Based on a true story.

“The quality of mercy is not strain'd,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself.”

- William Shakespere

Dear Reader

So, about a year ago, I was driving home to Austin, east on I-10 from Marfa, TX where I was really digging the uber groovy art and food scene there. I even stayed in an Indian teepee for, uh hum… Excuse me… $120 fucking dollars a night… But, dig this – here’s the price of admission - Shawn Lennon (the son of God) actually played a kooky little dive joint there. Can you believe that shit?

Marfa’s so hip..

I’ve got to figure out how to move there. What a perfect place to do an online “start-up” – Imagine the branding scenario!

Anyway, I was somewhere outside a little podunk town called Sheffield when I saw this hilarious billboard.

Of course the thought of having to pee never dawned on me until the instant that I saw that sign, but there it was, along with a sudden little tinge in my bladder which presented itself plain as day.

Then my mind went a step farther considering the billboard as a challenge, saying: "Could you make it? … If you had to?"

Then my thoughts continued: “What the hell else was there to do for the next 5 hours anyway? "Okay! I thought to myself - Bet's on.. For a million dollars!”

I was looking ahead, across the hood, watching those illusive shimmering black pools of phantom mirages that are always just out of reach, underneath blurry waves of convection that rise from searing Texas black top. It really brought back a memory of summer travel along the Gulf coast when I was a kid. My mind’s eye recalled a vast brownish green expanse of brine meeting at the curve of the Earth’s horizon. I could almost smell the damp salty breeze. I imagined the lapping of gentle waves tumbling across the sands and shells on the beach.

Instantly the ante my “tinge” of maybe wanting to pee upped to a definite urge.

Oh man!

Suddenly, my mind split in half. First thinking: “There’s absolutely no way I’m going to make it.”

Really?

I started doing the math on the rate of my bladder filling over the time it took to cover the next two hundred miles. Then the other half of my brain thought of trying to calm me down with facts, recalling that I easily go that long almost every night without a hitch. 

I don’t know about you, but for me, the rational side is never a match for neurosis.

Then the rational mind came into play with an ingenious way to trump my inner Woody Allen - I remembered once reading a magazine article about the magician - David Blaine and his meditation techniques, which enabled him to accomplish all kinds of phenomenal physical feats like holding his breath for insanely long periods of time.

“Hey!” I defended to myself, “He’s Jewboy too… If he can do it, so can I!”

And with that, I was felt more encouraged especially after whizzing past a famous west Texas 85mph speed limit sign. Then I pulled out the cigarette lighter and held it up to my mouth as though it was a microphone and began imitating Mick Jagger, loudly singing: “Ti-i-i-ime is on my side.. Yes it is dahling, yes it is.. Ti-i-i-ime is on my side!”

10 minutes later I look down…

Mile 18

Then five minutes after that… Mile 26.

Mile 49…

The voice in my head reprimanded: “Stop looking at the fucking odometer all the time! Turn on the radio or something!”  

Reaching, I click the knob to on and scan the dial across a sea of static to which there is nothing here along this desolate desert highway but one very loud and clear Mexican station.

I don’t know what it is about it exactly, But I am here to confirm a new scientific fact, which is: Cajunto music makes you want to piss.

“God Dammit!”

I clicked off the radio and snatched up my phone - No cigar… No bars.

Surrendering to the silent vacuum of my cockpit, I stared out across an endless road which again recalled memories of my childhood of the Gulf of Mexico. There was that vast brownish-green again, only this time it was a velvet texture that draped an infinite scrub brushed ocean – like landscape.

And again, I was trying with all my might not to look at the mileage….

Mile 51…

“STOP IT!”

“How about some highway bingo. Remember that? Or “JCT” pronounced “Ja-ca-ta”. That was a fun recognition game that my sister Carol and I came up with as kids on the way to San Antonio, stuck in the back of our white 1966 Oldsmobile station wagon.  We had no idea or cared what those “JCT” signs meant. We just thought it was a really funny word that grown-ups would put on highway signs. “Ja-ca-ta”

Ha ha ha!

Me and Carol…

Hmmm, I wonder what she’s...

Mile 77.

Both my feet were tapping faster on the floorboard as I drew a deep breath … “Sigh!!!!”

My new mantra: “I think I can, I think I can.  I hope I can!”

Chapter 2?

I pick up my phone again and bring up the “notes” app and begin dictating:

“October 26, 2015 Great idea on the road home from Marfa. (Great place! More on that later.) Okay, so after seeing a Bucee’s billboard that says: “262 miles to Bucee’s. You can hold it.” I’m feeling challenged to hold my pee for the entire 262 miles. 

Okay, here goes… Thought - Write a hyper detailed narrative describing the physical and psychological agony of a stretching bladder and the grit and personal integrity that are established by holding it all the way to an unreasonable finish line. Think – desperate Vince Gallo in opening scene of “Buffalo 66”… How cool is that?!”

Mile 121… Thighs squeezing together as both feet are tapping even faster: “Hang on man. Relax… Breathe!”

Mile 134… “Fuck this shit!”

There hadn’t been but a handful of cars and 18-wheelers in the last 100 miles so I pulled over really fast and in my panic for relief, I struggled with the seatbelt and finally slung it out of the way as I jerked on the latch and kicked open the door.

Reaching for my zipper and starting to work it down with my left hand as I pushed off the steering wheel with my right - in one motion, prying my body sideways, pulling myself out of my pants, I aim it out the car door opening.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Sighing deeply: “Oh my God!! “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Remembering that my grandmother called this “The world’s most underrated sensation”, I moved on to thinking if I’d a had a milk bottle, I could have kept going, just like Jeff Bridges did in that movie about the washed up old Texas song writer never stopping on the road between gigs… 

Then I wondered… “How did he get his dick inside the little neck opening of that plastic milk jug without pissing all over the place? Touring musician skills I guess”, I concided.

Relief continued strong as the faint hum of a car engine was approaching from the west.

“Oh no, you got to be kidding!”

I was stuck, half kneeling in an extraordinarily awkward position, hanging out of my wide open car door, held captive behind an unstoppable stream that was bouncing off the black asphalt like Belgium’s Manneken Pis into a pool.

The engine’s sound was that certain rumble and was getting louder and louder. I could see it was an old blue pick up.

Hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop my flow as the banged up old Ford truck was closing in and moving in behind me halfway on the shoulder.

There I was, stuck, holding my cascading pecker in my hand and there wasn’t one thing I could do about it as I watched the decomposing jalopy coast in for a landing; grumbling as the fatigued chassis and worn drum brakes finally squeaked to a dead halt in front of me.

Mentally, groping for personal space, I looked down and tried to play it cool as if I didn’t  notice my audience’s arrival.

What else could I do?

A voice from inside the truck grunted low inarticulate sounds out the window: “Hey thar… you need sum hep with that flat tar?”

There was no escaping my surrender and so I finally just looked up.

The guttural voice came from a beast of a man who was wearing a rust stained, light yellow and tan plaid, pearl snap western shirt with collar and sleeves ripped off.

I glanced up to see face that accompanied the voice and then looked back down at my business. I didn’t notice much detail at first, until persistence of vision recalled an abnormality so intense that it forced a double take. That’s when I saw the hideous scar that carved a deep arc through his left eyebrow, all the way down into his cheek, about an inch below his cloudy blue gray, dead eye. 

I tried to focus on the good one while he spoke but I was transfixed on the other with morbid curiosity, fascinated by a yellow/ white discharge seeping from the inside corner where I suppose his tear duct used to be.

He was peering at me from behind his massive, hairy forearm that buried the bottom of the truck’s window opening, revealing what was left of some original faded blue paint that merged into burnished bare brown steel worn down from decades of his dirty sweaty arm grinding through the finish, like ruts in the Inca trail. 

“What?!” I said, to his totally unexpected riposte.

“I say’d, d’yew need a han with that thar flat tar?”

Then he looked down.

I saw a smile reach around his face that jerked his head back slightly, and with a gentle chuckle, he said: “Loo’cout there feller, you’re pissin’ all over yer foot!

I looked down and and laughed nervously as I re-aimed myself. The yellow stream shut down immediately, just like the end of a New York Harbor fireboat water show…

Continuing with a soft titter, his head cocked to the side and his eyebrows lifted with friendly confirmation: “When ya gotta go, ya gotta go.” he quipped.

My nervous laughter continued until his expression dropped.

I zipped myself and got up as fast as I could, changing the subject to his original focus looking around for the flat tire. “Where? I don’t see a flat…”

“’Round the other side - in back.” Said the rustic.

My eyebrows furrowed with new concern as I made my way around the back of the car. Sure enough, it was not only flat but the sidewall was completely blown out.

“Oh fuck… Shit! - How did I not notice this?”

I reckon you was too distracted by the need.” The man said.

I pulled my keys from the ignition and opened the trunk. Realizing that I’d neglected to check the spare for months, maybe years, all I could do was hope for the best as I began emptying the contents to get at it.

I lifted up the trunk floor mat. “Shit!” The tire wasn’t even in there! “And where’s the fucking jack? - God Damit!”  

Sighing heavily, I anticipating the next – being a lot of what a vice president of the United States once called “inconvenient truth”, bearing down on me.

There were at least three other people sitting still and quiet under the dark shade of the pickup’s cab. The sound of metal scraped against metal and a deep clunk reported the big man was now emerging from the passenger side of the old truck.

One very large, beat up leather boot followed by another, hit the ground just underneath his crumpled rusty blue door. The giant propped himself up, let out a low grunting moan. He looked towards the west and then down the road to the east as he hiked up his overalls, and then slowly walked over toward me. Contemplating my frustration, he looked at me, then craned his neck slightly as he pushed two of of his dirty fingers up under the sun bleached orange plastic adjustment strap in back of his greasy tan “Stihl chainsaws” gimme cap. It was so quiet out there on that open road that I could hear the scraping sound of his fingernails scratching back and forth across his scalp. He twisted his lips into contortion and started chewing them from the inside as he cogitated and continued scratching his head in an almost Zen- like fashion.

 

“Dang! He said, “Looks like you done dropped yer candy in the dirt, dintcha?”

Still scratching, he looked at me and smiled: “Don’t fret, we’re gonna get this dawg to hunt.”

Though upset, I couldn’t help but be amused by his euphemism.

I drew a deep breath and sighed in disbelief of this entire situation.

My mind drifted: “Fucking Bucee and his stupid-ass billboard got me into this mess!”

Noticing that it was getting to the end of the day, darker thoughts started flooding my suspicious mind. Suddenly imagining that this brute might be the devil of my demise rather than a guardian angel, I felt trapped, no, actually more like doomed! “There’s not one fucking thing I can do.” I thought to myself. “I can’t run and there’s sure as hell nowhere to hide – Fuck! I’m at this monster’s whim.”

“Well”, I concluded: “Nothing I can do now, I’m just going to have to surrender and go with it, whatever it is. One way or another, I’ll either end up at home or on the back of a milk carton…”

Continued clawing sounds from the back of Jethro’s skull awakened me from my neurosis. Then he muttered “Mmmmmmmmm huh… Hey Thaddeus” he shouted, “Bring me that tar out the back of the truck.”

A freckle faced, red headed teenage boy followed a terrible squeak and cracking sound of his opening driver’s side door and then a similar clunky bang of it closing.

I watched him as the top half of his spindly frame glided across the top of the truck bed towards its missing tailgate. He looked down and plunged his hand into the bed producing a scuffed up old white walled car tire that had been used as a cushion to transport a dodge straight 6 and its transmission that they traded a year ago for twelve acres of brush clearing.

“This n’ here, Pa?” Said the boy.

“Uh huh.”

Thaddeus was just old enough to drive and demonstrate his adolescent strength by continuing his lifting with only one hand. His gaze shifted from his flexing arm muscles to his dad, wondering if he noticed his new physique, which his dad acknowledged with a quick wink.

Seeing that exchange was a sign of good spirit that comforted me.

And then I thought: “Oh my God, It’s real life “Deliverance”, I’m going to be this kid’s initiation into serial killing!”

“Oh shut up!!”

He examined my blow out and then sized up the old tire that he was holding. Then he set it against my wheel checking for size. “Uhhhh huh.” He rubbed his hand across his stubbly jaw and chin… “Uh huh”… He confirmed to himself.

I said: “How’s that going to work?”

He turned his head towards me, smiled and said: “Ol’ Meskin trick”

“What?”

He elaborated: “Sump thin’ an ol’ Meskin boy showed me a long time ago.”

I rolled my eyes and nodded my head with pessimistic disbelief: “Whatever.”

Thaddeus was standing by as his daddy ordered: “Get me my chainsaw and some gas, boy… Oh, and bring that big ol’ cedar stump back there too. And get your brother n’ sister out here to help lift.”

“Yesser.” replied the young red head as he moved back towards the truck’s bed.

“What the hell?”

He began to chuckle at my consternation: “Hahaha! Don’t worry mister, I ain’t gonna saw up your car… We gonna have you on your feet in two shakes…” Then he stuck out his thick - callused hand: “Name’s Daniel.” He said. “Friends call me Big Dan.”

“Oh yessir.” I extended my hand for the shake: “I’m Ben”

Daniel dipped his head, smiled and said: “Pleasure.”

The boy reappeared and handed his father the chainsaw and then set down a gallon Ozarka water bottle about a quarter full of dark colored 2-stroke gasoline next to him.

Suddenly, two more family members were standing by, silent and ready to take orders.

Okay, Buck and Sara, c’mon over here, we’re gonna pick up the back. Now Thaddeus, that’s when you’re gonna shove that stump up under the axel, you hear? Like we did at Grandma’s that time, Okay?”

“Yessir”

I watched Daniel and this young man and woman together; actually lift up the back end of my car!

“Thaddeus, throw that stump under there.”

“Okay, Pa.” Sitting on the ground, using his two feet, Thaddeus pushed a cedar stump as big as his upper body under my axel and repeated: “Okay, Pa.”

“Okay, set ‘er down.” Ordered Daniel. And when they did, both back wheels of my car were left levitating 6 inches off the ground.

I gasped with amazement, laughing and shouting: “Whoa ho ho!”

Big Dan snapped up his battle-scarred chainsaw with his left hand, and with two quick yanks on the starter rope “Brrrrrup brrrrup…” the thing sprang to life singing a raspy saprano “Varroom varrrrroom!” revving up and down, determined and belching blue grey smoke into the atmosphere. That cutting machine was an extension of Dan’s arm, filled with determination and promise like a tiny locomotive.

He pulled back the brake and squeezed the gas again. This time the chain hissing around its steel guide bar where “Stihl” was painted in big black, barely legible slanted letters.

It was full throttle and hell for leather when Dan stabbed that bad boy into the top my blown out tire. He commenced to tear down into that thing like there was no tomorrow. One cut after another - top to bottom.

Nickel sized chunks of tread, nylon bias ply cord and black dusty rubber soot hurled past us all. Everyone’s head instinctively flinched and turned away with squenched eyes for protection from all the commotion.

Big Dan continued chopping away until there was a terrific gnawing sound and metal sparks that started spraying out from his last cut. He’d gone too far and was now grinding into the car’s steel wheel.

I cringed…

He backed off and then slowly carved his way back in again, this time slower and with a twisting motion, sawing against the rubber, back and forth until the tire’s bead finally surrendered it’s grip on the rim and the whole thing fell in tattered pieces onto the ground.

He flipped a tiny switch and the immediate silence rang in my ears almost as loudly as what just caused it.

Dan set the saw down and like a surgeon who’d just made his big initial incision and then summoned his oldest like a nurse for the next step in the operation’s process: “Get me that paper cup and a rag and that book a matches off the dashboard.”

“Yessir.”

Seconds later, you could hear scavenging around in the car…

“And a long stick too!” Shouted Dan.

The oldest returned with the goods. Dan said: “Just set it all down here.” Then he picked up the tire and held it up to the rim and with his bare hands; he pulled and pushed the inner circular beads until they snapped into place, inside the circumference of the steel rim.

What an amazing coincidence. This old tire of his just happened to fit. 

I was curious as hell about what his next step would be, since the tire was just hanging limp on the rim. I had to ask: “Now what the hell are you gonna do, Dan?”

Big Dan looked at me and smiled: Hold yer horses friend, this is the “Meskin part.” Then he filled the paper cup half full of that gasoline and poured it all around the rim and inside the tire.

“Better stand back, Ben.” he said, as he dribbled the last drops of gas onto the rag and then tied it onto his 3-foot long stick.

I was really confused and interested.  “What th....”

It was almost dark now as Dan struck a match and lit the rag at the end of his stick. Then he touched the burning rag to the wheel and with a huge blue and yellow discharge of flames the whole thing exploded from the inside of the rim, sealing the tire onto the steel wheel and partially inflated it.

Big Dan yipped with pride. “That thar is my Meskin trick!”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” I yelled… and looking up to the heavens, I yelled again: “Thank you Jesus!”

“Not so fast.” Dan warned. We gotta get more air in ‘er or she’ll go flat on you again in no time flat.

“How’s that going to happen?” I asked. We gotta get to a fillin station. I know there’s one about a hunert miles east in Sonora.

“Shit! How’s that going to happen, Dan?”

Well, you better not drive n’you better not stay here all night all by yersef either, cause them Meskin tweakers come across the Rio Grand at night n’ll find you stuck here like a sittin duck n’ll kill you for that car, flat tire er no.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“I guess you ought’n to git in the truck with us n we’ll go together n’ fine you some tar air.”

I clenched my eyes shut and sighed again in disbelief. “Alright.” Taking my keys from my pocket, I started towards my car…

“No sense lockin it, getin in thar’s like takin candy from a baby.

I threw up my hands. It was dark and I was about to spend the entire evening crammed in a shitty stinky old truck like a sardine with four desperados who I would have previously been scared as hell of and avoided at all cost.

Exhaling “Oh shit.” The little voice inside said: “you better better take inventory and get your shit together, cause this is it. “So I patted my pockets and found my wallet, which I recalled moving it to my front pocked as a safety measure earlier - just as soon as I got up, out of the car, looking for the flat tire. 

It was getting a little chilly which reminded me to reach through the window and grab my jacket. There was my phone and charger, which I unplugged and scooped up off the center console. I wondered if there might be something else I could use like change or a pocket knife, so I scoured, only finding two dimes and a penny stuck together, gum wrappers and various useless unremarkable ornaments that been piling up there for months. Then my eyes stopped and trained on the bottom edge of a small bronze figurine. It was lying there on its side, the shape of meditating Buddha, half buried under the all the crap. I picked it up and clutched it in my hand, remembering the moment that this amulet was given to me while I was in Myanmar by a very friendly Burmese mystic woman who lived in a thatch roof hut that rose up out of the beautiful Inle Lake, on wooden stilts. The image of her perched on her red and gold raw silk hassock taking deep drags off a cheroot that seemed permanently stuck to the outer edge of her bottom lip. I liked watching her exhale a thick cloud of smoke through her nose and mouth as she spoke to me, while motioning to her servant to pour us hot tea served on an intricately carved laquer tray with a partitioned wooden bowl filled with pickled green tea leaves and peanuts for snacking. My mind was consumed by this movie of my past. Her name was O Sin Ku, and looking out her windows I could see that she was surrounded by several acres of ancient natural hydroponic tomato gardens that floated on top of massive buoyant woven hyacinth stalk mats.

I had been lucky to arrange audience with her for an interview about her practices. She had her servant fetch the amulet as a “present” to me. She took it from the girl and handed it to me in the traditional way of Burmese respectful gift giving, which was with her left hand supporting the elbow of her right arm.  I took it from her in the same way and admired my new gift, saying: “Ja zu dim bade’ - I am honored”. She smiled and said: Oh, you speak Burmese?!”

No Ma’am, I don’t really” She chuckled and continued: “Stick around and I’ll teach you.” I laughed and then she laughed with me.

“O” said: “This was once possessed by a sacred “Nat” when he was still alive as a mortal before he died tragically from a severe allergy to onions.”

Suddenly, I was back in my car – in the dark, clutching the amulet, feeling kind of cold and realizing that her “present” has been protecting me and my car ever since 2008 when I was there with her – in Burma, completely emerged in research, taking photos and writing a kind of a specialized travel journal entitled: “Spirit House Safari”- about my journey through, and take on south east Asian supernaturalism.

Hmmm. Should I take it for me or leave it for the car?

Dan cracked his door open and motioned for me to get in the truck cab…

“Okay…”

I gently set the amulet back in it’s place in the console, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and loudly whispered “Mingla Va - Ja zu dim bade’ – Jani Ho!” with great intent to summon the mystic’s sacred diety of protection to ward off “Mexican tweakers” (whatever they are) and look after my trusty steed in my absence.

“C’mon, Bin.” Urged Dan.

Alright, coming!” and before him. “I reckon it’s gonna be a little bit cozy” He said as he smiled and wedged himself in between me and the weight of the door that he had to pull shut with all his might. I looked across at his three very well mannered kids. Sara looked back at me and then down, smiling bashfully.

Thaddeus pushed a starter button (located underneath the original ignition with a broken off key sticking out) and the pickup turned over at least ten times until he let off. Then he pumped the gas pedal twice and tried it again. She turned over about five more times and then fired up..

Brother Tom schootched out of the way the best he could, considering the cramped quarters as Thaddeus pulled down the lever on the steering column - crunching it into gear. The boy slowly let out the clutch and we slipped into the desert’s darkness headed east.. (Clunks into second gear) down the road with only one headlight that was pointed straight into the oncoming lane, that unmistakable stink of burning oil and the familiar rumble from my childhood, of a worn out old American V-8 engine (smooth transition into third and she slowly but surely winds all the way up to highway speed). 

I never thought I’d be so happy to see…

Mile 135

Chapter 3

It was pitch dark, save for one very dim incandescent glow coming from deep within the speedometer housing. I strained to see the light reflecting off the pale white skin of Thaddeus’ face. The four of us were wedged shoulder to shoulder inside that sardine can like a New Delhi morning commute train as we flew down interstate 10 towards Sonora on our redneck magic carpet.

Not a single word was spoken for at least seventy-five miles, which was plenty time for my thoughts to bubble past oddities and free range neurosis into just simply acknowledging how kind and merciful these people were. 

Then I asked myself: “Why is it that people with the most to give always seem to have the least to loose?”

And then I wondered: “Would I ever pull over and help some random stranded individual, like me, pissing on the road, with a blown out tire?”

I shamefully concluded: “Fuck no. I’d a never done that.”

But then, maybe after meeting Big Dan and his family and getting a glimpse of their sense of charity; and maybe, just maybe – after seeing their intentions undistracted by fear and cynicism, perhaps I’d consider it. I optimistically surmised:

“Maybe now I would.”

Then I speculated. But there’s a big obstacle in this road to compassion, and that is a fundamental difference between us.

They see the world very differently than I do.

To them, it’s just plain black or white, right or wrong. There’s no in between, no interest in subtlety. John Sayles calls these type folks “Old Testament”. 

Right now, I’m feeling kind of embarrassed comparing myself because I’m always frenetically chasing my tail, sorting out gray areas that don’t seem to matter one bit to these good people. That’s the difference between us: genuine altruism ‘vs.’ a self-absorbed person. That difference concerns me as a human being who would like to make a difference in this world.

Then I wondered: “Is that a self-absorbed thing to think?”

Chapter 4

We came over a rise and I could feel the attitude of the pickup shift slightly down hill when a faint yellow-gold halo of city lights barely appeared in the distance. I’ve seen this kind of thing a million times before, but for some reason, the sight of this was just beautiful - brushing its shimmering glow about an inch up into the sky above the horizon.

Just beautiful.

“Thar ya go” Said Dan, pointing straight ahead. “They got plenty air fer ya over yonder.”

Sara asked excitedly: “Daddy, can we get some ice cream once we get thar?”

Dan, looking straight ahead, answered quietly: “We’ll see ‘bout that later, honey.”

There was silence again for another fifteen miles until we reached the brightly lit Shell station on edge of town where Dan said: “Pull in here, son”

Crickets were everywhere, like a heavily shaded stipple drawing. The ones smashed by car tires were smeared flat or they were writhing around on the smooth, oil stained concrete. They were attracted in from the vast surrounding darkness to the glaring greenish white fluorescent glow, neatly tucked into glossy white graffiti resistant panels. The Shell station was an oasis, humming with that pervasive 60-cycle anthem of modern civilization.

To some more affected by cynicism, this place may seem ominous, but to me, it was my salvation!

We squeaked to a halt.

Dan Cracked opened his door. “Clank – clang – ca-thunk!” Eased himself out and onto the concrete driveway, looked all around and then reached up under his hat again and started scratching.

“Hmm, I ain’t seein’ no ar.. You?”

I was the next one out. I anxiously hit the pavement and said: “Y’all wait here - I’ll run in and ask. Okay?”

“Uh hmmm.” Grunted Dan.

He was groggy. “Maybe he just woke up.”

I had no way of knowing since all I could see when we were in the truck, was a slight reflection of the speedometer light bouncing off his bad eye. That’s when I figured that one never closes anyway…

I pulled open the double glass door. 

“Ding – ding”.

There was a dark skinned, middle eastern looking young man sitting quietly at the counter, paying me no mind as he was scrolling across his oversized smartphone.

Establishing eye contact was going to take more energy that it should being that I’m the customer but I am desperate and so I pipe up…

“Excuse me sir.”

No response.

Sir, Excuse me…

Without uttering a word, the attendant held out his right index finger to informing me that I’d have to wait a minute.

I inhaled fully through my nose and exhaled even more - noisily through bloated cheeks.

Finally he lowered his phone slightly, looked down at me as his nose and eyebrows lifted.

Still, not a word.

Trying to maintain the day’s haul of humility, I decided not to come down on this knucklehead, plus if he dissed me I’d be S.O.L.

“Sir - Do y’all have a tire air machine?” I asked.

Not wanting to expend too much energy on me, he slowly waved his finger past me - pointing out the door.

I went to the door and looked outside, but saw no air machine. By the time I turned around to say: “Where is it exactly?” He was fully engaged again with his phone.

Squelching my exasperation I repeated myself a little louder: Where is it exactly?”

Once again, he lowered his phone slightly, looked down his nose at me– as if to say: “What the fuck man, can’t you see I’m busy?!”

His brow furrowed and like an infant with a passing gas bubble finally uttered a grunt: “Huh?

“WHERE’S THE GOD DAMN AIR MACHINE!”

“Ah” he said. “Ahh... Tu da lef.”

I drew another deep one and sighed as I headed out the door..

“Ding ding”

“Ding ding”

3 minutes later after a failed attempt… I entered the store again in a huff… “Your air machine is broken!”

He slowly looked up from his phone and smiled.

“Yes.”

As if it would matter - I complained loudly: “Hey man, why didn’t you tell me? I want my dollar back! The thing ate my dollar in quarters!”

“Surrdy, no reruns.”

“Mother fucker!”

I stormed out the door.

Back at the truck, Dan asked: “Didjya fin enny ar?”

“Hell no!” I snapped: “And for all that guy cared, I could have filled a grocery basket full of food and just rolled it out here.”

Buck started laughing and surprised me by stuttering: “Th-e-e-n, w-h a-a-a-a-hy  d-d-dn’t cha?”

Then Dan did a spit take and they all busted up. Even shy little Sara cupped both hands over the lower half of her face and giggled out loud while peeking through her fingers for my reaction.

I joined in..

Dan’s laughter wound down from a bellow to a melodic whimper, Wooooo hooo… He slapped Buck’s knee with a proud affirmation: “Tha’s a good un, boa!”

“Okay, y’all… I reckon, it’s dinner time.” Stated Dan, as he moved towards the bed of the truck. His hands searched through the mess of crumpled-oil stained newspaper and rags, empty whiskey bottles, gas cans, cedar limbs, bark and greasy mechanic’s tools.

My appetite jumped to the front of the class with his words.

“Oh shit!”

I’d left my ice chest full of road food back in the car.

I was bummed by the thought of about $35 dollars worth of wasted goat cheese, Italian salami, artisan bread and macaroons from that fancy “Get Go” grocery store in Marfa; that was, by now waterlogged and floating in a four inch deep pond of melted ice all left to spoil. “The only thing that’ll be any good IF I make it back, will be the Topo Chico – if that doesn’t explode.”

I dug for my wallet to find that I had zero cash. I’d spent it all, trying to be cool in Marfa.

“Oh man… What was I thinking? Sigh…”

Lamenting my loss at the air machine, I dug deeper, rooting the bottoms of both front pockets, only finding those two dimes stuck to that penny from the console.

By this time, Dan was pulling slices of white bread from a plastic bag and doling them out to his family like cards from a blackjack dealer. He gestured the last two slices toward me and gave me a generous host’s look before he was going to take any for himself.

I didn’t want to deprive him, but I was hungry.  So I negotiated: “Just one’s fine, Thanks, Dan.” And gobbled it down.

Dan smiled at my urgency and then lifted two cans of pop – top pork and beans and an old spoon from the bed. Then he reached through the cab door and pulled out a half full, ass-pocket bottle of “Old crow” whiskey from behind the seat.

“Special ‘casions only!” he said. Then chuckling, he continued as he pulled the squeaking cork out the top with his teeth: “N’ it’s always uh special aw-casion n’ my book!” He declared.

Dan offered me a swig , which sadly - in retrospect, I refused.

“Sewt yersef.” he muttered as he held the clear glass bottle two inches in front of his good eye and closely inspected the translucent amber liquid for contaminants.

“What are you looking for in there, Dan?” I asked.

“I use the emptys fer dippin’. Takin’ a swig a that swill is godawful.” 

Satisfied with his observation, he pressed the bottle to his thin cracked lips and tilted forward until the rot-gut bubbled back from the vacuum of his thirst.

He reported “Ahhhhhhhhh… Which was followed by an instinctive swipe across his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he lowered the bottle to the spoon he was holding and dripped exactly two drops onto the dirty chrome oval and polished it clean with the tail of his shirt.

Feeling comfortable in his presence, I decided to risk my first friendly comic jab

“Doing the dishes there, Big Dan?”

Big Dan slowly placed me in his sights and scrutinized hard with the good eye.

“Uh oh”, I thought… “I’ve overstepped”

I was definitely feeling intimidated by his dominant stink-eye until his expression slowly lifted into a smile.

“Yup” He answered.

Adrenaline was quickly replaced by oxcytocin as my first fun ball connected and was returned by this giant of a man who wasted no time establishing absolute alpha dog status.

“Phew!” Said my mind.

“Beans? He offered as he pulled back the lid, passing the can to Sara.

“Sure… Thanks Dan.”  I offered. “I really appreciate your generosity.”

“Ain’t no thang.” he answered. “We gotta git that tar uh yers goin’..”

I nodded in agreement.

Sara, still chewing her portion, set the spoon back in the can and handed it off to her youngest.

Suddenly it dawned on me that I’d put my credit card with my iphone. I quickly went to the truck and retrieved the phone from the bench seat and sure enough, there it was, stuck inside the red rubber Otter case.

Thank God - VISA!

“Hey everybody?” I shouted.. “Who wants ice cream?”

Sara’s jaw dropped into a gaping grin of delight. She looked at her Pa for approval. Dan gestured towards me and said: “Go own, girl. Go on n’ git you sum.”

Then he pushed his head back again with the whiskey bottle for another deep draw.

I heard another long satisfied “Ahhhhhhh!” behind us, back at the truck, as the kids and I walked toward the store

Ding ding.

Perched atop his throne behind reams of colorful scratch-off lottery ticket rolls and cigarette pack dispensers, There he was, the Pakastani prince, still hypnotized by his hand held and as unwilling as ever.

“Him again.” I thought to myself…

“Y’all get your ice cream and bring it up here to the counter okay” I ordered. I loaded up on more nutritious things like hot peanuts, two cans of beanie weenies (for pay back) and a gallon of drinking water.

Everybody set their items on the counter and the cashier looked down in his usual fashion.

“That’s it.” I said.

He set down his phone and rang everything up.

“Twelef dullers en sixty too cens” Said the Prince.

I slid my Visa card toward him to which he stated: “We no take.”

“What?”

“We no take.” He repeated.

“What are you talking about?” I dememded.

“How do people buy gas?”

“Gas pum an air, yes. Store no.” Was his compassionless reply.

“Oh come on!” I begged.

“Surrdy, no reruns.”

Exasperated, I had to face the three silent children, who were all intent on their big treat and pleaded: “I’m really sorry you guys, but this asshole here, says we can’t have ice cream tonight. Just leave it here for him to deal with… C’mon y’all, let’s go back to the truck.”

Ding ding…

I decided to walk back over to the air machine to see if I could persuade that money of mine out of the coin return. I figured the “Prince” wouldn’t mind if I encouraged it a little with the curiously splintered 2 x 4 that happened to be propped up against it. So I picked up the stick and just as I was about to swing as hard as I could at the machine’s hapless control panel, I noticed from the corner of my eye, a familiar form in silhouette just next to the building where a hard angle of artificial light and the night’s darkness meet.  

“Oh my God - Could it be???”

I broke for the shadow to see if my luck had returned.

 Low and behold.. Indeed it was, the holy grail - with a 2-foot hose.

A bicycle tire pump!

With every intention to steal, I snatched the pump off the ground and headed around the dark side of the building, not to be noticed by the  Prince “as if”… Making haste back towards the truck, I yelled with excitement: “I got it! I got it!”  

Coming out of the darkness, I was feeling so victorious that I did a little happy dance followed by a slow motion basketball slam dunk with the pump into the back of the truck.  But to my surprise, I was met with three sad children’s faces and one very annoyed father.

“Why’nt yew git em no ice cream win yew said yew would?”

“Oh Dan, I tried” I said. “But the man wouldn’t take my money.”  

Was t’ matt’r wit cher money?

“It was a credit card, Dan, and he wouldn’t honor it.”

“Them kids was promised ice cream, n’ yew let em down…”

Big Dan reached under his cap and started scratching again: “Hmmmm.”

Then, even more to my surprise, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a large wad of cash, peeled off ten $1’s and with no expression, he handed it to me and commanded:  “Here, now go on back n’ get it fer’m.”

“Yes sir. Okay” I submitted.

Ding ding…

There he was, “the Prince” doing his thing, three feet behind the ice cream that was still sitting there, melting a milky puddle that was making its way across the edge of the counter, now dripping singular creamy white splatters onto the green speckled linoleum floor below.

“I’ll put that back” I said in a charitable tone.

No response… As usual.

I scooped up the sticky viscous mess and returned them to the freezer case and replaced them with ice-cold replicas.

The Prince insinuated his disapproval of my conduct as he rang up the new batch of treats.

“Sebin dullers en tuwenty too sens.”

I answered back: “Say please.” as I was separating eight ones from Dan’s stack of cash.

No response, of course - as we finished up for good…

Ding ding..

The truck was running when I returned. I passed out the ice cream and the children grinned with renewed faith as I handed Dan his change. He seemed content with the outcome.

“Hop in, Let’s go” He said and then he ushered me and the others into the truck.

Thaddeus grasped the shifter and moved it down the column, clunking it into 1^st gear. He eased out the clutch and let it roll forward to assist his clockwise turning of the big thin steering wheel until he bounced off of the gas station’s curb and started back up the highway.  The old truck gurgled up its RPM’s until time for 2^nd as our magic carpet  slipped us back into the darkness towards my car.

Next up

-       Long quiet drive back to car

-       Got to car

-       Truck shined headlights

-       Tire pump started to work then broke.

-       Ben realizes that he’s going to have to get a ride home with Dan if he’s going to make it back on time to … job interview (?)

-       They can’t remove the tire because there’s no lug wrench (?)

-       Rests assured that the car being jacked up on a log will keep it safe from getting stolen

-       Long ride home to Austin in truck

-       Ben asks questions like “So, how do you know how to do all that stuff you do?”

-       Dan: “Awwwh, we jus a bunch a cedar choppers, that’s all.”

-       Ben: “What’s a cedar chopper?”

-       That’s when Dan begins his long story with prompts from Ben.

-       They arrive in Austin

-       Ben

-       1. Feels he has somehow changed because of his and Dan’s encounter

-       2. He makes arrangements to get his car

-       3. On the road he keeps thinking about this amazing journey and is fascinated by Dan’s story.

Ben decides that he wants to do a documentary or something about cedar choppers of west Austin when he gets home.

-       4. Ben, wanting to show his appreciation, finds Dan, who is surprised and happy to see him.

-       Ben asks for more stories.

-       Dan and his young friend or relative are busy clearing a break of cedar (ashe juniper) with very small chainsaws. They move so gracefully with all the efficiency and elegance of a surgeon crossed with a ballet dancer.

-       Ben, astonished by these effete hillbillies exclaims: “Y’all are amazing!”

-       Dan’s cousin (?) looks at Dan, and then looks back at Ben; laughs and says:“Shoot, yew oughta see my 73 year ol’ daddy.. He’s ev’n faster n’ still swingin’ n’ axe.. He he he.”

-       Ben is convinced that he’s onto something.

-       Dan invites Ben in for dinner.

-       Two women are inside the shack cooking together - we will need to develop dialog for them. Maybe it’s Dan’s second wife/ Mother of Thaddeus and Sara and her widowed sister? (kind of thing)

-       Ben livens up an otherwise very quiet, reserved atmosphere.. Everyone grows to like him – except for the suspicious one.

-       The stories continue. Dan prompts other family members.. “Remember that time…?” The emotional dynamic between them ebbs and flows, peaks and valleys through the details of different tales.

-       Ben goes home.

-       Next day he hikes down the hike and bike trail and imagines the trail as logging roads.

-       Ben sits studying a single sycamore leaf dangling by its last fiber of twig.

-       Ben has his “Dream.”

-       Ben runs home to get pad and pencil and draws #1 Storyboard of his dream.

-       Ben goes to Dan who verifies his drawings in amazement.

-       Ben revisits the that exact spot and like an a Ouija board, Ben’s hand manifests a police composite - type drawings of many different characters with scribbled out bio stories, full of life accounts. Even convincing idiosyncrasies come through with every new drawing that Ben brings to Dan and the family.

-       This exchange brings up deep dark secrets that reveal how Dan lost his eye – eventually followed by his drunken crying confession that he murdered his father – Harold Beck.

-       And then the story of why he killed him – followed by why he never was arrested, because his ½ brother John Beck – investigating reporter for the Statesman, who knew but never leaked it to the press but instead, spun the story as an accident.