by Doreen Orion
The truckers were already warning each other, so I just listened. Tim didn’t want me to say anything, anyway. He was afraid I’d be a smart-ass and get us killed at a rest stop (he had to pull the bus over to pee sometime). Still, the soap operas on five axles were compelling: budding romances between drivers, sinners seeking blue-collared absolution in their mobile confessionals, litanies of fascinating family foibles.
“I want to talk,” I informed Tim.
“I’m sure you do,” he replied. I tried to ignore him, but just could not resist announcing what my handle would be: “Prevost Princess.”
“Way to stay incognito,” he said and absolutely forbade me from touching the mike. Geez.
While playing around with the CB was a pleasant distraction, my bus phobia only got worse about fifty miles from Texarkana, where it started pouring. To keep my eyes off the road, I tried to read.
“SHIT!” Tim shouted. By now, I had him trained not to use expletives for road rage or other routine matters, so I knew it was bad even before my head snapped up. Then I saw it: One of our windshield wipers was stuck.
Tim didn’t want to keep the working wiper going, for fear it would burn out the motor and we’d be left with no wipers at all. (Why one working wiper could tax a motor more than two, he was happy to explain later in painstaking and excruciating detail.) He took the next exit and parked on the shoulder. I watched him fiddle around with the wiper in the downpour, then go get something from the bay. When he came back to the front, he had a wrench in his hand. Project Nerd to the rescue. He fiddled around some more, stood back, surveyed his work, then gestured to me to turn the windshield wipers on. Right.
“I’ve been leaving the driving to you, remember?” He rolled his eyes, came around to the driver’s side, opened the ticket window, and turned them on himself. They were actually on the same doohickey as the lights—just like in a car. Who knew? When he got back in, I made the mistake of asking what had been the matter.
“Well, the acorn nut must have gotten loose and fallen off somewhere. It keeps the…” Ever since the Coral Palace, I had tried to at least feign interest in his mechanical musings, but we were standing on the shoulder of a highway exit lane in what can only be described as a torrential downpour. Seeing my eyes both glaze over and register fear (a feat, even for me), he stopped himself with a “I’ll just have to get another acorn nut in Dallas. This should hold until we get there.” Should?
The first thing we noticed about Texas is that Texans take their “Lone Star” moniker very seriously. There are stars (lone ones, natch) all over the place: on buildings, highway overpasses, and, of course, the state flag, which is where the whole lone star thing came from in the first place.
Our initial foray in Dallas was to the Sixth Floor Museum, housed in the former Texas School Book Depository. With all the conspiracy theories we’d heard all our lives, it was fascinating to see the site of JFK’s assassination for ourselves. The museum gives a surprisingly balanced view of the events of 1963, with equal consideration not only to President Kennedy’s achievements and legacy, but to alternative theories of the assassination. That’s still not enough for some people, who then head around the corner to the aptly named Conspiracy Museum.
As a diehard fan of the TV show Dallas, I just had to see Southfork Ranch in Plano, about a forty-minute drive from downtown. I wish I hadn’t. Kind of like I wish I’d never seen the third Aliens movie, for it, too, ruined everything that came before it. (Or the Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie, as it nearly ruined everything that came after it.) The cast of Dallas apparently only went to the ranch in the summers, filming all the outdoor shots they would need for the year. None of the interior of the ranch was ever used (those scenes were filmed in Los Angeles).
The only really interesting thing about the entire tour was how tiny the Southfork pool is. Our guide explained that when a cast member took a dip, she swam with a clear inner tube around her waist. (Actually, the guide said, “he or she” and “his or her.” Oh, please. It was always either Linda Gray or Victoria Principal in a skimpy suit. Personally, I would love to have seen Howard Keel take a dip. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is one of my favorite musicals.) The tube was then attached to cables held on to by crew members. As a result, it appeared as if it took Sue Ellen or Pam a long time to get to the other end. I wish we had saved the eight-dollar admission (a dollar more than either the Clinton or voodoo museums…no one ever said Texans lack moxie) and just viewed the ranch from the street. The only consolation was that our tour group consisted of people from all over the globe. Thus, Tim and I were able to feel quite superior as we commented to each other under our breaths, “At least we only drove forty minutes to get here.”
Once Tim squirreled away an acorn nut for the windshield wiper, we got back on the road and headed to Houston. There, in a residential neighborhood on a small lot, we stumbled across the Orange Show, which, depending on your point of view, is either a whimsical or insane (we’re professionals and we couldn’t even decide) homage to all things orange, in all possible permutations and combinations. A former postman spent twenty-five years collecting, well…junk, in honor of his favorite fruit, to form this suburban maze of sculpture, balconies, and outdoor theaters. After his death in 1980, a nonprofit was formed to not only preserve the Orange Show but to promote creative thinking and making art more accessible.
This was not the only oddity we encountered in Houston: Downtown is home to one of the most unusual fountains we’d ever seen. It runs the length of a city block, spraying water high over trolley cars, automobiles, and pedestrians in an arc to the other side. At certain times of day, there’s also a water video, which projects images on a sort of stone picture frame (think Star Trek–Edith Keeler–City on the Edge of Forever kind of thing). On windy days, we supposed everyone working in the vicinity brings raincoats. On very windy days (over 10 mph) it shuts down.
In Galveston, we were hoping to find a lovely spot to relax and enjoy the beach. Not so much. Galveston has clearly seen better days. We got a sense of its glorious past by viewing a short film about the devastating storm of 1900, which took six thousand lives and resulted in a six-year dredging effort to raise the grade of the town, complete with the construction of a ten-mile-long seawall.
Next door to the movie theater stood the Ocean Star, an offshore oil rig converted into a museum. (The Port of Galveston is one of the places these gargantuan structures come to be reconditioned.) Through videos, models, actual drilling equipment, and interactive displays, we learned everything we ever wanted to know (and in my case, so much more) about drilling for oil. I found it all just one big bore (hole). Tim was, of course, fascinated. But as much as he enjoyed all the exhibits, his favorite by far was the one where he made me put on an orange jumpsuit—what the roughnecks wear—undoubtedly on display for the sole purpose of encouraging husbands to make fun of their wives. Back in my usual (usually) less laughable outfit, we then drove along the seawall in our Jeep, but the beach was rather unattractive. Galveston has really clearly seen better days.
Austin, on the other hand, was our favorite Texas city, probably because it reminded us of our beloved Boulder, only a river runs through it. Normally, as we headed into a town, I’d haul out one of our telephone book–like guides to RV parks and figure out where to stay based on proximity to what we wanted to see as well as the amenities in the park itself. No Jacuzzi was usually an automatic no, as was no pets. (Some parks actually restrict dog size. So when asked what breed Miles was, I got used to responding, “Oh, he’s just a poodle.”) Then I’d phone to check availability. For Austin, I quickly settled on its highest-rated RV park called (what else?) Austin Lone Star RV Resort, which the ad boasted was only about a ten-minute drive from downtown. Once we checked in, we discovered that not only was it convenient to the highway (just off it, in fact) but even more convenient to the adult movie establishment next door.
While in Austin, we toured the state capital, which of course is the
largest in the U.S. But it was also one of the loveliest we’d seen, both inside and out. The senators’ walnut desks date from the 1880s, and have been modified to accommodate changing technology: Microphones sit in the inkwells. The entire building was wired for gas lighting when it was built, just in case electricity was some fancy, newfangled, passing fad.
Perhaps the most important thing we took away from Austin had to do with the roads; Austinites drive like maniacs. In retrospect, this is probably where Tim’s road rage started to generalize to when he drove the Jeep. I, of course, was thrilled at this new development. Thanks, Austin!
The Alamo, in San Antonio, was a bit of a disappointment. We should have boned up on our reading beforehand, as the exhibits did a very poor job explaining the history behind the thirteen-day siege, or the one-hour battle that ended it. We were sure told that the theme of this “Shrine to Texas Liberty” was self-sacrifice, specifically for the independence of Texas, but it was frustrating not to get any kind of feel for what the defenders actually did. Instead, we were left to make what we could of the various displays. On a more positive note, we did get to see Davy Crockett’s vest, done in light tan leather with tasteful yet understated multicolored beading. How come all the history books leave out that ole Davy was such a sharp dresser? Of course, he always had a certain flair: After being defeated for reelection to the U.S. House of Representatives, he told his constituents, “You may go to hell, and I will go to Texas.” He died at the Alamo less than six months later.
By this point in our travels, we had learned to ask locals for suggestions of interesting things to see or do, rather than rely on a guidebook. Then we made the mistake of consulting the office manager at our RV park, leading us to take a day trip in the Jeep to some small, “quaint,” hill-country towns. I complained bitterly. “I can’t believe he recommended these shit holes.” Then I got a bright idea: I should write a tour book to prevent others from making the same mistake.
“You could rate every place on a crapper system; lid down versus lid up,” Tim offered.
On our way to Tucson, we stopped at a truck stop in Segovia, Texas, whose sign boasted “Fuel, food and pretty waitresses.” I was a bit offended, until upon closer inspection, the word “old” became apparent between “pretty” and “waitresses.”
In the nine-hour drive through the barren stretch of desert from San Antonio to El Paso, the most exciting thing I saw was the clock on my cell phone adjust from Central Standard to Mountain Standard Time. Then we passed a large cement-block building, surrounded by an electrified barbed-wire fence. Signs instructing drivers not to pick up hitchhikers dotted the highway.
“I guess if you have to live out here, prison isn’t a bad option,” I allowed.
Between our residencies and then starting our private practices, Tim and I spent nearly ten years in Tucson, so we were looking forward to revisiting some of our Old Pueblo haunts. Particularly our favorite Mexican restaurant (it’s hard to get good Mexican food in Boulder).
We beat feet over to Sanchez Burrito Company our very first night, hoping they still had our favorites on the menu. They did. The place itself also hadn’t changed a bit: small, sparsely decorated, abundant Formica. No waiters, no frills, no worries—never a bad meal. We perused the large, illuminated menu by the door and gave the young woman behind the counter our order. After getting our drinks, we settled into a booth, waiting for Tim’s name to be called. We were the only customers in the joint and chalked it up to a Monday night. Surely Sanchez hadn’t lost its touch? It only took a few minutes to confirm that it hadn’t; our food was ready. Tim returned to the counter (no waiter, no frills) and brought the meals to our table on plastic trays. We dug in. Yummmm…Huh?
A man was yelling by the door. We figured the cook and the girl were just having some fun, until we heard her scream. My back was to the entrance, but before I could turn around, Tim looked up to see a hooded, bandana’d youth pointing a gun at the now empty counter. The girl had fled to the kitchen. Tim said quietly, although with an unmistakable urgency, “They’re being robbed. He has a gun. Don’t move.” I froze in my seat. We knew the only way out of the place was past the guy. He glanced over at us. Tim caught his eye. I maintained my gaze at Tim, thankful he was the one facing the door, because I sincerely doubted I would have been able to muster that calm a look. But it was more than that. It was a look that said, “Do not. Whatever you’re thinking. Just…do…not.”
I suspect it was the same look he gave psychotic patients in psychiatric units who escalated to the point where they needed to be restrained for their own safety as well as everyone else’s. Most psychiatrists called for the staff at that point and slunk over to the nurses’ station to chart about the incident as it was unfolding. Not my Tim. He’d make sure he had help in case he needed it, but could usually de-escalate the patient just by his demeanor and words. On those rare occasions when a takedown was in order, he was always the one heading it up. When he’d recount the incident to me later, I’d shake my head, proud of him but also wishing he’d just act like a “normal” psychiatrist. Although he obviously knew what he was doing, I was afraid he’d get hurt. Now it seemed all that on-the-job training had been worth it.
The youth hesitated, then ran out the door.
Tim ushered me under a table and grabbed my cell phone. He called 911 and told the operator we didn’t know if the guy ran out back to get the girl or if he was planning to come back in to get us. I hadn’t even considered the latter possibility.
“I’m going out front to look around,” Tim informed me. “I won’t be cornered like rats.” For the first time in my life, rats didn’t seem so…rodentlike. They seemed positively lovable. If one had been in the place, in fact, I would have scooped it up and kissed it on its adorable, whiskered lips, just to prove my point. Since there were none, instead I begged Tim not to leave. I was afraid he’d run into the guy. He insisted. I begged some more, pawing (rather ratlike, actually) at his arms.
Fortunately, just then, six cops surrounded the restaurant, which was all windows, brightly lit from the inside. Tim, realizing he could very well be the only male (and therefore suspect) in the place, put his hands up in the air and walked out to the parking lot. The girl, hearing the police, emerged from the back room, crying. As soon as the assailant had pointed the gun at her, she’d fled there, locked the door, and used the phone…to call her boss. (Look, I’d have run too if I were her, but I’d like to think I have the customer service skills to at least call the police.) The cops interviewed them both, but neither Tim nor she could give a good description.
We returned to our meal. Tim ate heartily. I had no appetite, and besides, my hands were shaking too much to safely handle the plastic silverware. I took a swig from his beer. A big swig. I hate beer. I didn’t care.
As we left, Tim told the still-crying girl, “Wonderful burritos, but the floor show needs work.”
Back in the Jeep, he wanted to go to a convenience store for a six-pack.
“Are you insane?” I exclaimed. “Convenience stores are even better targets for robberies! No way.” I would not relent and instead offered to make him the martini of his choice. No prob-lemo; I needed a few, myself.
In retrospect, our would-be assailant was none too bright. The counter was easily visible from the outside and if he had simply waited to make his move until the girl was near the till rather than toward the back, he might have gotten some money. Frankly, it added insult to injury to be so frightened by a robber who’s such a moron. I would have felt better about the whole thing if he had been just a teensy bit higher up on the fast-food chain.
The next day, a package arrived for me at the RV park. My hands were still shaking, but I managed to steady them enough to get the wrapping open. What in the world could it be? Oh. Of course. A pair of Richard Tyler mules I purchased on eBay the week before. (Although I seemed not to shop in volume in malls anymore, I still enjoyed perusing for select designer duds online.) I stared at the shoes.
Sure, I could appreciate the perfectly proportioned kitten heel, the stylish tortoiseshell hue, the exquisite workmanship of the leather buckle, the…I wrapped them up and never took them out of the box again.
For that moment, for however long that moment was to last, I didn’t care about shoes. Tim and I were alive…and happy. I always knew I was loved and cherished by my husband (even as he callously upended my entire life to follow his bus dream), but I’d just witnessed him protecting me and putting my life before his. With all we had been through this year, shoes—even such a pair as this—were reduced to their proper place in my universe, one that allowed for a more detached admiration of things in general. With five months left on our trip, I found myself looking forward to discovering all the ways that particular emotional energy of mine which clung to objects could now become free to direct elsewhere.
Although we had planned on going to Sanchez frequently during our stay, we never did return. But there were certainly plenty of other excellent Mexican restaurants to choose from in Tucson—perhaps too many, judging from the state of my colon. Lying in bed one night, Tim lifted the covers and exclaimed, “Whoa, Warden! I haven’t had my last meal yet.”
Given that our trip thus far had ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous (along with far too many descents even farther into the death-defying), all with our marriage still very much intact, during our next stop, Las Vegas, we did what felt like the most natural thing in the world: renewing our wedding vows in the bus…with Elvis officiating.
That was to be only the second-craziest thing we did all year.
Chapter Ten
BUSING IN THE BUFF
* * *
Nudist Nectar
3 parts apple vodka
1 part apple schnapps
1/2 part butterscotch schnapps
