No Free Air

The Garage

It looked a lot more like a hell than a paradise.

A weather-beaten clapboard building, with a deep dark porch lined with rocking chairs, was fronted by an island with two old style gas pumps. The front yard was littered with stacks of tires and racks of motor oil. Trash cans overflowed with empty bottles and oil soaked rags were stuffed into funnels. The back and side yards were crowded with cars, trucks, and tractors in various stages of repair, disrepair, disassembly, or decomposition.

Off to one side, built on a rise and pointed at the pumps, a newer steel building was labeled as a garage by the sign painted over the roll up door. The door had been left open after admiting the latest patient. Abandoned atop the examination table, an SUV sat exposed with no wheels, hubs, or brake assemblies. Without even so little as an open-backed gown to preserve its dignity, the car waited expectantly, patiently, for the doctor’s return.

Everything was coated with a layer of fine grit from the desert sand, and the air smelled of heat and gasoline fumes baking in the unrelenting desert sun. If it had ever rained in this place, it was so long ago the earth itself had forgotten about it.

The trailing cloud of dust caught up with Tim, engulfing the car when he slid to a stop alongside the pumps. He coughed as he got out of the car, surveying the clapboard building for signs of life among the litter and debris of a careless civilization.

A loud Howdy! came from a pile of what appeared to be greasy rags piled is a chair on the porch. The pile of greasy rags rose from a rocking chair to assume human form as it bounced down the stairs.

Revealed by the sunlight, the greasy rags were the clothes of a short, balding man with the face of a prematurely aged infant. What little hair he retained encircled his head and stuck out at odd angles in gravity defying spikes and waves. From his sun tanned and weather-lined face, bright blue eyes sparkled like a child's eyes reflecting the Christmas tree lights. His voice was just as happy as his smile. His nametag identified him as ‘Earl’.

Howdy-doody, my friend! You're up early on this God- blessed day.

Um, yeah. Fill her up.

Right-o, mister! Nice car. They sure don't build 'em like that anymore. Check the oil? How 'bout them tires? Air's free, you know. Say, how about some nice ice water? It's free, too.

Um, Okay.

Earl hustled to a large shiny new refrigerator on the porch. Grabbing a paper cup from the stack on top of the refrigerator, he filled it with ice and water from the door dispenser and hustled back to Tim.

Here you go, ice-cold and wet as rain! He handed the cup to Tim and watched intently as he drank.

Good, ain't it? He talked while he serviced the car. I told Ed, that's my brother, Ed, I said, this here is a service industry, and we got to compete with the big boys if we're gonna survive. Folks need a reason to come to us. Did you see our signs? I did that. Of course, Ed helped me put them up. Pop your hood, mister, and I'll check the oil. So, when we got that credit card in the mail, I said to Ed, it's a sign, just as sure as if the good Lord wrote it with fire. These people must trust us; why else would they give us credit? It behooves us to buy something from them, to show them their faith ain't misplaced. Ed, he don't think so, thinks they just mail them out to everbody. Shoot, nobody could be that dumb! But, in the two weeks we've had that icebox, I reckon we must’ve had a dozen new people drop by just for drink of water. Some of them even bought gas! Now we got those signs out, I bet we have 15 or 20 cars stop by ever day.

By this time, Tim had recognized a ‘character’ and was studying him, storing information, and thinking of how he might use him in a piece. To keep the conversation going, Tim fed Earl another line while he was servicing the car.

You give advice, too? I saw the sign about it being free.

No, that's Ed's department. I give directions.

Well, I could use directions, too. What's the quickest way back to L.A.?

You from Lost Angels, huh? That's an easy one. Down this road about three miles, take the dirt road left, fifteen miles to a paved county road, go right, take you to the highway in 30 minutes. Too bad. I hoped you wanted to go someplace difficult.

Well, I am planning to go to New York City next week.

Really? Which day of the week?

Wednesday.

Hmmm. If you go early, you can save money on the red-eye, but it stops in Boulder, so the first morning flight cost a little more but it goes straight through, so you land 15 minutes later, but the flight is an hour and half shorter. Where are you staying in New York?

At a friend’s apartment.

What's the address?

Tim told him.

Hummm. Don't screw with the bus, the transfers’ll kill you. You could do the subway, the A and L lines, but if you take a cab don't let them charge you more than 30 bucks with the tip, if he helps you with your bags.

Wow! You really do know New York!

Yep! Someday, I wanna go there.

You mean you've never been there?

Nope. Never been out of the state. Only been to Lost Vegas once, and that was to fetch Ed home.

Then how do you get your directions?

Well, I can read, can't I? Libraries are free, and most schedules and timetables are free for the asking. I've always been interested in maps, timetables, that kind of stuff. Stuff that takes you places, faraway places, that show you things you never get to see at home. Earl concentrated on tapping the last few drops from the end of the gas nozzle, and then suddenly broke his reverie. So when we were putting up the signs, ‘Free air’ and ‘Free Ice water’ just seemed kind of thin, so I said I’d give free directions, and Ed said he’d give free advice, 'cause free’s about the right price for it.

I wish Ed was here now. I sure could use some advice on this story I'm working on.

Ed’ll be sorry he missed you. He don’t get to give advice too often, living out here. But when he does, whoo-boy, is he dead-on! Like, when he told Mary Lou McAllister from over in Pahrump, well, she wasn’t quite sure which one of two boys fathered her baby, her husband or his brother. Yes sir, Ed cut right to the chase on that one, straightened Mary Lou right on out.

What did he say? Tim asked.

Oh, I can’t talk good, like Ed does, so I can’t tell you exactly what he said, but the gist of it was, if I remember correctly, it went along the lines of ‘Shut the hell up, you stupid whiney slut, before you ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to you.’ Mary Lou and Fred are happier than ever now.

Fred’s her husband?

No, Fred’s his brother. Her husband took off before the baby was born.

So, how did ... Tim started but quickly stalled.

Well, Ed won’t be back for a couple of hours yet. But if you wanna tell me, I’ll do what I can to help.

Ah, that's okay. I don't want to waste your time.

Time, like ole King Tut, is one thing we ain’t got nothing but. That and the damned sand. Let's sit in the shade and I'll fix us another ice water.

They rocked on the front porch as Tim began telling the story of his troubled screenplay. He grew animated as he warmed to the task. Earl sat and rocked slowly when Tim got up and began to pace the porch, waving his arms about, and acting out parts of the script. He finally got to the big windup at the end of Act II, then the story ended abruptly and Tim slumped into his rocker.

That's it, he confessed to Earl’s questioning look. That's all I've got. The train stopped and nobody got off. I can't even figure out how to start Act III.

Earl cleared his throat, and looked into his glass. He looked up at Tim and spoke thoughtfully.

Well, I ain't no writer, or movie producer, or nothing like that, but it seems to me you got a whole bunch of interesting people standing around and talking. Now, I don't know what Ed would say, but I think you can't write the third act because you already wrote it. You loaded the characters on the train and then dumped them off. Now you need to go back and tell about their journey.

The blinding light of an epiphany struck Tim. His mouth sagged open, and he stared at this new vision of his creation, whole and complete. It is always so obvious after the dawn of realization. All the pieces fall into place and the stories write themselves.

I've got to go! Tim shot to his feet and shoved his cup into Earl’s hand.

Around back. Use either one.

No, I mean, thanks! You've been a great help! I’ve got to get home; I've got to get this finished by Monday! Thanks, man, I mean, you're a lifesaver! I'll be back! Tim tried to explain over his shoulder as he ran down the steps, across the dusty driveway, leaped into his car, and raced off with his tires spinning up a cloud of dust.

Earl stood at the top of the stairs holding both ice waters, watching the dust cloud drift off down the road.

I hope so. You didn't even finish your ice water. Wasteful. Earl drained both cups. Aw, shit! he suddenly realized. Or pay for your gas. Gas ain’t free, ya know.

Chapter Two

Return to the Desert

When he returned to the desert three weeks later, Tim was a renewed and refreshed individual. A crisp California tan darkened his once sallow cheeks, Ray-Ban sunglasses shielded his formerly hollow eyes, and he was clean-shaven with his freshly barbered hair convertible-windblown perfect. His favorite faded Hawaiian shirt was clean now and the ragged cutoff jeans had been replaced by white chinos. The old Fairlane looked as good as a $100 cleaning could make it and ran better due to some long overdue maintenance. He admired himself in the mirror as he turned off the highway into the way he had come out last time, which wasn't far from the highway if you knew where you were going. He smiled when he saw the first sign.

Gas station. Free Air!

But the second sign had been altered. The advertisement had been defaced with bright red paint so that it now read.

Gas Station. NO Free ice water.

Tim puzzled over the addition. Before he got too confused by his musings, the third sign appeared.

Gas Station. Free directions!

Tim rose from the seat to cheer. Dead-on! You got that right, Earl, old buddy! Soon the final sign appeared.

Gas station. Free Advice.

And worth ten times the price! Tim yelled at the sign.

It was mid-morning on kind of a day so pure only the desert could produce it. The sun had to shine with a white-hot intensity to stand out in a sky radiating bright blue. Pure white puffballs of clouds hung low on the horizon, diminished by distance. The sand and sage disappeared in the ripples of heat, and the sun beat everything down until even sounds were muffled.

Tim slid to a halt alongside the gas pumps and turned off the engine. The dust cloud trailing behind overtook him, covering him with sandy grit as it blew through. Silence fell, with Tim sitting alone in the heat and the dust.

Yo! Earl! he called, blasting the horn a couple of times as he got out of the car.

He stood and looked around for Earl, but instead noticed a large truck parked alongside the garage.

It may have been red once, but the sun and the dirt and the red primer paint sprayed over banged out dents, had combined to soften, fade, and blend the paint into the colors of a red rock desert. It had an extended cab with darkly tinted windows, and the words ‘Pride & Joy’ stuck across the top of the windshield. A boom extended out the back of the bed, from which a rusty Volkswagen dangled like the catch of the day, snagged, snared, and hung in the air like a shark at the dock. The roll bar held spotlights and yellow strobe lights over the top of the cab. It looked homemade, as did the front brush guard and push bars. They were all welded from water pipe and expanded sheet metal. A wreath of red and black jumper cables gave the front of the truck a utilitarian holiday appearance. The only chrome pieces were the twin exhaust stacks that rose up right behind the cab. The truck sat up high on black mag wheels with oversized knobby tires. It