25-JUNE-2008

Square One

I was astounded to receive a letter from the IRS a few days ago advising me to expect a stimulus check on June 27th.  Talk about a lifeline!  I wasn't expecting a check.  I immediately consulted my budget planning spreadsheet.  It would be enough to pay another month's rent.  Talk about excitement!  In my rut, that's colossal news.

The unemployment extension plan is part of a bill that already passed the House.  It will be voted on in Congress this week.  It is expected to pass, but I haven't yet heard when it would become effective.  Can you spell "immediately" boys and girls?

I was ecstatic.  A stimulus check and an unemployment benefits extension?!!  Wow!  The stimulus check would allow me to squeeze out another month to look for jobs.  The stimulus check would also allow me to hang on until the unemployment extensions take effect.  The extension will keep me from being homeless in six weeks.

Of course, that was before the shiny new radiator.  Now all the stimulus check can do is keep me afloat and set me back to square two.  It will retroactively pay for the shiny new radiator.  If not for the auto repairs, it would have catapulted me through July and into August.  Life would have been tolerable for a whole month.  I was really looking forward to it.

But, the car did break down, did need fixed, and did exhaust my Rent Fund.  Now all I can hope for is staying even and not falling behind again.  I've talked to three different people who received stimulus checks.  They all got their checks three or four days after the predicted date, but they got them.  I've even talked to someone who knows two people that received stimulus checks even though they owe the IRS.  I'm really stoked about the stimulus check.  I should have it within a week!

Then I caught the early news this morning.  It's like they always say, "If something sounds to good to be true, it probably is."  It's all over the papers:  If you owe the IRS money or have an outstanding student loan, you will get "We've confiscated your stimulus check, sucker, thanks." Instead of a cashable check.  They've already diverted well over two million dollars worth of stimulus checks back into the (govt.) fund instead of mailing them out.

I'm not clear how targeted this new Govt. scam is, or what the triggers are, but, if my luck continues to hold, it's highly unlikely I'll get a check.  Just keep breathing.  The air is at extremely unhealthy pollution levels, due to the smoke.  According to the midday news, we're in a Stage Two Air Quality Alert.  The particulate level is usually around 49.  Yesterday it was 178.  It's at 261 today.  It's expected to be even worse tomorrow.  They are advising everyone to stay indoors.  But just keep breathing anyway.  It's the story of my life.

Excuse me, I'm lost.  Which way to Square One?

24-June-2008

UP IN SMOKE

Aside from the fact that I was, for the moment, financially capable of demonstrating a little more responsibility than usual, it started out like any other day in recent weeks.  I'd been searching for jobs online until the wee hours last night.  I'd slept in until around noon — give or take a couple hours.  It was early afternoon and I was prepared to engage the day.

I was actually feeling pretty good about being caught up on the previous month's rent and having all but a small fraction of July's rent already in the bank.  That hasn't happened since last December.  It feels good, very good.  Being on unemployment grinds you down.  It locks you into a survival mode.  It's PTSD with weekly checks.

You get used to not wanting anything.  What good would it do ya?  Ya got no money to buy anything that isn't an absolute necessity anyway.  You get used to not going anywhere.  You can't afford the gas.  This was true even before fuel prices joined the space station.  You get used to doing without and being without.  You learn to make do, get by, and become creative with cheap food and ways to fix things without spending any money.  Either that, or you drink more water so you're not as hungry and you work around, and  without, whatever broke. 

It's like being in a bad accident.  You tend not to remember all the "little things" that used to make you feel good about daily life.  Little things like Progresso soup instead of the store brand's dented can.  You start eating your sandwiches without pickles.  The occasional salad becomes a luxury.  You eat less fruit.  You wear jeans and t-shirts for more days in a row so you can do the wash less often.  You discover that frozen peas really dress up those Ramen noodle soups and make a steady diet of them tolerable.

Now I'm just going backwards.  Sorry.  I was going to tell you about this week's 'adventure.'  Yeah, except for the smoke and wanting to be proactively responsible, it started out just like any other day.

At last count, there were at least 800 fires burning to the west of us in California.  And, no, there is not an extra zero in that number — that's the official TV news count.  About ninety percent of the time we have prevailing westerly winds here.  So, of course, all that smoke is blowing through here.

Yesterday wasn't too, too bad, but the TV news did advise those with respiratory issues to stay indoors with the air conditioner on.  Comparatively, yesterday's smoke level was like lighting a match, and today's air quality was like holding a piece of coal in your hand.  It is seriously bad.  Really bad.

I cannot see the hills that are less than a mile behind the house.  I cannot see Allan and Becky's place just over a mile away on the other side, and I cannot see the huge radio relay mountain behind their house.  An hour before sunset, the sun looked like a giant red beach ball in the sky and you could look directly at it without sunglasses on.  The whole day felt like an episode of Star Trek.  It's a different planet with smoke this thick everywhere.

My throat is sore and raspy, and I can't stop coughing.  My eyes are dry, red, and itchy.  Ten minutes outside and you can feel the soot on your skin.  It's nasty.  Honestly, I don't know how the fire fighters do it — and with all that gear on, too!  They're a hell of a lot more competent than I am.

Not only is the air quality extremely bad, but with all this smoke already in the air, if there was a brush fire near us, we'd be unable to see it until it was right on top of us. Thanks to all the rain last winter, there's nothing but tall, thick, dry grasses, brush, and assorted weeds for miles in every direction.  Out here where thousands of acres of land are nothing but kindling and rocks, and the wind blows 24/7, it's a very, very sobering concept.  Add to that the masses of young people starting their summer vacations, all the drunk smokers stumbling out of casinos at all hours to drive home, irresponsible four-wheelers, the hordes of stupid people out there, and wind gusts of thirty-five to sixty-five miles per hour – it can make you down right paranoid.  Sometimes, there aren't enough hoses.

Well, so, that's the weather report, now on to other stuff.  The last time I got the oil changed in the car, a kid in the shop told me that a transmission seal was leaking.  I'd been hoping to nurse it along until I got a job, or my Stimulus Check to fix it, and I'd been hoping it wouldn't cost much to fix.

With this in mind I went by a shop here in town that has been recommended by a couple different people.  Hey, if the guy's any good, it would benefit us all to keep him busy just because he's right here in town.  You know, keep the money in the community, high gas prices, and all.

The owner of Broken Arrow Auto Repair is a very nice Native American guy.  The shop is pretty clean.  I like that he checked particulars in the book rather than trying to guess at information and prices.  The seal was indeed leaking, but was not very low on fluid.  He refilled it and showed me where the bolt is that let's you fill it.  Then he gave me the bad news.  In order to fix that seal, you have to drop the axle.  Yes, that's right, it's the very same axle I recently paid $200 to have the CV joint replace on.  I have to wonder why the shop that changed the CV joint didn't mention that $15 seal at the time they did the CV joint.  I don’t really wonder, I know they plan to soak you.  And they did.  Well, maybe I'll get a temp job and be able to pay the two hours labor necessary to change a $15 seal before it totally disintegrates and fries the transmission.  That's my plan and I'm stickin' to it.

I checked the tire pressure on all four tires while Doug refilled the transmission fluid in that leaky seal.  I had recently checked all the fluid levels, so I only gave the engine compartment a superficial glance.  While in the repair shop, it occurred to me that I should also plan to drain and refill the antifreeze for summer.  I looked at the fan belts and thought maybe I should consider changing them before summer too, if it wouldn't be too expensive.

The guy I bought the car from two years ago had installed new belts and hoses, and given the car a full tune-up just before I bought it, so I've not concerned myself with much more than checking fluid levels.  And now, the leaky seal had fresh fluid. We stopped at the Village Idiot, I mean Market, to grab drinks for the two-hour ride.  I got a giant bottle of water and Bobby Sue got a giant bottle of root beer. We were ready to roll, and off we went to Lockwood for cheap alfalfa cubes for Jake.

Ruby made herself comfortable in my lap, I settled the speedometer at seventy, and Bobby Sue was sampling different window heights to avoid mussing his hair.

Twenty miles from home, in Fernley, it became clear that being in the sun and on my lap made Ruby too hot.  A few minutes later we were on the freeway and I decided to turn on the air conditioner.  Might as well find out if it still works or if it'll need a summer checkup, too.  Ah, much better;  windows up and air on; quieter and much, much cooler.

The speed limit on I-80 between Fernley and Sparks is seventy, so, naturally, I was cruising at seventy-five.  You pretty much have to speed a little to keep from being run over by all the semi trucks.  For the most part, they only do seventy while going uphill.

We hit a nice downhill stretch near the power plant and I passed a big truck hauling triples.  "Did you hear that?" I asked Bobby.  "Hear what?"  "I thought I heard something."  "Must've been something on that truck."  "Yeah, maybe."

A mile or two later….  "Ya know, I don't think it was on the truck.  It sounded like something under the car, but I didn't see anything in the road.  Were you messing with the seat belt, something on the floor, or something by the door?  'Cause that's where I heard it."  "Well, yeah, I was moving the seat belt a little.  Like this."  He demonstrated, but could not duplicate the sound.  I wonder what it was.

A mile or two later….  It occurred to me to look around and give the whole thing a little more thought.  I'd watched Doug carefully and made sure he didn't leave anything lying around loose in the engine compartment, so it was unlikely to be anything like that.  I hadn't noticed anything loose or flopping around the last time I checked fluid levels.  I hadn't been hearing anything unusual previously, and wasn't hearing anything unusual now.  Besides, the car was running fine.

I might have hit eighty just before I thought to glance at the dash.  A red light.  What the heck is that symbol?  It looks like a battery.  Crap, if it's a battery light, then maybe the alternator crapped out.  Maybe that was the noise I heard.  I immediately turned off the air conditioner and we opened the windows.  I figured we'd still be ok so long as I didn't turn the engine off until I got back home.  I brought it back down to seventy and we continued.

All seemed well, but the incident was still nagging at me.  What the heck else could it be?  A mile or two later…..  I looked at the dash again.  This time I looked at the w-h-o-l-e dash for clues.  I wanted clues and I got one.  The temperature gauge needle was at the top of the red zone.  I hit the emergency flashers, slowed down, and started making a noise that Bobby found hilarious until he realized I wasn't doing a chicken impression, but was saying 'f*ck' rapidly and repeatedly.

We were headed downhill and the gauge began to drop as I slowed the car.  I knew there was a Chevron station only a few miles ahead and hoped the car could make it that far.  We pressed on, slowly, except for my hyper chicken impression which continued for most of the next hour.

We were rolling safely along, all the cars and trucks behind us were giving us plenty of room, the gauge was back to normal temps, and I felt sure we could make it to the station when I noticed the gauge climbing again.  Crap, crap, crap, and double crap!  We were midway up a small hill.  The hill was too much, the gauge spiked to the red zone again, and I gave up.  We pulled off the pavement to consider our options.

It was after four-thirty, shops would be closing soon.  I had to connect with a tow truck, a shop, and a ride home in less than half an hour.  I was never so glad that I remembered to put my cell phone in my purse.  And lucky that we weren't in a dead zone.

I had a couple tow truck and shop business cards in my purse and called them first.  The original plan was to get the car back home to Silver Springs.  I was hoping to be able to talk Allen into fixing it, or helping me fix it, in order to save money.

The first place I called had only one tow truck.  That truck was on it's way from Silver Springs to Fernley, in our direction, but the driver had not taken his cell phone and there was no radio in the truck.  The guy I was talking to was in their Silver Springs shop and had no idea how long the trip to Fernley would take.  The truck would have to go from Fernley, back to Silver Springs (to get the message), then back through Fernley to get to us!  It didn't sound very promising but did sound like they'd soak me for all that backtracking.  They quoted me a price of $250 right off the bat.  "It might be more."  Mmmmm, no thanks.

The second place I called also had only one truck.  This driver had a radio, but was already on scene at the rollover accident we'd passed in the eastbound lane on our way to Overheatingville.  There was no estimate when that truck would be free either.  Considering the paramedics, highway patrol cars, and fire trucks on the scene, it would most likely be quite some time before that tow truck would be free.  At least their quote was less, only $200.  It came with the suggestion that most places would charge closer to $400 for a tow that far.  "That far"??  It's only forty miles.  Geez.

Wait!  Maybe Allen has a tow chain!  Maybe Allen and Becky are home, can tow us back, and give us a ride home in the process!  Tow chain or not, neither of them were willing to try it.  They both felt it was much too dangerous in a seventy mile per hour zone and suspected it might even be against the law.  Well, at least they were home.

Becky broke out the phone book and gave me some shops and tow truck places to call in Sparks.  We were only ten miles outside of town; it'd be cheaper to tow to Sparks than all the way back to Silver Springs anyway.  This seemed like a much better idea.  Besides, there's more competition in the city, so prices for repairs should be better and parts should be more accessible.  Yeah, that's the ticket, let's call someplace in Sparks!

I thought I got lucky when I reached City Towing at five minutes to five.  They had a truck available and also do repairs.  If you get your car repaired there, you get a discount on the towing.  Their labor rates were only $50/hr, so I didn't figure I could beat that deal.  I told them to come get us, then called Becky back to come pick us up.  Bobby Sue, Ruby and I began the wait for rescue.

The first order of business was to get safely out of the car.  The passenger side wheels were off the pavement, but with all that sand sloping downhill just beyond, I chose not to take the driver's side wheels off the pavement too.  The car was far enough from the traffic lane to get out safely, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious when multi-ton trucks are only a few feet away and bearing down on you at over seventy miles per hour.  It crossed my mind that, at least, it would be quick and I wouldn't have to look for jobs anymore.  I waited for a gap in the traffic, then got out.

Ruby had to go pee.  I walked her back to the nearest green and white freeway sign to see what exit we were near.  "Waltham next right."  The Chevron station was beyond Waltham.  We'd not have made Waltham either.  It was at the top of the just-a-little-bit-too-far hill.  The Waltham sign was only twenty yards from the car and Ruby thoroughly enjoyed smelling the rabbit trail we followed to get to it.

Back at the car, it occurred to me that this would be a very good time to have a couple folding camp chairs in the car.  There weren't any, but it would have been a really good time to have them.  At least we had drinks and it was only in the high eighties, not one hundred and ten degrees.  It was six o'clock and neither the tow truck nor Allen could get to us before seven.  Might as well get comfortable.

As I watched the traffic flying by, I realized we were somewhat vulnerable.  I began to formulate a plan in case someone with ill intent stopped to "help."  First, I put the flashlight, the fire extinguisher, and both beach towel front seat covers in the trunk.  Then I took the cell phone car charger out of the glove compartment and put it into my purse.

Next we grabbed our drinks, my purse, and the beach towel that covers the back seat.  I laid the beach towel a good distance away from the car and upstream to the oncoming traffic.  I read somewhere this is safest.  If anyone drifts into the emergency parking lane and hits your disabled car, the theory is that both vehicles will be hurtled ahead and away from you, so long as you are far enough away from, and behind, the disabled vehicle.  Made sense to me, so that's what we did.

Ruby and I parked ourselves on the beach towel there on the sandy hillside as if we were at the beach.  Aside from the roaring traffic noise, it would have been rather pleasant if not for my rent money steaming away right in front of my eyes.

We began to speculate if anyone would stop to offer help or not.  The car was in an excellent position to be seen by oncoming traffic for at least a mile back.  There was a long, slow turn just before the straightaway of the just-a-little-bit-too-far hill we were half way up.  And, there was a nice open stretch behind us for someone to safely pull over.

Naturally, the concept of someone stopping to help quickly turned to fear about what we'd do if they were not stopping to help, but stopping to rob us.  My knees don't allow me to run fast or far, if at all.  Bobby Sue immediately offered that he'd "not let anyone hurt us."  He straightened when he said it; it made him a tad taller.  I suppose he went from five foot six to at least five foot six and one-half inches at that moment.  Not exactly a deflection for anyone with ill intent.  One good swing at someone and he'd throw his back out anyway.  No, this clearly needed more thought.

Paranoid?  Really?  I don’t think so.  Maybe I watch too much crime TV, but we all know serial killers and other assorted nut jobs are out there.  They seem to be everywhere and friends and neighbors after the fact always report that, "He was always so kind, and helpful… he seemed so nice."  Right.  Not on my watch, chump.  Homey don't play that.

But what to do?  We had no weapons, were not near any structures or other people, I could not run, Bobby could only throw his back out, and Ruby could only bark.  Make that yip.  Two lanes of speeding traffic were in front of us, nothing was along the freeway for at least a mile in either direction, a barbed wire fence divided the freeway property from miles and miles of barren foothills behind us.

I began to calculate how many cars were going by in ten minutes and what the odds might be that one of them would be a nut job in the next hour or so.

Maybe I was getting a little paranoid.  It was still broad daylight and not even beginning to get dark yet.  I landed on the idea of 'divide and conquer.'  Bobby Sue decided to stand the whole time, so I suggested that, if anyone stopped, he should slowly, inconspicuously, move away from me, and back towards the car and the freeway; then prepare to run, even if it only ended up being around and around my car to avoid capture.  I figured one of us had to try to make a break for it and survive to make the police report so the perp could be caught.  I also figured I might be able to keep a nut job talking long enough for Bobby's waving arms to draw the "we-need-help" attention of a passing driver.

It was not an optimum plan.  Only the surety of an armed response would be an optimum plan in my book, but it seemed the best we could do under the circumstances.  I felt better just knowing that there was "a plan."

I took it another step farther and realized it would be pointless to 'hide' my purse in the trunk.  Anyone who intended robbery and didn't see a woman's purse beside her, would certainly assume it was in the car somewhere.  No, no, no, hiding it in the trunk would never work.  Best to just let them have the purse.

Sure.  I can report the stolen checks and Visa card.  Let 'em take it.  Crap!  Wait!  There's nearly one hundred dollars cash in there, too!  I can't afford to lose cash.  Crap!  Now what should I do?

There was a billboard not far from the beach towel I was sitting on and a barbed wire fence between the billboard and the freeway easement.  We were surrounded by tumbleweeds. Of course!  What better place to hide a coin purse full of dough than in the tumbleweeds?  I counted the t-posts between the clump of tumbleweeds nearest the beach towel and the billboard, then tossed my coin purse under one of them for safe keeping.

I began to feel a little easier about our situation.  All this plotting and planning also served a good purpose.  It allowed me to totally block out the fact that my once trusty, but now disabled, car was probably going to cost me a shitload of money to fix.  Money I do not have.  Money I need for rent.  Money that cannot be readily replaced.  I'd need a job for that.  I still have no job, so coming up with "more" money is not an option.  It's a nightmare is what it is.  Better to think about serial killers.  It's not as hard to imagine escaping a serial killer.  There is no escape from auto repairs after a breakdown.  No escape at all.  There's only sinking deeper and deeper into the shop vacuum that will suck your wallet inside out.

The first person to stop and offer help was a stocky, handsome, smiling, white haired gentleman who actually bothered to get out of his car to check on us.  I hollered at him that we had a tow truck and a friend coming and thanked him for stopping.  He smiled, waved, and got back in his car.  He was too far away to see if he had a wedding ring on or not, but I immediately regretted not letting him get close enough to see if he was tall enough for me.  He looked like a nice, happy guy.  Oh well.

The next hero was also a stocky man.  This guy was younger and sporting WY plates on his silver Chevy truck.  He looked angry and seemed to have an attitude.  An image of the satisfaction I'd feel after throwing sand in his eyes crossed my mind briefly.  He didn't get out, but rolled down his passenger side window.  Clearly, this meant trouble.  I waved an "ok" sign and a thumbs up as I hollered that we were fine and thanked him for stopping.  Thankfully, he nodded and drove off.

A few minutes later, Allen pulled up.  A full hour had gone by already.  After the last rescue during our rock hopping experience, I simply had to put my hand on his shoulder and point out that there wasn't a rock in sight and I wasn't stuck in the sand either.  Allen grinned and said, "Yeah, right, huh?  But last time you were stuck, and this time you broke down — this doesn't count."  Ever the generous gentleman.

I began to tell the story of what happened just before we stopped making westward progress as we walked over to the car.  Allen was nice enough to look around and check a few things for me.  I always assume a shop is going to try to rip me off and sell me parts and repairs I don't need.  Allen determined that the serpentine belt was indeed absent, but that the water pump and the alternator still turned freely, so I probably didn't need either replaced.  It was a start.  Very little steam and no water had been apparent during the entire event, so there was hope that the radiator had survived as well.  We could smell it, but it didn't become a geyser or anything like that.  Allen removed the radiator cap to find that the bottom of it had broken off inside the radiator, but there was still water near the top of the radiator and in the overflow bucket.  Yeah!  Things are looking better.  It's probably just the belt.

Allen hadn't been there fifteen minutes when the tow truck arrived.  Talk about timing!  Whatta deal.  I completed a standard form with my name, address, phone number and signature, gave the tow guy my car key, and was done with the whole thing for the night.  Just like that.

On the way home, we talked about all the possible repairs and what I should beware of the shop telling me or trying to pull.  It was reassuring, but I knew, in the long run, it was not going to save me any money.  The tow alone was nearly one hundred bucks.  One hundred bucks of Rent Money.  Ugh.

Thanks to the auto mishap, we hadn't made it to the feed dealer and Jake was out of feed.  Allen stopped by his house and grabbed three flakes of their goats' hay for Jake's dinner.  Allen drove us the mile farther to Jake's Acre.  Jake was glad to see flakes again, I filled the water barrels, and we were done.  Another mile later, and we were home; and definitely done for the day.  Or should I say done in by the day.

Serial killer adrenaline had finally worn off and I was feeling totally drained.  The images of a billboard with the words "Got rent money?" and what I imagine homelessness to look like began flashing in front of my eyes.  Oh yeah, this is Stress with a capital "S."  No doubt about it.

I thought a decent dinner might help.  I started water boiling for the broccoli and put a couple small potatoes in the microwave.  The potatoes were done first, so I loaded them down with butter and cheese and ate them while the broccoli boiled on. By the time I finished the potatoes the broccoli was about half done.  I put a big chunk of hamburger in a small frying pan and cut more cheese for the burger.  I'd eaten a sizeable stack of broccoli by the time the burger was done.  Ruby had helped me a little with the spuds, and, to my surprise, the broccoli.  She was even more helpful with the burger.  We were only able to finish part of it.  We were just too full.

By this time, I could barely keep my eyes open.  I was spent.  Totally spent.  I flopped down on the bed fully clothed and fell asleep within moments.  Oh yeah, this is Stress at work again.

I woke around midnight and used the bathroom.  Then I realized that I needed to check my email because I'd sent a new, revised resume and plea for jobs to all the temp agencies on Sunday.  I needed to see if I got any results.  It doesn't look good to beg for jobs, then not respond if you get an offer.

Ah, good!  There were things to respond to.  I ended up responding, searching for more options, completing a lengthy online application, and waiting for my ultra slow dial-up connection until 05:00.  Then I was r-e-a-l-l-y tired.  I woke Ruby and made her go outside to pee, then put us both back in bed.  I fell back to sleep so quickly that I didn't even have time to worry about the car.

I woke again around ten and immediately wondered why the shop hadn't called about the car yet.  They opened at eight and had assured me it would be looked at first thing in the morning.  Panic, fear, suspicion, and the accompanying Stress came rushing in to help me dial.  I was no longer tired.  I was keenly aware of every second that passed.  I felt like I'd been wrongly accused of murder and was waiting for the jury to render a verdict after hearing a purely circumstantial case against me.  "Pins and needles" doesn't begin to describe the trepidation I felt.  My stomach began to churn.

The call started with good news.  The tow would only be about $60, not $100.  Replacing the serpentine belt is only an hour job.  The belt itself is only about $25 bucks.  The water pump and alternator were fine.  Parts were already ordered and on the way.  He expected the car to be ready by 2 p.m.  All good.

Here comes the bad news.  The radiator had cracked and would need replaced.  That's another hour's labor.  There's one other belt on the car.  It's right near the serpentine belt.  Might as well replace it while the mechanic is in the vicinity.  That belt is only about $10.  With the new radiator comes a new radiator cap and new antifreeze.  Until they put in a new radiator and let the car run long enough to heat up the engine, there was no way to tell if the heads had warped or not.  That would be another $500 or so.

I had no choice.  It had to be fixed.  There was no more Rent Money.  What had been Rent Money had just been transferred to an offshore account and I did not have the account number.  I couldn't feel my arms.  I had the sensation that my hair was standing straight out from my head in all directions, even though it was tucked back in a small ponytail.  Stress.  It's just Stress.  Keep breathing.

The nice man at the City Tow repair shop said he'd call back in a couple hours and let me know about the heads, and, oh yeah, if the car would start or not.  I couldn't hold it together anymore.  I set the handset back on the phone and started crying.  It was all just too much.  W-A-Y too much.

I've been struggling to make ends meet since last November, when I lost my job.  In all that time I've only found four temp jobs.  The last one was supposed to be a temp-to-hire job.  By the end of the first week I was beginning to relax and felt like I really fit in.  It was work I liked, would be good at, and I had my own office with a big window.  Friday morning, my boss at the temp site came in to tell me that I could finish the day, but then I'd be done.  Turns out June is their busiest month, but July and August are very slow.  So, they don't actually need anyone in that position after all.  Swell.  Just friggin' swell.  Go ahead, give me false hope then pull the rug out from under me.  Oh, wait, they already did that.

Sh*t.  Sh*t.  Sh*t.  And double sh*t.  Might as well throw in a few more hyper chicken imitations, too.  Damn it to hell anyway.  What else can happen?  I didn't think it could get worse.  I didn't think there was anything else to go wrong.  I mean, when everything is already 'wrong' -- what else can happen?  Your car can break down, that's what.  Next?  Oh, next I expect either to break a leg or choke on a chicken bone.  That's about all that's left.  I hope.

Sure enough, he called back in two hours.  They had the radiator in and had tested it.  All the hoses held and the head did not seem to be warped.  He did mention that it was running on three cylinders and that they'd be happy to put new spark plug wires and new spark plugs in it for me.  He claimed the wires cost about $30.

I haven't even priced wires for this car before, but had a gut feeling they didn't cost that much.  I also became very suspicious when he said it was running on three cylinders, because I know for a fact it runs just fine on all four.  There is, however, one wayward plug wire that tends to lift off the plug now and then.  So, the wires probably do need replaced, but I'm not paying $50/hr labor for something I can do myself.  I suggested he push the wire back down on the plug and stop trying to sell me stuff.  He said ok and that the radiator cap, which, oddly, did not come with the new radiator, was on the way and the car would indeed be done by 2 p.m.

I asked for a grand total on the towing, parts, and labor.  I heard some papers rustling before he read the list of items and prices to me.  It came to $350.  Keep breathing.  This has to be the storm.  There has to be a silver lining in here somewhere.

I got into the shower, hoping the pleasant, clean smell of soap would calm and refresh me.  All it did was make me clean.  I got dressed, made the bed, took out two bags of trash, let Ruby go pee, and had a big glass of sugar-free chocolate milk.  I was almost ready to bring Suzebel back home.

Bobby's payee, he's on disability, loaned him a small Toyota pickup a couple weeks ago.  He got her permission to drive it to Sparks to get my car.  She insisted I drive because Bobby gets nervous in traffic and is not the world's best driver anyway.  Putting gas in a small truck so I can go 50 miles to Sparks sure beats the heck out of gassing up my big truck to go anywhere.

I made Bobby double check the fluid levels, tire pressure, and fan belts before we left.  Ruby was happy to stay home for this trip.  We loaded up and headed out.

We both cheered when we passed the spot where the car had broken down.  "Well, we're doing better than we did yesterday!"  A few minutes later we were at the feed dealer's and loading up ten bags of alfalfa cubes.  The weight of five hundred pounds of feed in the back of the truck made Bobby Sue quite nervous.  He worried that the tires would burst or the springs would fail.  It was stacked below the sides and ahead of the rear axle, but he was still worried.  He relaxed when I told him we were only about five miles from the auto shop and that I'd put half the bags in the back of my car when we got there.

We were off again.  Next stop:  Shop Vacuum Central.  The directions they'd given me were good and the street was easy to find.  The actual shop was not so easy to find.  All the way down the block, on both sides of the street, were older, messy, non-descript', light industrial businesses.  They all looked like a front for something illegal and their signs were small, faded, and hard to read.  I was glad we were not trying to find this place in the dark.

Once we finally found the City Towing sign, we had to figure out how the heck to get into the place.  It was a maze of junk, old cars, and cyclone fencing with razor wire.  There only seemed to be one way in, so we drove in right past the "Police Ordinance:  Authorized Personnel Only Beyond This Point…. Under penalty of law….. blah, blah, blah" sign, and parked right next to my poor little Suzebel.

It was an impound yard!  An old, filthy, cramped, nasty, smelly impound yard.  There wasn't one single rock in the whole gravel covered place that wasn't covered in grease and oil.  All the cars, except Suzebel, looked like hardened criminals.  It was ugly and depressing.  I apologized to Suzebel and Bobby told the Toyota truck not to look.

We were barely out of the car when the office gal rushed out and told us we had to park on the street.  Park on the street?  Where?!  There were trucks, vans, fire hydrants, and no parking signs on every square inch of both sides of the entire block!  Park on the street?  Sorry, sweetie, but that's not funny.  She insisted and we pulled out of the smelly lot. 

We got lucky when the tow truck driver who had come to tow Suzebel the day before came out and told us he was pulling out, so we could have his parking spot.  As he pulled away from the cyclone fence next to the shed of one of the suspect businesses, we noticed not one, but three nice, new, bright red "No Parking" signs.  We shrugged our shoulders and guessed that it was unlikely we'd be ticketed in this neighborhood.

The inside was a tad better than the yard, but not by much.  The cramped office needed paint, cleaning and a great deal of organization.  The calendar was a year out of date.  Not a confidence builder.

The young gal who'd just run us out of the lot promptly passed my bill through the bullet proof glass dividing us from her, and asked for $426.  I almost threw up.  "No, that's not my bill.  My bill is only $350."  She did not pretend to care or to extend any degree of 'customer service.'  She said, flatly, "Yeah, this is your bill.  It's $426.  How will you be paying?"

"Well, I want to look at the car and I want to see the old radiator."  It was clear she'd heard this routine dozens, if not hundreds, of times before when she continued the collection process while deflecting my request.  She pushed the bill through the window again.  I pushed it back and stared at her, waiting for her to look at me.  When she did, she gave me her best "you're not kidding anyone, you're going to pay this" look, I shot back a mean look of my own.  She realized I was not going to be deflected by her usual Mickey Mouse, and quickly decided to let us in through the illusive side gate.

I closely scrutinized everything under the hood, even things they'd not worked on.  I made her stand out in that nasty, ugly, smelly impound yard as long as I could.  I was hoping the smell would cling to her clothes and she'd have to go home smelling like that horrible yard.  I was mad at the whole lot of them.  I wanted to slap them all for putting my car in that awful place.  It was weird.  I was angry, defeated, and stressed, and it was just weird.

I started the car to see how it sounded.  It's sounded better, but it was ok.  I let it run for awhile so snotty bitch from the office would have to stand there longer.  While it ran, I checked the glove compartment and the trunk to make sure nothing was missing.  Oh, and I made a point of telling her that's what I was doing.  She's heard it all before.  She just looked away, totally unaffected.

We went back in so I could talk to the man who'd given me the prices over the phone.  I asked again to see the radiator.  He took us out to what passes for them as a shop.  What a friggin' joke.  And what a pathetic mess.  The whole place was like a very bad B movie.  Who am I kidding?  It wasn't anywhere near that nice.  It felt like the kind of place people and cars go into, but never come out of.

We finally located the old radiator and the "mechanic" who'd worked on Suzebel.  They were able to show me a crack on the radiator, but it was not cracked where the top meets the sides as I expected.  There was a three-inch crack in the back, just below the top, near one of the 'spouts' a hose attaches to.  I can't prove it, but it looked like it'd been cracked by force, not by heat expansion.  Bastards.
Live and learn I thought, then quickly realized this is only the second radiator I've had to deal with in all my years of driving.  At that rate, I'm not likely to live long enough to have to worry about another one.  Live and learn just became:  Pay up, sucker.

We went back into the office and continued the pricing discussion.  I showed him the two different handwritten notes I'd made when speaking to him earlier in the day.  I kept asking how it went from two hours labor to three and one-half after the fact.  I asked how the radiator went from $120 to $130, also after the fact, when I knew it only cost about $85.  I got no real explanations for anything, including why on earth a brand new radiator did not come with a cap.  They charged me $6 for a new cap.

Here's the final breakdown:

$130.00  radiator
$  20.00  serpentine belt
$    9.00  new thermostat
$    2.00  gasket for thermostat
$    8.00  second belt
$    6.00  radiator cap
$  76.00  towing
$175.00  3.5 hours labor

$ 426.00  total

Curious that no tax was charged, don't you think??

I gave it my best haggle and complained about everything, but it was no use.  If I ever wanted to see my car again, I'd have to pay it.  I started feeling queasy as I pulled a debit card out of my wallet.  Then I felt pale and clammy; my knees got weak and I had to lean over and brace myself on the counter.  I was felt like I was going to throw up, but didn't.  I managed to get my sunglasses back on before the first tear fell.  It was bad enough they were robbing me, they didn't need to see me cry, too.  They'd have to settle for my Rent Money.

I couldn't wait to get little Suzebel out of that disgusting impound yard.  I actually felt guilty that she'd had to spend the night there.  A couple coats of wax are in order.  I aplologized to her profusely.

I pulled alongside the borrowed Toyota truck and loaded four of the ten bags of alfalfa cubes into the backseat of the car.  I knew Bobby Sue would be nervous about driving in what little traffic there is in that industrial area, so I slowly and carefully described and pointed to where we'd be going.  I assured him I would not pull out anywhere unless he had room to pull out too, but for him to be careful not to rear end me in the process.

We were both a little hungry and decided to chow down and relax for a bit at the nearest McDonald's.  We got safely back onto the freeway, drove two exits towards home, then plopped ourselves down inside a nice, clean, cool, smoke-free McDonald's for almost two hours.  It worked out well.  The fish sandwich made my stomach feel better, the iced tea perked me up, and the time allowed Bobby to feel more comfortable about driving in traffic, especially since rush hour would be over by the time we got back on the road.

We'd dallied long enough.  Time to get back in gear and head home.  One step outside and your eyes start burning again.  Oh man, the smoke from all those fires!  It looked more than twice as thick as it had on our way to rescue the car.  The smoke got even thicker as we drove back through the canyon.  You could barely make out the hillsides that were less than 1/2 mile away from the freeway for several miles.  Yes, my throat was burning.  It still is, even with cough drops.

We stopped to feed Jake before pulling into the driveway and calling it a day.  Jake looked like he'd had a miserable day in the smoke, too.  Ruby was glad to see us, as always, but was not thrilled about being outside in all that smoke.  She much preferred being inside where the water cooler acts as a sort of filter and cuts the smoke considerably.  I guess it acts like a water pipe, filtering most of the crud out of the smoke.  All I know is that it does make a difference.

After unloading the alfalfa cubes and stacking them in the shed, we watched a deep red orb drift down into a hazy sunset.  We could just barely make out the sun, and couldn't actually see any hills, or the horizon, at all, but we knew the sun had gone down when we couldn't see anymore red through the dense haze.

So there you have it:  How My Rent Money Went Up in Smoke. 

I still think the old radiator was fine and that they whacked it with a hammer to create the crack they showed me.  Radiators just don't crack where that crack was.  Besides, there was still water in it when Allen opened it to take a look.  AND it did not boil over or steam out!  Whatever you do, do not get your auto fixed at an impound yard!

01-OCT-05



DAWN



A dusky orange is creeping towards the tiniest sliver of a moon
Dawn defines the horizon against an ever-warming glow
Long fingers of near forgotten clouds reach for an invisible snooze alarm
All the stars have faded with the indigo of night
And the sky has begun turning a more familiar blue
The orange is gaining steam now,
As more yellow spreads into the mix
The yellow stretches high and wide along the eastern range
It fades and blends against the blue, illuminating low clouds with a silvery hue
Scattered clouds on the horizon glow like heated coals
The sun is surely coming soon
It's light enough to see them all -- the features of the land
The stubborn sliver of a moon clings on still,
Though now so pale it's barely there
Clouds to the North have come alive with a fresh, rosy glow
All across the sky it seems, the clouds are nodding on in dreams
One by one they trade their foggy gray for tinted crimson
Alas my camera battery's dead, on this account you must rely
As the daylight paints a wildly colorful sky
Rose is gone and crimson has churned the clouds to a bright and dizzying yellow-orange
Stay back, sun!
Let me enjoy this masterpiece, so huge, so beautiful, so great.
Pinks and orange on every cloud, as far as the eye can see
Oh how dull the rest of the day, in simple blue and white.

TheZooKeeper

03-APRIL-2008

 

TRIPLE SHOT

 

Out the door
   in 2
Traffic
   moving
Line
   short
Order
   fast
Change back
   extra
Selfish driver
   hogs throughway
Nice driver
   moves him
Parking found
   brake set
Napkins
   bib-tucked
Order
   right
Food
   hot
Radio
   on

 

The Doors
   "Light My Fire"
Volume
   much louder
Eyes
   closed
Foot
   tapping
Thoughts
   transported
Reflections of
   summer
Steed
   napping
Talk
   easy
Meadow
   green
Sun
  warm
Hands
   touching
Embraces
   Passionate
Sweat
   sweet
Bodies
   rhythmic
Breeze
   blowing
Tall grasses
   swaying
The memory
   barely faded
The feeling
   deeply missed

 

Music
   suspended
Eyes
   open
DJ
   talks
KOZZ tunes
   105 minutes
Thursday's
   "triple shot"
"LA Woman"
   agreeable
Mojo
   workin'
The past
   seductive
Mood
   extended
"Break on Through"
   already there
Music
   ends
Sentiment
   lingers

 

One other person
   knows this truth.
One other person
   journeys here.
One other person
   completes this.

 

Eyes
   open
Reality
   checked
Bright sun glaring
   on bare trees
   and dead weeds
Standing among
   the decorative rock
   that borders this
   fast food entrance
Brings me back
    to lunch hour

Four decades
   and counting

 

It's not over.

The Zoo Keeper
Spring 2008
 

31-MARCH-2008

Too Many Chiefs?

The application was online less than a week.  I faxed fourteen pages a full day prior to the deadline.  It was a lengthy application.  I included four letters of reference and a two-page resume.  You tend to put in the extra effort when you're feeling desperate.  I've only a few weeks left of unemployment benefits.

Desperation doesn't prevent you from applying to places that you've heard less than favorable things about.  I worked with a few of the local Indians back when I was at Amazon.  They were nice enough, but it was clear that they preferred their own.  They seldom marry outside their own circles.  I also have it on good authority that, in general, they treat their employees more like slaves.  I've heard from more than one person that if they even think you looked at them sideways, they'll fire you.  I applied anyway.  I have to.

The human resources assistant, Julie, left a message requesting an interview on my answering machine at four o'clock Friday afternoon.  The interviews were the following Monday afternoon.  Nothing like the common courtesy of giving a person adequate time to respond and prepare.

My first call in response yielded only her voice mail.  During the second call back, the receptionist put me on hold for over ten minutes.  I hung up and called right back to let the receptionist know that I was on a break and didn't have more time to wait on hold.  Lucky me, Eric, the head of personnel, just got off the phone and was now ready to talk to me.

He's a slightly slow talker and convinced me that taking the Sheckler Cutoff instead of going through town would be faster.  Fortunately, no one noticed I'd taken a twenty-two minute break instead of the fifteen minutes I was entitled to.  But, the appointment was set, a "shortcut" had been recommended and I was on my way to an interview later this afternoon.

I allowed an hour and a half to drive about seventy-five miles.  Naturally, I had to pee before I left.  That took extra time.  Then, when shutting down my computer and closing up the desk for the day, I discovered that I'd forgotten to put two paper cups used for hot tea into the trash.  That took a little extra time, too, because I first had to go to the sink to pour out the remaining tea.  I finally left nearly twenty minutes later than I'd intended.

There wasn't much traffic, so I was able to make up the time on the road.  Sheckler was easy to find, but it's a narrow, two-lane road with cattle and horses lining both sides of the road most of the way.  The rest is pastures and farmland, but still close to the road.  It's not a road I'd want to drive on a daily basis.  Going through town seemed more attractive even though it was nice to see so much greenery for a change.

I arrived with ten minutes to spare.  An older, white haired gentleman and the receptionist were the only folks in the lobby.  They'd been waiting for me.  The gentleman told me they'd be ready for me in a few minutes.  I looked around the nice lobby at the Indian artwork and historical pictures.  It's a nice building, not real big, but roomy inside.

The gentleman came back to get me.  He led me down a long hall, to a room in the back corner of the building.  I was glad I'd taken more Ibuprofen and that he was walking ahead of me so he didn't see me limping and lumbering along.  I tried to remember to stand up straighter and not limp so much as I entered the room.

There were two other gentlemen waiting for me.  This was the panel that would interview me.  Two Indians and one white guy, all older.  The white guy was the slow talking HR dude I'd spoken to on the phone.  The older gentleman is the Director; he's the one I'd be the administrative assistant to -- if hired.

The older, white haired man seemed cordial and friendly in the lobby, but now, as part of the interview panel, he seemed a little too curt and business like.  He was clearly quite full of himself; a man of considerable stature -- if only figuratively.

Their questions were stale and redundant.  Most of the information they wanted was already on their lengthy application.  This usually indicates that they are (1)  trying to catch someone lying about something, or (2)  haven't bothered to read my answers on their own application, or (3) they've already decided who they're going to hire and are just going through the motions so I can't cry prejudice, or (4)  they just want to get it over with and go home.

I've had a few hours to think about it.  I think all four are true.  I was already put off by the short notice, insulted by the ten minute hold on the phone, not happy with the "short cut," got a tad irritated by the questions, and had the gut feeling all this effort on my part was a complete waste of time.  And, it was costing me money I don't have to be there.  Gas money to get there plus two and one-half hours wages at the current temp job. 

Besides, there is no "short cut" to the Easternmost side of Fallon.  It's either forty-five or fifty miles per hour down Scheckler Cutoff or twenty-five miles per hour through town.  Scheckler takes you several miles out of the way to 'bypass' the cityscape that is Fallon -- it's all "downtown."  And everything on the East end of town is Reservation land.

I'm pretty sure it's Allan and Becky's fault anyway.  The other day Allan mentioned being called a racist by an Indian inmate he'd never seen before as he walked by a cell at the jail where he works in Yerrington.  I think it was in the back of my mind somewhere.  I'd talked to Becky while driving to the interview.  She knew I was applying for an administrative assistant job at one of the local tribe's business offices, yet she neglected to remind me to refer to them as "Native Americans," not "Indians."

I know it's "Native Americans," not "Indians," but I let the word "Indian" slip during the interview.  Only once, but I'm pretty sure they clearly heard me.  I was, after all, the only one speaking at the time.  I also didn't remember the name of the Law that gave the Fallon Paiute-Shoshone Tribe sovereignty from the U.S. Govt. when asked about it.

It's on the home page of their web site.  I'd read it, found it interesting, but simply forgot what it was called.  It didn't help my cause when I tried to make something up to fit the title.

Two things you never do on an interview:  Make things up and call Native Americans "Indians."  If you don't know what it is, just say so.  Making up stuff is really bad form.  So is calling any ethnic group by other than its most current politically correct designation.

No wonder the old, white haired guy was so full of himself.  He's the 'President' of his tribe's government.  There was a simple typing test after the interview.  The instructions were to type a brief letter from a generalized suggestion.  Ah, the things I was tempted to type into that letter.  I didn't, but, as Becky suggested, I might as well have said, "Bye, Chief!" as I left.

Well, that's one job possibility I won’t have to hold my breath until hearing the decision about.  My guess is that they'll add my name to the black balled list on the wall the same way most businesses post bad checks.  I’m not racist, but they are notoriously poor drivers.  By not working near there, I'll be safer.  That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.  I still like turquoise jewelry.

30-March-2008

First Time in Forty Years

     I apologize for the lousy pictures.
     My digital camera is on the fritz.




I saw so many perfectly lit scenes to take pictures of on the way home.  A storm was coming in and the big, dark clouds were playing light and dark games across hills in very enticing ways.  My camera was at home.

I drove straight home, hitting both lights green.  I changed clothes, added some sweaters to Ruby's already layered wardrobe, grabbed a warm coat for myself, invited Bobby Sue to ride along, put new batteries in the camera, and headed up to the relay station on the big mountain behind Allan and Becky's place.

We made it before dark and I got a few pictures of generous rays of sun beaming through breaches in the dark clouds despite the forty-five mile per hour winds at the top of the hill.  And, geez, was it cold!  When the weatherman here calls for an "Arctic chill," he gets it.

The ground pitched downhill away from the truck on that side and the wind was behind us.  The truck sits high, and Bobby is short.  In typical Bobby Style, none of this was taken into account as he opened the door.

The powerful wind occupied the opening door like a gale in a main sail and yanked Bobby clean out of the truck.  He's somehow managed to grab the top of the door on his way out and was now dangling about ten inches above the ground.  You should've seen his eyes — big as salad plates.  The most obvious things catch him by surprise and it's always entertaining.  It took everything he had to close the truck door. 

With both doors open, I was concerned for a moment that Ruby might be blown out as well.  She had the good sense to hug the seat and stay low.  Ruby prefers to avoid wind whenever possible.  Ruby was not the least bit interested in getting out of the truck.  She'd seen what happened to Bobby — and he's MUCH bigger than she is.  She'd have been a kite.

I couldn't operate the small digital camera with gloves on.  I took them off and my fingers soon turned blue.  I got back in the truck after only a few minutes, and this picture.

                      
See?  It was so cold it turned the picture blue!  The sun is shining on Stagecoach.


We drove to the other side of the top of the hill for a view of the river and mountains to the south, towards Yerrington.  There wouldn't be any good sunset pictures tonight.  I was disappointed, but still exhilarated by the wind and the weather, and the fact that it was Friday night.  TGIF!

It would be dark before long, so we decided to head back.  Not far from the summit is a service road that runs alongside a telephone pole line.  I've often wondered where that road leads and what's down there.  I decided to find out.

Off we went, "rock hopping" in a two-wheeler.  That is to say, although my 1986 Ford F-250 sits quite high off the ground, it is not four-wheel drive.  The four-sixty under the hood won't help that much, either.  The first part of the road was quite rocky, but manageable.  It looked better ahead so we went on.

I'm not sure how far the road was "manageable" because we were busy sightseeing and making jokes.  We continued beyond more than a couple places that required first gear and careful maneuvering, but it still seemed passable and I was still having fun.  A sliver of sun was still above the mountainous horizon, so we went on.

There were several mounds of horse manure and lots of tracks scattered all along this gently sloping area of the hillside.  It looked like a good place for afternoon naps.  We looked, but didn't spot any wild horses.  They had sense enough to be on the lee side of a hill, out of the wind.  There were several good flat rocks near the roadway; candidates for creating a nice rock patio around my back steps.  We didn't collect any, but I made a mental note for future reference.

It wasn't dark yet, but sunset had just come and gone.  We were pushing it, but went on anyway.  After negotiating an especially tight turn and some sizeable rocks, I suddenly realized that I could not see the next telephone pole.  To our right and just ahead was the one nearest us, but the next one in line wasn't visible.

"Where the hell is the next telephone pole?  The line doesn't look like it ends here.  Why would it end here?  It doesn't just end here.  Where the hell is the next pole?!"

It was time to take stock of where we were.  I knew we were nearing the side of the hill that dropped off towards Ft. Churchill Road and the river, but wasn't expecting a cliff.  There are very few real cliffs around here.  Besides, I've been on Ft. Churchill Road and seen the other side of this hill, it's not a cliff.  We cautiously pressed on.

Twenty yards further and we discovered why we couldn't see the next utility pole.  The hillside dropped off so abruptly that it was well below our line of sight.  This made for a new consideration:  A place to turn around.  The road made a sharp turn and sort of flattened out in another ten yards or so.  From there you could see that it was safe to proceed another couple of turns down the hill before it got really steep.  Of course we went on.

From the next turn we could see Ft. Churchill road, the lights of Dayton and Virginia City.  Quite the good spot for a nice evening view.   The wind had died down considerably after sunset and we were now on the lee side of the hill.  It was still quite cold, but much more tolerable.

The road made a sharp turn just ahead, then began a steep decline into a series of switchbacks down the rock-riddled ravine.  It was a very rocky ravine.  A rocky ravine is probably worse than a cliff.  You know for sure you can't drive down a cliff.  With a rocky ravine, it's not as obvious.

"We'll just go to that first sharp turn and see how it looks below there.  Heck, we're at least eighty-five percent there.  Ft. Churchill road is right down there.  I'd hate to go all the way back on this rocky road when we're almost there.  Once we get to Ft. Churchill road, we can go on into Dayton and hit the Jack in the Box for a couple tacos," I said with confidence.

Bobby wasn't quite buying it.  "I don't know.  It looks pretty steep.  This is far enough.  I don't care if we have to go back over the same rocks."

"Well, there's a spot to turn around at that first turn.  We'll just go that far, then I'll turn around if it looks like we can't go any farther."  We went on, to that first turn.

Half way between that first turn and the next turn was another clearing that looked like a good place to turn around, if need be.  "See?  We're ok, there's another place we can turn around right there.  But, I can't see what's beyond the next turn.  It looks pretty steep beyond that."

We sat there for a few minutes, weighing our options.  To go on, or not to go on.  That was the question.  It was very steep.  It was very rocky.  It was after dark and hard to see what might lie ahead.  What if the rocks became too much even for my high truck?  What if the winter had washed away part of the road?  What if the road became too narrow for the truck?  Nah, at some point they had a power company utility truck up here.  Yeah, but there haven't been many good places to turn around up to this point, and here were two in close proximity.  Was it a sign, or coincidence?

We went on, but only a half truck length beyond the second turn around spot.  I could see enough from there.  The road beyond was like the invisible telephone poles.  It fell off, below the headlights' beam, and I couldn't tell for sure that there was even a road in all those rocks.  I'd finally had enough.  It had been fun, but the fun was done.  Time to call it an evening and head back.

I backed up.  Well, I tried to back up.  I had every intention of backing up.  The truck was in reverse and the tires were spinning, but the road was steep and, oddly, the ground beneath, I was horrified to discover, was soft.  I gunned it a little, the tires spun faster and the dirt started flying.  Rats.  I'm quite sure it was the only soft dirt for miles in any direction.  And when I find the SOB who put soft dirt right there, I'm going to kick his ass with a pair of steel-toed boots.

Damn!  Now what?  We got out and surveyed the immediate area.  We heaved most of the larger rocks out of the way and kicked several others on general principals.  How did this soft dirt get here?!  It's all rocks!  It's not sand, it's just soft dirt.  What's wrong with this picture?  We were just having a little fun.  It ain't supposed to end up like this.  Damn.

Much serious consideration and several bad puns later, I devised a plan.  I'd paced the distance and found it adequate; more than adequate.  It's simple.  All I had to do was aim the truck uphill in the quasi-clearing we'd created, go as far up into the cleared area as I could, then crank the wheels hard to the right and let the truck roll back onto the road.  We'd be turned around and heading back.  Piece of cake.

And that's exactly what I planned to do when I climbed up in the cab.  I asked Bobby to stand in the roadway behind the truck and keep a tight eye on where the rear tires went so I'd not back too far towards the edge.  Ok, well, not an 'edge' exactly, it was more like a shelf.  There was a 'shelf' just downhill, and off the edge of the road I'd be aiming for.  If the rear tires went off the road and down onto the shelf, the truck would probably end up resting on the rear axle.  High as the truck is, the slant of the hill was greater.  We definitely did not want to get too near that area at the edge of the road. 

I explained the plan in great detail so Bobby would have a clear picture of what I wanted to do.  I motioned with my hands and arms to make it as clear as possible.  As he nodded in acknowledgement, the earlier image of his abrupt extraction from the truck suddenly came to mind.  I sincerely hoped Bobby could perform this minor but vital task more competently.

Ok, this is it.  Here we go.  I dropped Lola into first gear and gave her a little gas.  We started up the hill.  Excellent! This is good!  I like it.  But, the hill was steep and the truck was at a hard angle; I gave her a little more gas and tried to climb the three or four more feet we needed to gain.  It was only a few feet. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently it was.  The dirt right there was soft as well.  There seemed to be an epidemic of soft dirt.  It was, in fact, just soft enough to fly out from the spinning wheels in every direction, then give way beneath them just enough to allow the rear axle to slide down the hill and away from the path of vindication.  The truck had fallen completely out of line for the maneuver I'd planned.

Another round of up close and personal scrutiny was required.  Many more rocks were heaved or kicked and dark puns hinted of impending doom.  Bobby was quite frightened.  There wasn't enough light to certain, but I guessed his face was pale.  He wasn't saying much.

It still appeared that, if I moved the truck up and back a few times and cranked the wheel each time, I could eventually gain a favorable position and still complete the original plan for turning around.  We're still able to move some, might as well try it.

I gave it another go.  I wasn't able to gain as much ground going uphill as that first run, but was able to put a pretty good crank on it when I let her roll back a ways.  Up again, and back again. I checked with Bobby and asked if I was making any progress before each attempt.  He assured me I was, but his face read differently.

I'd have gotten out and checked for myself before every attempt, but with the ground falling away on my side of the truck, it was very difficult to climb back in.  I'd tried it once.  The floor of the cab was so high up I could barely reach the steering wheel and the back of the seat to pull myself up.  My bad knees prevent any attempts at jumping; best I stay in the cab.

After one particular attempt, I heard Bobby yelling to stop.  "Stop!  Stop!  You're going off the cliff!"  I instantly hit the brakes. I was sure he was overreacting, as usual.  I got out to see what the fuss was.  He was, kinda.  The left rear tire was only a couple inches from a big rock.  The other side, the downhill side, of that rock is where the 'shelf' began.  When I walked back there, I realized that this very significant rock was only partially buried in even more soft dirt.

Damn.  This was not good.  Not good at all.  The truck was completely out of position for turning around, the dirt was too soft to get enough traction to climb the hill, and, now, the downhill rear tire was precariously positioned.   What to do?  What to do?  Damn.

Standing out in the cold wasn't going to be productive, so we got back in the truck to mull it over.  Sadly, more bad puns.  I don't recall what Bobby was saying, but I suddenly realized just how scared he was.  He seemed convinced that the truck was going to fall over backwards and we'd be killed.  Even if I'd backed off the road and onto the 'shelf,' the truck was in no danger of falling over backwards or rolling down the hill.

Even so, Bobby was quite scared.  I didn't have much patience for his crap at that point.  I finally told him that if he really was scared enough to piss or shit his pants, he'd damn well better do it outside because I didn't want either on my seats!  That jarred him enough to slow him down some.  He got real quiet, then I felt bad for jammin' him up like that.

"Do you really think we're going to roll down this hill and die?!"
"Well…." he ventured doubtfully, as his eyes rolled widely in the direction of the now darkened and nearly invisible hillside that fell away to the rear and below us.
"Do you believe in Heaven?"
"Yeah.  Yeah, I believe in Heaven."
"Well don't you think Heaven is bigger than that teeny, tiny, sixteen foot trailer you live in?!"
"Yeah!  I KNOW it's bigger.  Heaven is HUGE!"
"Well, what the hell are you worried about then?  You should be hoping we roll over and die!"

We checked the glove box.  There was no flashlight in it.  The small one in my purse had dead batteries.  It was very dark and the moon was not out yet.  There wasn't going to be much of a moon anyway.  We began to discuss our options and who would walk out for help.  Should we go towards Dayton, or back the way we'd come?  Hmm….

Traction!  We just need some traction!  We ventured outside again.  We used our hands to scoop dirt into and out of various places around the rear tires.  We found a variety of suitable rocks and placed them just under and in front of the rear tires.  We moved two much bigger rocks behind the tires as a precaution.  Ah, good!  This would work, or it would certainly help.  It had to.

Why hadn't we thought of this before?  It was so obvious.  Surely we'd have better luck this time.  Bobby assumed the position and I concentrated on acceleration and angles.  I gave Lola a little gas.  The tires grabbed the rocks and the truck moved forward, just a little.  I pressed on the pedal a tiny bit more and felt her move in the right direction again.  Fifteen seconds later, the rocks were buried in soft dirt and forward progression ceased.  We tried the "rocks for traction" routine a couple more times, with the same results.  The truck was still too far out of position and only one rear tire was grabbing anything.  We got back in the truck to warm up and mull it over again.

Wait!  I have a cell phone with me!  Yeah, but are we in a dead zone,  the area is riddled with them, or will I get a signal?  I dug it out of my purse and turned it on.  The screen blinked, the icon displayed, and the phone came alive.  I had a signal!  Now who can we call?  Allan and Becky were my first thought, but I knew Becky had gone to California for a visit with her dear, ailing grandmother for the weekend.  Would Allan be home, or out hunting with his buddies?

I keyed in their number and pressed send.  Our luck was holding; he was home.  He'd just sat down to dinner.  I described our situation and where we were, and Allan tried not to laugh too much.  He knew exactly where we were.  It's right in his backyard after all, and he's been there himself.  When they first moved to Silver Springs a few years back, he drove the same road in Becky's old half-ton Dodge truck.  He's also been on it in an ATV.  Yeah, he knew e-x-a-c-t-l-y where we were.  His version was much funnier.

                       
And this, this is the innocent looking beginning of the road where it all began.  Look closely and you'll see the telephone poles.  We followed them to the right from here.


He said he'd finish dinner then hop in the Jeep to come get us.  I expressed concern that the hill was too steep and the truck was too heavy for the Jeep.  Unless he had a winch with a very long cable that could reach us from the top of the hill, I didn't see how it was possible.  But, he had faith that the Jeep would be more than adequate for our rescue.

I had my doubts, but what the heck.  If nothing else, we'd have a ride back home and not have to spend the night in a cold truck.  Did I mention that the heater in the truck doesn't work?  Yeah, the heater core went out last winter and leaked all over inside the cab.  A concerned friend moved the hoses to bypass the heater until I can afford to get it fixed.  It hasn't been a priority.

We relaxed and enjoyed the starry sky while we waited for Allan.  The whole adventure was still pretty special.  We went somewhere new, saw some new vistas, had a little excitement, and now had a sky full of stars to gaze at.  And what was that dead center at the top of the windshield?  The Big Dipper.  Upside down, but it was the Big Dipper.  It was a good night for stargazing.

My phone rang.  It was Allan, "Can you see my headlights yet?"
"Not yet.  How'd you get here so fast?  It's only been an hour!"
"Yeah, well, let me know when you see my headlights."
"Why?  I thought you knew right where we are."
"I just wanna know when you see my headlights."
"OK.  I'll flash mine when we see yours."

Five minutes later we could see the Jeep's headlights jumping up and down over rocks just beyond the ridge above us.  It could only be Allan, and it was.  I blinked our lights a couple times.  Bobby was so relieved he just started laughing, "We're saved!"  We both laughed.

Allan stopped the Jeep at the top of the hill, by the last visible telephone pole.  He looked down at us, shook his head and took in the terrain.  Then he drove the remaining distance until he was right in front of the truck.

I got out and walked around the truck with him, pointing our failed attempts and the drop off behind the truck.  We discussed the options and how we'd go about the extraction process.  I moved a few more rocks and used the shovel Allan brought to rearrange the dirt around my rear wheels.  Allan dragged two heavy-duty tow chains out of the back of the Jeep.  Allan attached the chains to each other, then to the two vehicles while I held the light for him.  He got into the Jeep and I hauled myself back up into the truck.

I watched Allen ease the Jeep forward and slowly take slack out of the chain with my parking brake off, my left foot on the brake pedal, transmission in low gear, and my right foot on the gas pedal.  The chain became taught and Allan hollered, "Ready?"  "OK," I yelled back."  And the Jeep began to move forward.  When I felt the chain tug, I gave let off the brake pedal and gave Lola some gas.  We inched forward, a little more onto the roadway and a little less jackknifed across it.  Progress!

That's exactly when the Jeep dug into the soft dirt.  From behind, it was hilarious.  We watched dirt and small rocks fly out behind the Jeep as the rear wheels sank into a hole that brought the underside of the Jeep down to road level in a matter of seconds.  Allan unhooked the chain from the truck and got back into the Jeep.

I've never seen anyone get a Jeep out of a hole like that before.  It was even funnier watching Allan rock the Jeep back and forth trying to extricate it from its temporary, half-subterranean, self-imposed, parking spot.  It rocked and hopped in fits and starts until it popped right up out of the hole and jumped forward onto the road.  He quickly repositioned it on the hillside above the truck.

I got out again and we discussed whether moving the chain to the opposite side of the axles would give us anymore leverage or benefit due to the changed angle.  It wasn't clear that it would, so we just put it back on and prepared to try again.

I had my doubts that the Jeep's new position would help.  It seemed like too steep a place to try to pull out something, especially something  bigger.  Plus, there wasn't much room in front of the Jeep to drive even if it was able to climb the hill while pulling the heavier truck behind it.  But, Allan wanted to try it from there, so we did.  It took longer for the rear axle of the Jeep to disappear this time, but it did.  The hoppity extraction was just as funny to watch a second time.

Allan drove the Jeep forward in a semi-circle and over every rock he could find before taking it back down to the roadway in front of the truck.  We filled the previous holes with rocks and dirt so when the truck got to them, it wouldn't fall into them.  Allan reconnected the chains and we gave it another try.  No results, just more soft dirt.

He broke out the come-along.  With a little gas and the come-along, the truck was able to move forward about six or eight inches.  It was slow, but it was progress.  That worked well enough to try cranking the wheels of the truck around again.  We maneuvered into ever so slightly better a position when it rolled back.

Twice more we gained inches of position before the handle of the come-along broke off.  It had bent after the second try, but Allan thought he'd found a way to limp it along.  Now what?  We gave it one last good try with the Jeep and chains, but it was no use.  The hill was too steep right there, the dirt too soft, and the truck too heavy.

"Know anyone else who might have a vehicle that could help?"
"Dan.  Dan's truck would get you out of here."
"Suppose he's home right now?  Would he come out here tonight?"
"I don't know.  He goes to bed early, it's after nine, he's probably asleep.  Besides, he turns the phone off when he goes to bed and usually leaves his cell in the car."  Allan gave him a ring anyway.  There was no answer and no answering machine.  He called Dan's cell and left a message there.  Then he remembered that Dan planned to go to the gun show in Reno for most of the next day.

There was nothing left to do but cram ourselves, our stuff, and Ruby into the tiny, two-seater Jeep and go home.  And that's what we did.  A spare tire took up all the space behind the seats and there were no doors on the Jeep.  I put Jake's bucket of beet pulp behind the driver's seat, my purse behind the passenger seat, half a bag of alfalfa cubes between the bucket seats, and Ruby's foam dog bed folded in half on top of the cubes.  Now all we had to do was get in.

Allan got right back into the driver's seat and Bobby climbed in and scooted around until he found a way to perch on top of the dog bed and cubes.  He had to hang onto the roll bar with one hand and the dashboard handle with the other to keep from falling off.  It wasn't easy getting into that tiny Jeep; my knees just don't bend well enough.  It took a few minutes, but I made it.  I had one arm around Ruby and hung onto the dashboard handle with the other.  Off we went, leaving Lola locked and alone on the side of the hill for the night.

It was a much bumpier ride in the Jeep than we'd had in the big truck.  We were bounced off the seat several times.  Somehow I managed not to drop Ruby.  I also managed not to fall out the door.  We laughed most of the way back.  It's a good way to relieve tension even when, really, nothing's funny.

I asked Allan how he was going to spin this story later when he retold it.  

"That's simple," he said quickly.  "I'll just say another 'lowlander' in a two wheel drive got themselves stuck somewhere they had no business going."
"No mention of the woman driver?
"Oh yeah, that's right.  I stand corrected.  I'll say a girl and a half got stuck somewhere they had no business going in a two wheel drive."

** Bobby Sue has "issues."  He takes Premarin and wears a bra.  Draw your own conclusions.

Allan stopped by Jake's corral so I could drop off his long overdue dinner and refill his water barrel for the next day.  Then he dropped us off at my house.  We made plans to retrieve my truck the next day.  The Big Plan was to borrow his good friend Dan's truck, a big four-wheel drive Jimmy with big tires and a winch.  The winch would be just the ticket.  It was a good plan, if he could get hold of Dan.

I woke up early, got dressed and had a little breakfast.  When Allan hadn't called by eight-thirty, I called him.  Dan was already in Reno for the gun show by 6 a.m., but told Allan he could borrow the Jimmy.  Allan was already obligated to help Becky's sister move her larger pieces of furniture to a new residence in Carson City around ten that morning, so we'd have to deal with the truck after he moved furniture.

Allan was back in Silver Springs around noon.  He picked me up after getting the Jimmy from Dan's place.  Dan was disappointed that he'd miss all the excitement because he was still at the gun show.  We drove across the highway to Allan's house and picked up his other good friend, Jeff, Jeff's thirteen-year old daughter, Jackie, and Ty, Allan's twelve-year old son.

              
                                   
                                                                Jackie and Ty in the back seat of the Jimmy.        

I was the lucky one.  I got to ride in the front with Allan.  The rear seat is right over the rear axle.  That positioning, and the short wheel base, provides passengers with a very rough and bumpy ride.  Needless to say, Allan took advantage of it and tossed them around back there like popcorn just for the fun of it.  I don't think anyone hit their head on the roof, but they were all over that back seat.  When we turned off onto the rocky utility road, Allan slowed down and took it easy on them.

We were only about one-third of the way there when Jeff started asking where in the hell my truck was and what the hell I was doing way out here in a two-wheel drive.  Clearly, he was not having as much fun back there as the kids.  It was, however, still funny from the front seat.  Oh, and we also learned that Jeff, the cranky, angry, self-professed woman hater, is engaged!  She must be one helluva of a woman because she got him to grow hair on his head instead of keeping it buzzed off.  Good for her!  I had no idea he was so good looking until I saw him with hair on his head.  They've set an August date.  Wonders never cease.  Hoo-Ahh for them, and best wishes.

I asked Allan to stop at the top of the hill so I could take a picture looking down from the last visible telephone pole to the truck.  I didn't get out of the Jimmy, but managed to snap a couple before Jeff asked what the hell I needed pictures of it for.

                    
 There's Lola, one short hairpin turn below us.  You can almost see the road!   

"This is going to be an illustrated story," I said.
"Oh brother!  Can't we just get down there and get the truck out?  This is my day off, I'm not supposed to work today."  We drove on.

            
              
This is the view looking out the back of my truck.  Again, you can almost see the road.  The rope is what I tie Jake to while I saddle him up.  The white fabric was covering the bed throughout the winter to help prevent rust, from snow, in the bed.  The pic below is of the rocks below the 'shelf'  that was just below the roadway.  That telephone pole is the next one after the "last visible pole" at the top of the hill -- which is uphill, to the left, and out of the pic.
      
            


Allan positioned the Jimmy on the road in front of my truck, but out of the Jeep's ruts.  I cleared more rocks and unlocked the truck while Allan and Jeff dragged out the chains.  Everyone walked around, getting a good look at the situation.  I went up the hill as far as my knees allowed for another picture.  None of the pictures came out well or truly illustrate the dilemma.  My camera chose that day particular to go haywire.  Oh well.

              
        Jeff on the left and Allan on the right, prepping the winch.


The tow chains were pulled tight, I let off the brake and gave it a little gas.  Allan gunned the Jimmy and tried to back up the hill.  The dirt only flew for a few brief seconds before both Allan and Jeff peeled out of the Jimmy and put the front wheels into four-wheel drive.  They climbed back in and Allan tried again.  Both the Jimmy and my Ford moved a few inches before all four wheels of the Jimmy began to sink into the soft dirt beneath it.  This soft dirt story is really getting old.  Nobody is laughing now.

The chains were unfastened again.  Allan backed the Jimmy halfway to the small turn out spot at the next turn uphill from where we were.  He and Jeff unwrapped the winch.  We were finally getting serious.  The truck started moving.  The winch had done the trick.  It was relatively slow progress, but any measurable progress was welcome.

            
                          Allan's readying the winch for a second try.

The first winch pull put Lola back, fully onto the roadway.  The guys unhooked the winch and I tried to drive, in low gear, up the hill unassisted.  I was only able to move about three or four feet forward before hitting soft dirt again and losing traction.

Here comes the winch again.  I'm loving this whole winch thing.  I really gotta get one.  I don't much care for getting stuck like this.  It's embarrassing.  Even if it is the very first time in over forty years of driving motorcycles, cars, semi trucks, and trucks with horse trailers that I've ever been stuck anywhere.  Put a heavy duty winch with about a thousand feet of line on my wish list.

Lola was on the roadway, but we still weren't out of it.  Jeff guided the winch cable as it wound back onto the reel.  Once it was taut again, the trusty winch pulled Lola beyond the Jeep's ruts and almost to that last turn uphill.  But now, I didn't have enough room or firm enough ground to get a run at the last turn up the hill.  They unhooked the winch, I let the truck roll back a little then tried again, but got nowhere.

Allan drove the Jimmy half way to the next uphill turn, the one with the last visible telephone pole.  Ms. Lola was wenched half way up, then the guys chose to put the tow chains back on and just pull my truck the rest of the way up the hill.  So, up the hill and around the last imposing bend we went before getting unhitched to go it alone.

              
Jeff is adjusting the chains for a the final pull up the hill. The last visible telephone pole is ahead, on the right (not visible in pic).

The sun was shining, the breeze was light, Lola was on her way back home, the boys had something new to talk about, and all was well with our immediate world.  I followed them back to the main road then stopped to get some pictures of the innocent looking utility road that deceived me into following it.  An illustrated story, remember?