“Love ain't no Stranger” - a travel tale.

 

The Utah desert's rocky edged skyline hung ominously like ancient gods as we drove eighty miles an hour along the winding highway. My father's car ran fine on flat surfaces but on ascents and long descents, the Oldsmobile's engine would die, and it was up to my driving sister to maneuver the beast to the side of the road to safety. Passing cars whooshed by a little too close for comfort. The car was stalled and would not start. After about two hours, no food, no water that the precariousness of the situation caused my nerves to fray, and it was then that I began to panic.

Finally my sister, always good in disasters, waved a car down, and I ran down the hill to meet them.

“My car is stalled. And I need a tow to the nearest city.”

“The nearest town is Green River, and that's over fifty miles from here.”

He was a young man of about twenty: dark, long hair and a little beard. His girlfriend was dark too and pretty, her eyes showing glimpses of fear. Just then, a policeman pulled up behind the Oldsmobile, and I could see my sister up the hill talking to him, her arms waving, her blond hair blowing in the hot wind.

“He'll take care of you, man.” the young guy and his pretty girlfriend sped off and disappeared down the mountain.

As luck would have it, the cop was sympathetic and radioed -in a tow truck. He drove away too, and we remained in the canyon alone again. Intuitively, I knew the car would start. I asked my sister to try and start her again, and she kicked on the first time. She put the sick beast into the drive, and we were mobile.

Big mistake.

The tow truck would be looking for us, and we would not be where we were supposed to be. If the car stalled again farther down the line, it could mean more trouble. Only ten miles later, my father's Oldsmobile died again and now in a much worse situation. If the Highway Patrol (we were in Mormon country)found us again it would mean at least a big fine and, depending on the people, jail.

The desert wind hummed at a low key through the cliffs as I sat contemplating dying of thirst and possibly spending the night in a Utah, predominately Mormon prison.

My sister got out of the car and looked wide-eyed at our surroundings.

The red and white hills and craggy rocks conveyed a kind of ancientness beyond our scope of comprehension. Without any hint of doubt, it was now understood that we were mere specks of insignificant energy within a vast universe: Alone.

Head in my hands without a clue, a single thought rang loudly like the Vatican church bells – that we were not wanted in this desert place. The Spirits of the land were telling us to get out and, in the meantime, making us suffer for trespassing in the first place. I raised my head from my hands and looked in the rearview mirror to see a huge, blue semi-truck jam to a squeaky stop directly behind the Oldsmobile.

“ Have'n car trouble, you kids?”

The semi-truck had taken a big chance in stopping his monstrous vehicle on the steep decline we were currently located. The truck was still running, and as I stood on the sideboard holding onto the handle of the open door, the air conditioning blasted on my face.

“I can take you two to town to call a tow truck. We're about twenty-five miles outside of Green River.”

My sister was already gathering our baggage and dragging it to the side of the road next to the truck.

“If it's not too much trouble; I would much appreciate it.”

Before long we were roaring along down the desert mountain in a brand new 96' Ford semi-truck: the largest transport vehicle of its kind in America.

“My name's Floyd. What're your names?”

After the necessary introductions and explaining the purpose of our trip to the U.S., our truck-driven-angel-of-mercy began expounding on the important highlights of his life over the last 54 years. Floyd was born in Louisiana, pronounced “Lozeyana.” He had been married twice, no kids, and worked for the most part on the shipping docks of New Jersey. Finally disabused from the ways of the infamous Teamsters Union purchased his semi-truck with his life savings and chose a life on the road, transporting fresh fruit from California to New York. Like some Americans I've met over the years, Floyd admitted to having Indian blood running through his veins. He claimed his father was an Irish immigrant and his mother a pure Algonquin native. The Algonquin tribe hunted and fished long ago on Manhattan Island and parts of New York State before the infectious influence of white civilization. He had, though, the Irish-whisky-nose and the dark eyes of an American Indian...I believed him.

My sister sat in the back of the cab on Floyd's comfortable-looking bunk sipping his Mountain Dew. The truck's engine's roar was almost too loud to make conversation, but Floyd persisted and continued telling us his life story despite the roar.

The sun was beginning to shed its last light as we thundered into Green River's only truck stop. Floyd circled the parking lot and docked the monster in a space left amongst a long line of similar machines. The truck stop was swarming with over-weight transporters wearing dirty baseball caps, sipping their coffee, and looking quite at home.

Floyd turned the engine off and slowly turned around to my sister.

“How 'bout you stay here with me. Your brother can go inside and see about getting a tow for that car of yours...?”

For an instant, my sister turned pale, squirmed slightly, and said, “You've given us no real reason to trust you. But I want to trust you - so I will.”

Floyd smiled and turned to me, “We can sit in the coffee shop and wait for you to get back with the car. I'm way ahead of schedule, so I've got a little time to kill.”

“Okay, Floyd. Sounds like a plan. I'll be back as soon as I can to fix things up.”

I gave a reassuring glance to my sister as I jumped out of the truck. My mind raced through a thousand negative possibilities: kidnapping, rape, theft, and so on. We were in a bad way that left few alternatives. Before walking through the shop doors, I turned around and made eye contact with my sister, and nodded my head to communicate that all, in the end, would be well.

Luck, the situation, time, place, or the grace of God, a tow truck was available to drag the old Oldsmobile into town.

After a few too many hours, the sun had all but disappeared. I walked into the coffee shop to find Floyd and my sister and a few other truckers sitting around a table, laughing and joking – a jovial scene that felt out of place for me, considering our circumstances.

Floyd stood up and put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly fashion.

“Everything okay, son?”

"I think so. The car is parked down the road at the garage, Green River's only mechanic. The dude says it's the fuel pump. This little “excursion” has made a dent in our little budget. There's a hotel up the road for $30 a night. I guess we're stuck in this town for at least tonight or until they can fix the piece of...”

“Could be worse, son.”

“Yea, could be worse.” in the hot desert night, I detected a tone of sadness in Floyd's eyes.

Floyd helped us unload our luggage from his rig. Again I saw that sadness in his eyes.

“Well good friend, I want to say thank you for all your help. You are a true Samaritan and a gentleman. Really, I don't know where we would be right now...”

“That's okay. Just remember not to take it all too seriously, too hard. Once you're in a fix like this, you got no other choice but to move through it. Might as well do it with a smile on your face. Right?”

My sister gave Floyd a kiss on the cheek and a little hug. I shook his hand in the traditional, manly fashion, and we bade our farewells.

He started his engine and pulled his magnificent machine out of the parking lot. As we watched our angel of mercy throttle down the highway until his brake lights appeared to be tiny dots, red stars in the dark of night.

Needless to say, because our car trouble was slightly worse than we thought and my poor sister got sick because, I suspect, of the stress of our unusual plight, we remained in Green River, Utah, for another two days. The morning of the third day, we loaded up the Oldsmobile with our bags and drove out of Green River. Over the three days of our stay, I managed to meet some fascinating and nice people.

As we crossed over the border into the State of Colorado, a David Coverdale song boomed through the car speakers. The tune was, "Love ain't no Stranger.” Looking through the windshield and thinking about my recent father's death and his precious car, I decided that this was to be the theme song for our quest. I then thought of Floyd, our interesting circumstances, and decided to take his advice – and smile.