believed the Bible and knew that it could help her, but didn’t know enough about it to share with her. He asked Luke to talk with Karen before we left.

“So, I’m going in there to talk to her,” Luke said.

“You are? Really? You’re in for a treat,” I said.

Karen was done with her massage and was sitting on the bed rolling a joint when Luke and I walked in.

“So Karen, Greg told me you’re confused about some stuff,” Luke began. “What are you confused about?” I stood silently, waiting to hear if her stories would match. She didn’t hesitate and started to tell all. Again, she spoke for a solid half-hour. Her stories were identical. I cringed as I listened, knowing that Satan had a firm grasp on her and that demons lurked in the shadows of her assertions. It was hard to be in the same room with her.

Luke didn’t waste any time after she finished talking. He laid out the gospel as clearly as possible and told her she had two choices.

Whoa! I thought. I had never heard the gospel given so succinctly and accurately; a young child could have understood it. Luke had spit it out easily. I was proud of him for being so bold.

Karen thanked him for the “advice,” and we left to check on the progress of the Jeep. “Ok, we put clean hoses on here so the water can get to the engine,” Greg said. “I didn’t have one long enough, but Johnny rigged one up that will do until you get about 25 miles down the road, to Carney. There’s a Napa Auto Store there. Stop and get yourself a new one to replace it. These should last…I don’t know how long though.”

“Thanks, guys. I really appreciate your help,” Luke said as he shook their hands.

“Did you talk to her?” Greg asked Luke.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Thanks. I’m glad I found you. That’s good.”

“See you, Greg,” Luke said, half-saluting as he opened the driver door.

By this time, I had been at the house for five hours. It was 3 p.m. We got in the Jeep and drove away, glad to be moving on.

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.