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"A
TASTE OF HELL" By
Ray Elizondo
"Go
see a local doctor. They’ll give you a prescription."
"That’ll take all day and I have to be back to work
Monday."
"I don’t know what else to tell you," said the old
pharmacist.
"Thanks." I turned around and walked out.
My
buddy Wilfred waited by the car. He was also eager
to get back to L.A.
This
had not been a well planned trip. It started with
a telegram from my sister telling me that my mother
had passed away. Grief stricken, I grabbed my medication,
a change of clothes and I was ready to go. Wilfred
had joined me because he felt it wasn’t safe for me
to make the trip alone. It took us twenty eight hours
to make an 1800 mile journey to see my mother for
the last time.
Now
the funeral was behind us and we were ready to get
back to our lives, but I was tired and distraught
and almost out of insulin. My life would be in great
peril if I ran out of the medication. It was evident
at that point that I had made poor preparation for
the trip.
Wilfred was new on the job and had only asked for
one week of leave. It was Saturday morning. If we
alternated our driving, as we had getting to Brownsville,
it could be done, ‘specially if no other variables
intervened.
After coffee, we left Brownsville and headed toward
San Antonio where we could catch Interstate 10, which
would take us all the way into Los Angeles.
My 1959 Impala was rolling right along. I had tried
to keep the old relic well maintained. We had a late
dinner in El Paso and were hoping to be in Phoenix
for a Sunday brunch, but before we passed the junction
at Tucson, I lost control of the car. The steering
wheel spun so hard that I couldn’t hold it. Wilfred
woke up wide eyed as we were spinning violently in
the middle of the highway. We slammed onto the asphalt
until the car came to a sudden stop on the rocky shoulder
of the road.
Wilfred and I sat quietly catching our breath for
a moment before we sprang to examine the damage. The
right rear wheel had flown out. The whole assembly—tire
and wheel shaft—had left the car. It lay several yards
away from us with the shaft aiming at the sky like
a threatening erection.
My buddy Wilfred had been sleeping since we left Lordsburg,
but the commotion had certainly awakened him.
"What
happened?" he asked.
"Damn!"
I exclaimed. "I lost a wheel!"
"We
were lucky there was no traffic," he said. "What do
we do now?"
"We
wait and pray to be rescued."
"I’m
not gonna sit here and roast. I got to find me some
shade," said Wilfred.
I
also felt the same urgency as we stood in the middle
of hot July day in Arizona. Not far from us stood
a clump of rocks which lured us to its shadow.
I
had often speculated the people who lived in that
region were preparing themselves to go to Hell. How
can anyone enjoy that terrible climate? The average
temperature in that part of the country is 110 in
the summer.
Wilfred
and I sat down and lit cigarettes. The shade was somewhat
cooler, but the breeze was still very warm. The wind
produced the only sound. The rest of the environment
was hot and silent.
After
about an hour, the roar of an engine broke the silence.
Wilfred and I jumped from our shelter to see if the
traveler would offer some help. Surely, he had to
notice the abandoned vehicle on the side of the road.
But alas there was no help forthcoming. The car didn’t
even slow down. We went back to our puny refuge.
I checked my watch. It had been more than three hours
since breakfast. I went to the car to do a glucose
test. It read 105. That was good, but how much longer
would it stay there? I grabbed a couple of breath
mints to kick it up a little as I walked back to the
rocks.
I
lit another cigarette and just as I started to sit,
we heard another car. We left our shelter with less
enthusiasm. It was an old pick-up loaded with furniture
going in the opposite direction. The truck almost
went past, but then slowed to investigate. The ancient
rusty vehicle stopped next to our car. An elderly
Mexican man stepped out.
"Que
les paso?" he asked as we approached. He spoke to
us in Spanish because he could tell we were of Mexican
descent, too.
"The
right rear wheel flew out as we made the curve," I
explained in Spanish.
"Did
you hear a strange noise before it flew out?"
"No. I don’t think so,"
The
man went and inspected the wheel and the exit area
of the shaft. "You’re lucky. It’s only the bearing
that went bad. That’s no problem. All you need is
a new bearing."
"That’s
easy for you to say. Your truck is still running,"
I returned and we all chuckled.
"That’s
right," he agreed. "And I still have these pieces
of furniture to deliver. I have a friend who has a
garage in Tucson. He could fix it."
"How
much would that cost?" I asked.
"Not
much. Maybe forty or fifty dollars."
"Do
you think you could get it fixed if I gave you the
money?" I said knowing it was a risky proposition,
but he was the best opportunity to come along and
I was going to need insulin soon.
"Oh,
sure. I can do that."
I
dug into my wallet and counted fifty dollars. Wilfred
loaded the wheel onto the pick-up.
I’ll
be back in two hours," said the old man.
"Thank
you," I shook his hand and away he went.
"I
sure hope he returns," said Wilfred as we sauntered
back to the rocks. "He not only took your money, but
he also took the wheel."
"What
did you want me to do? I don’t think we’re in a position
to ask for credit."
"I
just think you were too eager to give him the money."
"The
old man looked like a nice person. And besides we
needed his help."
A
few minutes later, a couple of semi-trucks rolled
by. Every now and then some cars would zoom by, but
no one stopped. By 3 o’clock we had finished the sandwiches
and sodas and we were out of drinking water. My glucose
level was at 150. Coma sets in at levels over 400
or below 50. I hoped to stay away from those levels
until we were rescued.
Shortly
thereafter, a highway patrolman drove up. Wilfred
and I ran from our shelter to meet our rescuer. The
first thing he did upon inspecting our vehicle was
to write a ticket, which he placed on the antenna.
I’ll call a truck to haul you into town," said the
officer.
"We’re
waiting for a local man to bring back our wheel,"
I returned.
"What
did he look like?"
"He’s
an old Mexican man in a pick-up truck."
"I
don’t know him, but there’s a couple of highway swindlers
working the area. They prey on distressed travelers."
"I
told you," muttered Wilfred.
The
officer got into the comfort of his air conditioned
vehicle and called for a tow truck. He waved goodbye
as he left. My stomach turned. I was going to lose
my car. We both could lose our respective jobs the
following day and who knows what other consequences
awaited us.
A
young Chicano drove the tow-truck. He was cheerful
as he went about his business of hooking up my car.
"Do
you have a garage you want to take it to or is it
going to the impound?" asked the driver.
I
couldn’t answer. I felt like the man sitting in the
electric chair and having to ask the executioner to
pull the switch. In my thoughts I asked God: Lord,
please help me. Just then the old pick-up drove next
to the tow-truck. The old man got out of the pick-up
and rushed to embrace the tow-truck driver.
"Thank
you mi hijo. I’m glad you’ve already have the car
up. That makes it easy to install the wheel shaft,"
said the old man.
"But
the highway patrol told me to take the car into town,
grandpa," said the driver in Spanish.
"Com’
on, help me put the wheel on. They only want the car
off the road."
It took ten minutes for them to make the car roadworthy.
The old man returned thirty five of my dollars and
only kept $15.00, the cost of the bearing. We thanked
them and Wilfred and I left before my glucose dropped
below 50 from all the excitement. To this day I remain
baffled by the chain of events.
*
Ray Elizondo's Biography *
On
Earth, I go by the name Ray Elizondo, but on Andromeda,
my native planet, I’m known as Jay - 94902. I haven’t
been home in four million years, but my replacement
should be arriving soon, within the next million years.
In the meantime, all Andromedians required to report
conditions on this planet. I live in America, the
most progressive nation on Earth. It is composed of
humans from all the other nations, and together, as
primitive as they are, these peoples forged an ideology
which lends itself for advancement. I thrive in the
Chicano culture because if feels most comfortable.
How does one know if one is an Andromedian? If your
heart skips a beat when you see a shooting star, if
you think that wars humans fight are stupid or if
you hunger to fly into the cosmos, you may have originated
in my home galaxy. Please write and help me file the
next report. Tell me what else I should include.
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