by Craig Moody
He stared at me, the chewed toothpick bobbing up and down as he contemplated my question.
“I suppose we could work us out a deal,” he replied, his Texas drawl accenting each of his words.
“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it,” I said, relief lifting from my chest like a flock of birds fleeing a thunderstorm. “We don’t have much on us, and we are trying to make it to California.”
The man eyed me curiously, following my words toward the motel room door.
“Who’s we?” he asked, returning his eyes to mine.
I hesitated, suddenly afraid to have some sort of repeat encounter as at the restaurant, so I quickly chose my response carefully.
“My brother and I,” I answered flatly, moving my eyes to the ground so that he would not sense the lie.
“Hmm,” he mumbled, licking his lips and adjusting the toothpick.
“I’m thinking you and me could settle this back at the shop,” he continued, removing his cap to scratch his balding scalp.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my heart sensing the new tone of the conversation and therefore responding with an accelerated pace.
“I think you know,” he answered, winking. I closed my eyes and shook my head.
“No, mister,” I whispered. “No.”
Reopening my eyes, I was stunned to see him fondling the crotch area of his dark blue coveralls. I gasped slightly and looked away.
“Come on, boy,” he taunted, raising and lowering his brow. “I can tell you are a cocksucker.”
“Forget it,” I fired back, raising my hands to grip the open truck hood.
“Hey!” he growled, gripping my left wrist with his hand. “You may not have a choice in this.”
I stared at him as he carefully scanned the motel parking lot with his beady eyes.
“I am the only mechanic around for miles. If you wanna get back on the road, it looks like you are gonna have to provide the full payment.”
He moved his face toward mine.
“Including tip,” he whispered into my ear, his breath reeking of chewing tobacco and cigarettes.
He stumbled as I forced his hand from my wrist and slammed the rusted hood shut.
I hesitated a moment before returning to face him.
“I’ve got a gun in that room,” I replied, my voice unwavering and direct, despite my adrenaline-ravaged pulse. “If you don’t get the fuck outta here, right now, I won’t hesitate to shoot your dick off.”
He just looked at me, wide-eyed and suspicious.
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
I started to make my way toward the room, when an unfamiliar voice broke the silence.
“I think this young man asked you to leave,” a deep and powerful baritone reverberated like an unexpected thunderclap.
I turned to see an exceptionally tall Native American man towering over the mechanic.
The mechanic’s smirking expression had morphed into a look of fear and shock.
I watched as he tossed one final glance at me before turning in the direction of his truck. Once inside, he fired the engine, revved it several times, threw it into gear, and peeled out of the parking lot. His beady eyes glared at us as he fled.
“Thank you,” I stated sincerely, my voice now shaking with the racing of my heart.
“Mind if I look at your engine?” the man queried, his expression firm, yet his eyes gentle and friendly.
“Um, yeah, sure,” I swallowed, my throat tense and dry.
I started to shiver as the desert night opened its cloak over the landscape like a soft sheet spreading over a bed.
The man prodded and tinkered, finally lifting his head and gently closing the hood.
“What about your Indian?” he questioned, nodding his head toward the motel room.
“Huh?” I asked, both on purpose and out of genuine surprise.
“I saw you roll it in there yesterday. Perhaps it needs less work than this Chevy.”
I could only stare at him, fearful yet intrigued. I was also suspicious of some unspoken intention.
“Um, look,” I started, rubbing my hands over my exposed arms in an attempt to warm myself, “I don’t have much to pay with. I think that is why that guy was harassing me.”
The man smiled at me.
“He was harassing you because he is the sort of man who tries to meet his needs through fear and demand. It has nothing to do with your ability to pay or not.”
We stared at each other for what felt like hours.
Finally, I agreed to let him see the Indian, some internal voice assuring me it would be okay.
The man looked around the room as we entered, allowing his eyes to rest on a sleeping Gauge. I closed the door and directed him to where the lifeless bike rested in the corner near the curtained window.
“Here it is,” I stated, plopping my hands on the leather seat, attempting to gain his attention.
He continued to stare at Gauge, a soft, paternal-like expression falling over his face. It was as though he had been waiting to see him, his aged and worn demeanor appearing bright and almost youthful as he took in the sight of the sleeping young man. I was cautious yet moved by what I saw.
“Right,” he said softly, finally moving his gaze to the bike.
I stood over him as he slowly ran his hands over it, careful and loving, like someone reuniting with a long-lost relative. I swore I could see tears shimmering in his eyes in the faint light of the room as he continued to prudently feel and inspect the Indian. Though I wanted to, I was unable to interrupt him, somehow captive and still as I witnessed the moment.
“I could have this running for you by
morning,” he stated, calmly raising to his feet.
“How do you know?” I asked, my face churning in wonder and curiosity. “You didn’t even try to start it.”
The man stared at me before smiling.
“I just know, son,” he replied, returning his attention to the motorcycle.
“Um, well, how much do you want?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his head back toward Gauge, the glistening water in his eyes now distinct and obvious. The site took my breath away.
“It won’t cost you anything,” he answered, keeping his powerful yet tender gaze on Gauge. “I want to help you.”
He turned his head to face me, the lines and markings of his skin as scarred and varied as the parched desert floor. It was as though he had materialized from the cracked sand, appearing just in time to intervene with the mechanic.
“Okay,” I answered, somehow comfortable and trusting of his offer.
I watched silently as he carefully rolled the Indian from the room. I didn’t ask where he was taking it or at what time I could expect him tomorrow. I only stared, absorbing his presence as if hypnotized by a campfire flame.
I closed the door and returned to the bedside, unpacking the suitcase and consolidating it into Gauge’s worn-out knapsack.
Then, I slipped beneath the covers beside a softly snoring Gauge, knowing that in the morning we would be leaving behind much of our limited belongings. We would be headed to California, though. Just us and the Indian.
***
I awoke to the sound of gentle knocking. Scurrying to dress myself, I opened the door and squinted into the blazing sunlight at the face of the man. Behind him was the Indian, glistening in the morning sun like a shiny brass instrument.
I shook my head in disbelief at how clean and polished it appeared. It was almost as if it had been completely rebuilt, each part and facet brand new from the factory assembly line.
“Wow!” I finally managed to speak. “What did you do to it?”
The man smiled, his face brilliant and illuminated by the rising sun.
“Just a bit of tender, loving care,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the Indian. “Aside from a few engine fixes, it just needed a good waxing.”
“It’s incredible!” I exclaimed, inching from the doorway and toward the gleam
ing bike. “Wait till Gauge sees it!”
“How is he?” the man asked, his voice now concerned and worried. “Gauge?”
I looked up at him as I stood before the Indian, the heat of the sun as it reflected off the freshly polished chrome warming and prickling over my skin like a mother’s loving kisses over the soft flesh of her newborn.
“He’s recovering,” I answered, carefully watching the man’s reaction. “He still has a ways to go, but the doctors say he will be fine.”
The man looked at me, his gleaming eyes lit by the yellow light blasting off the Indian. He smiled and nodded, content with my response.
I turned my attention back to the bike, still flabbergasted at how beautiful it was. I couldn’t wait for Gauge to lay his eyes on it. I knew it would be good for him. He desperately needed something wonderful to happen in his world.
I lifted my head to thank the man, but he was gone. Vanished. I scanned the parking lot with my eyes, even turning to view the street. Nothing. Without a word or even a sound, he had completely disappeared.
A bit unnerved, I made my way back to the room, spooked yet somehow comforted. Gauge was just placing his feet on the floor as I came through the door.
“Gauge!” I exclaimed. “You have to come see the Indian!”
He looked up at me with sleep-weary eyes, his expression dazed and confused.
“Come!” I urged, moving to assist him to the door. “You’re not going to believe this!”
He lifted his casts to block the sun as he moved from the darkness of the room and into the blaring light. I watched as his eyes focused on the bike.
“It’s like my dream,” he said after a long moment, allowing the casts to fall at his side.
I stared at him curiously.
“What dream?” I asked, moving to help him as he shuffled closer to the motorcycle.
“I dreamed last night that my dad came here,” he answered, not allowing his eyes to venture from the bike. “I dreamed that he fixed up the Indian for us.”
I could only look at him, my words silent behind my rapid blinking.
I watched breathlessly as Gauge caressed the bike with his oversized hand casts. His eyes glittered like two pearls exposed to the sunlight for the very first time, their oyster shell casings cracked and broken on the ocean floor.
“It was a man,” I finally mumbled, my voice trapped and pressed by the weight of my emotion. “He was an Indian.”
I chuckled, realizing the irony of it all.
“An Indian fixed the Indian.”
Gauge looked at me inquisitively, his face bright and soft like a child’s. He nodded and smiled before drifting his gaze back to the bike.
I let him be as I returned to the room to finish gathering our things. I pressed and smashed all the clothing I could into the sole pack and disregarded the rest. The sauce pan, the hot plate, it would all have to stay. I slid the straps of the knapsack over my shoulder and walked out of the room, tossing the keys to the truck into the driver’s side window as I made my way back to Gauge and the motorcycle.
“Let’s go,” I announced, strapping the enormous knapsack to the back of the bike. Gauge shook his head rapidly, darting his eyes between the truck and the Indian.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his face twisting in confusion. “What about the rest of our shit? What about the pickup?”
“It’s fine,” I stated, impressed at how certain and secure my words were. I didn’t question a thing. I simply reacted to the soothing sound of my inner voice.
“To California,” I said, smiling as I lifted one of the beat-up helmets over my head.
Gauge looked at me nervously as I fastened the strap of the second helmet below his chin. He didn’t say a word as he struggled to place himself behind me on the bike.
Wrapping his casted and bandaged arms around my waist, I kick-started the engine, which growled and purred like a dominant male lion addressing his pride, and steadied the bike with my left leg.
Having never maneuvered a motorcycle on my own, I twisted the throttle and transported us into the street. Gauge didn’t flinch as we sped onto the highway, the heated wind of the New Mexico sky blasting around us as if exhaled by the gods.
We prowled into the sun-blazed distance, the vision and memory of the Native American man’s gentle face smiling at me in my mind. I would never know who he was or even his name, but I would always remember how he selflessly and silently saved us.
As we raced toward the fleeing heatwaves of the infinite horizon, I smiled, the feeling of Gauge pressed against my back the unspoken security I needed as we rumbled into the unknown.
***
We made it to the Grand Canyon just as the sun began to set. The golden orb caressed the massive natural wonder, illuminating it like Heaven. No photograph or television program could have ever prepared me for what this majestic place looked like in person. Parking the bike, the heated sigh of the engine exhaling its relief, we stood side by side at the edge of magnificence.
Neither of us spoke as we basked in the excellence. I felt a sense of humbled meekness and boyish pride at the idea of being a child of the God who created this splendor.
After the sun had long descended below the western edge of the endless canyon, we rolled the bike toward a patch of trees, careful not to signal our presence to the patrolling park rangers.
I fed Gauge one of the two plain bologna sandwiches we had picked up at a gas station along the way. I watched as he washed it down with a swig of the water fountain water I had filled our canteen with.
Placing a collection of shirts, jeans, and motel towels into a makeshift bed, I wrapped Gauge in our sole blanket and inched myself beside him.
The heat of the Indian’s engine began to fade as the dampness of the night introduced its chill. I pressed myself into Gauge, allowing my breath to warm the side of his neck.
There was no shame or embarrassment when I released the contents of my bladder between us.
Gauge moaned in his sleep, the warm glide of the urine seeping beneath his hips and upper legs.
I floated in a suspension of lucid dreams and consciousness. The rhythmic chatter of my teeth lulled my senses as they fired their relentless warning cries of hypothermia to my brain.
Just as the iceless kiss of the night became unbearable, the sun returned, peeking its heated brilliance above the treetops like a wingless angel.
I woke Gauge and helped him into fresh clothing. We boarded the Indian and continued on our way, the magnetic pull of the canyon shadowing us for miles.
Sometime around noon, Gauge began to heat up. I assumed it was from the unforgiving glare of the desert sun, but soon discovered that an unseen inferno raged inside him.
I diverted our westbound travels a bit north toward Las Vegas, the voice within me assuring that it was the right choice. Once inside the city limits, I was blind to the colorful sights and sounds that echoed around us like a neon spacecraft. Instead, I obediently followed the road signs to the nearest hospital.
Gauge was nearly unresponsive as we rumbled into the parking lot. I pulled the Indian directly next to the emergency room doors, uncaring as to any issue it would cause.
A white-haired nurse ran to fetch a wheelchair the minute she laid eyes on Gauge. She pulled me aside as a team of medics whisked him beyond the giant swinging doors that separated the waiting area from the rest of the medical tower. I was pulled into a small conference room.
“Please fill these out thoroughly,” the nurse commanded, her eyes scanning over me as she placed a large clipboard on the desk before me.
“Do you need to see a doctor as well?” she asked, tipping her head in concern.
“No,” I answered hoarsely, my throat tight and severely parched. “I just need some water.”
“Of course,” the nurse replied, her eyes unmoving as she exited the room.
I completed the forms to the best of my ability and returned them to where the white- haired woman resided behind
a seemingly boundless nurse’s station. She flipped through the documents, her lips pursed as she briefed over each page.
“Insurance?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the scribbled information I had provided.
“No,” I replied, my voice tired and broken.
She peered up at me, her bird-like stare zigzagging over my face as though she could see beneath my skin and directly into my thoughts.
“I see,” she continued, returning her focus to the clipboard.
“How do you intend to pay for Mr. Paulson’s services today?” she asked, the reference to Gauge by his last name a bit striking and foreign to me.
“I am not sure,” I said, lowering my head in embarrassment.
I could feel her eyes dart over me again as I stood before her in shame. Finally, she reached for another dozen forms and stapled them together.
“Fill these out,” she directed, shoving the new tome at my fingertips. “These will guide you through the Federal Assistance Program.”
I looked up at her, my stare burdened with hunger, relief, and exhaustion.
“How about we take you back to see a doctor first,” she suggested after I failed to reply.
“No. I’m fine. Really.”
She continued to assess me with her jumpy stare.
“Very well,” she sighed, sliding a pen over the paper stack.
I was grateful when she later provided me several packs of plain, saltless crackers. I gobbled them down like a hungry duckling at a park pondside. She eyed me cautiously before returning to the desk.
Nearly an hour or so later, one of the orderlies located me.
“Are you here with Gauge Paulson?” he asked, his dark blue medical scrubs crinkled and covered with various lint and debris.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice still weighted and broken by the burning of my throat.
“First off, we had to move your motorcycle.”
My heart jumped as I looked toward the mammoth glass doors.
“No worries, I had security place it in a storage shed. No one will disturb it there.”
I closed my eyes in relief, the rushing exhale of my lungs escaping through me like a desert dirt devil.
