M
July 4th, 1992 found me on Interstate 10 about fifty miles west of Phoenix, Arizona headed home to Texas. I had spent the last four years at U.C.L.A playing baseball while getting my degree. Honestly, I was happy as hell to get out of Los Angeles and California altogether.
Having made some good friends while I was there, it still was not the place for me nor was it for most of my friends either. Bo Tyson was from Mobile, Alabama, and headed home. Bobby McCallister was from a small town in Nebraska and leaving L.A. tomorrow. Terrell Jackson was staying a little while to help his Aunt Shelia and Uncle Leon. They owned Jackson's BBQ and Soul Kitchen, which had been what sustained us three throughout college.
Shelia, who decided we all should call her Aunt Shelia, was more of a mom to us most of the time. "You boys git in here and eat. Looking like skin and bones all the time."
I could close my eyes in their little restaurant and my nose would make me believe I was in my Grams house in Texas. Aunt Shelia made the best chicken and dumplings I had ever tasted. I would be sure not to tell my Grams about that or the cornbread that melted in your mouth.
Leon, he smoked ribs and pulled pork that would make you walk there in the rain just to lick the plate. He always snuck us boys a beer and got popped on the back of the head by Aunt Shelia every time.
Our baseball coaches complained when training would start beginning of a season that we put on too much weight, but they were in there nearly every Saturday themselves. Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday there was a line to get in, sometimes around the block waiting to eat. We always snuck in the back door and Aunt Sheila would load us a plate up that would nearly make us pass out. She would also never take any payment from us, so we would go help out when we had time. Cleaning, unloading supplies that came in, splitting wood for Leon; but we were not allowed to do any work in the kitchen. I got popped on the butt more than once and told to "Git," when I tried to help do dishes.
I was going to miss them, but hopefully one day I had come back to visit. I was currently headed home and outside Phoenix when the radio Emergency Alert System started blaring out of my radio speakers. I turned it up to hear what the message was going to be. I had been watching lightning in the eastern sky for about thirty or so miles. Thunderstorms in this area could cause a lot of problems, much rain could make a flash flood or worse yet a haboob.
Anyone that has not witnessed a haboob cannot fully comprehend what they are, and I was hoping I was not heading into one during the night. Being it was about an hour before dark, dark would make it worse.
A haboob is caused by violent winds pushing downward and outward from a thunderstorm. Those winds pick up dust and small debris like small pebbles and twigs. Visibility during the day could be almost zero with these walls of gusting winds and sand stretching thousands of feet up and miles across.
Sure enough, that is what the voice on the radio was telling me, a haboob was headed straight toward me. Minutes later cars were meeting me on the highway flashing their lights and honking their horns. I figured my old 1985 Chevy C/K 10 would survive well enough. I turned the lights on the roll bar and in the push guard in the front and began looking for a place to pull the old 4x4 truck off the road. The sand around here, was a big worry so even with a four-wheel-drive I wanted to be careful. Sand could get waist deep in this area.
I was running out of what I thought was acceptable looking terrain when I felt the first winds with a little bit of grit in it started hitting the windshield. I slowed the truck down and headed off the side hitting the power windows up as I did. I eased along off the road as the fading light instantly became night and a lighted wall of sand blanketed the truck.
Figuring I was well off the highway I put the truck in neutral, set the parking brake, turned off all the lights, and remember to take my foot off the brake. I had read a news article probably two years ago about a man who pulled over and turned his lights off but left his foot on the brake. Another car not smart enough to stop kept driving. The driver saw the taillights and assumed he was following another car and slammed into the parked car. Luckily, only minor injuries but it still was a risk I was not fond of taking.
I sat in the truck sweating, the radio fading in and out due to all the disturbance. The storm sandblasted my truck along with small pebbles and even rocks in sounded like now and then. Luckily, I always carried two one-gallon jugs of water when I was on these trips; this storm might last a few hours. I had AC in the truck hardly ever using it out on the open road as it was, but with the haboob blowing all the fine dust I made sure I kept it off.
The force of the winds picked up shaking the truck continuously, so I decided to kill the engine, it was sucking air in and I wanted to make sure it stayed sand free.
Almost two hours later the winds had stopped and there were a few sprinkles of rain hitting. A lot of the dust was settling. I fired the engine up thanking my stars it started, hit the wipers throwing sand off, then powered on the headlights, lights on the roll bars, and the push-guard. Still, too much sand in the air so I killed the roll bar lights and could see a lot better. I headed back towards the road, apparently, I had gone a lot farther from it than I thought.
I felt a tire slip as I got close to the road, hoping it would not make me get out a lock the hubs for four-wheel drive. I felt the front tires give and then heard the pops and the air hissing. In the floating sand, I could not see a narrow trench that was covered by a bunch of tumbleweeds. Sharp jagged rock edge sides had punctured both front wheels about twenty feet from the highway.
I backed out of the trench, having one spare would work with one, but I now had two flats. Thirty-five-inch tires could not just be carried around. You had to have a mount and the bed I only had one. Now I needed two. I debated for a bit just waiting till morning the flagging a car down, but I was hot and sweaty. Maybe I could get a ride to Phoenix, get a motel room for the night then find a tire shop tomorrow and get going again.
I moved the bags I had had in the back into the cab after brushing the sand off, took a smaller bag, and put a few items for the night in it. I had my back to the road when I felt a cold wind hit me that made my spine shiver and shake my body. My Grams would always say a rabbit ran across your grave when you got those chills up your spine. I closed the truck door and turned to see a black Thunderbird sitting there on the shoulder of the road. Had to be a classic automobile from the looks of it. The old car shinned like new, under what little moon was visible with a good amount of sand still suspended in the night air.
My dad was a car guy. Well, a gun guy owning a gun shop, but he had passion for old cars too. He could have told me the year I am positive. I guessed maybe pre-sixties with those wide whitewall tires on it. Whatever year it was, I could tell it was a hard-top convertible as it just sat there idling. Not being sure if they had pulled over for me or what, I stood staring at the window in the dark. With a lot of sand still in their air, I could not see through the window at all. The driver honked the horn a short beep, so I headed toward the door.
Opening the door, I was greeted by a smiling blond with ruby lips. "Where you headed, cowboy?"
"Looking for a ride to Phoenix for the night, ma'am."
She turned the ignition off, handing me the keys. "Put your things in the trunk."
"You are sure, ma'am?"
"Of course, cowboy."
I placed my bag in the trunk, climbed in, and handed her the keys. "Thank you, ma'am. Much appreciated."
I noticed when she started the car and the dash lights came on, she has dressed appropriately for the vintage car. She looked vaguely familiar. She reminded me of old pin-up models I remember seeing on the nose of World War II planes at an air show once. Nose art I think they call it.
"Where you headed?"
"Home to Texas."
"So, I was right, you are a cowboy?"
"No ma'am. Just a simple country boy. That's about it."
"Sure, are cute. What's your name or would you rather I just call you cowboy?"
I could feel the heat in my cheeks and been grateful she could not. "Travis ma'am. Travis Steele."
"Sounds like a cowboy name to me ... or maybe the name of a spy in a book."
I laughed. "What's your name, ma'am?"
"Just call me M."
"M? As in the letter?"
"Yeah."
"Where you headed?"
"Oh, I always love to take this car out down along the highway during the night."
"What model car is it?"
"'56 Thunderbird."
"It's beautiful."
"Thank you. I bought it brand new."
I sat trying not to stare at her in the glow of the dash. She was gorgeous and there was no way she bought this car brand new in 1956. This was 1992. The car was thirty-four years old and she was maybe thirty. I was not going to argue with a beautiful blond, much less one that let a stranger in the car with her to give him a ride.
I heard her laugh and looked at her fully.
"What?"
"You. You are adorable. You are trying not to look at me and failing."
Embarrassed, I managed, "You look so familiar. I'm sorry."
