Through the Desert With the Stones Pt. 2

Part 1 is here:  https://broussardlana.wordpress.com/2017/10/30/through-the-desert-with-the-stones/

“Is there a mechanic up there in town or do you know?” asked Greg to Mustache Man. The man stared back. He had leather tarnished skin and vertical lines forming like silky spider legs around his lips. Mustache Man looked him directly in the eyes and said nothing still, then looked over at the other two men. They shook their heads and he nodded back at them. Then they all three walked to the truck, got in, and wordlessly drove off into the vicious, blazing sun.

What the H was that??? Greg thought as he watched the truck disappear down the road, maybe he was pretty lucky after all. Packing up the guitars and water bottle once again, he turned his sight towards Ludlow. It was time to see what was there. And what was there, was basically four things: a gas station, a tire shop, a cafe, and a small, dingy motel.

An old man cam rambling out of the tire shop.

“Hello,” said Greg.

The old guy nodded – could these people even talk?

“Uh, sir is there a mechanic nearby…I think I have a blown head gasket.”

“Nope, nearest mechanic, that’d be about 50 miles in Barstow. You need a tire? I can help ya with that,” he said.

“No, I don’t need a tire,” said Greg. “You can get some water over there at the gas station – then there’s the cafe…” he said.

“Ok thanks,” said Greg. He had no idea how he was getting out of this one. Rotten, rotten luck. He headed over to the gas station.

“Howdy,” the man across the counter said.

Howdy??? wasn’t this California?

“Hey,” said Greg as he walked back to the coke machines. He grabbed some peanuts and a candy bar.

“Will that do?” asked the clerk.

“Yeah, I understand the nearest mechanic is in Barstow?”

“That’s correct,” said the clerk handing him his change. “You gotta problem?”

“Yeah, I think I blew a head gasket…”

“Whew!” said the clerk. “How far down the road are you?”

“Oh, just outside of town a way…”

“Well, you may have to get some water to it in order to bring it into town. You will have to pay someone to get you into Barstow. Mechanics there have towing. It’s gonna cost you, though.”

“Yeah,” said Greg feeling that incredible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Water hose is out back…”

Greg walked outside with his water bottle.

“Hey dude,” said a voice.

“Unh?” said Greg looking up to see two guys as they appeared from out of nowhere. Rock’n Roll ghosts. He blinked. The heat was getting to him. He opened his eyes wide. Yep, it was two guys, long hair, t-shirts, holes in their jeans.

“Yeah – what?” said Greg.

“Hey, you wanna buy a tape…the Stones’ Dirty Work?”

“Are you from here?” asked Greg incredulously.

“No, we got stuck here, we gotta get some money together. Two bucks on the Stones? What do you say?”

Greg thought, he was already down to $175.00. Every dollar sorta counted, but whatever it was, he was better off than them. And the Stones, well who didn’t need the Stones?

“Okay then,” he said, digging in his pocket for the two dollars.

“Thanks, man!” said the guy with the dark hair stuffing the money in his pocket. And just like that, they walked away like Disciples of the Desert. Not asking for more, or for a ride or anything like you would think.

Greg shook his head. Ludlow California to the Sunset Strip. You never know. He made his way to the gas station. The clerk seemed nice, maybe he would see how much he would charge to take him in to Barstow. Gotta love those gas pumps thought Greg. 1950s Mobil Horse. Rounding the gas pump – Greg saw a man fueling his car with gas. He looked once. Texas license plates! It couldn’t be! Greg blinked. Rock’n Roll desert dudes and now a car with Texas plates. He was going mad for sure. He looked again. The man was still there, striped polo shirt, gray hair, Levi’s slacks.

“Hello sir, I see your plates. You from Texas?”

“Why yes, we are,” the man said nodding to his wife in the front seat.

“Oh,” said Greg. “Where from?”

“Houston.”

“Really? I lived in Houston once too.”

“You liked it? What part of Houston?”

“Northwest. Cypress area.”

“Really?” asked the man. “We actually live in Cypress. What subdivision did you live in?”

“Collinsway. My dad was stationed for duty there.”

“Are you serious? Collinsway? What street?”

“Maplewood. It was a while ago…”

The man cut him off. “Maplewood? What’s your dad’s name?”

“John Taylor –”

“Oh my! I played tennis with him! We were neighbors. I thought you looked a little familiar. Bob Henson, that’s my wife, Martha. Now, your name was? What in the world you doing out here?”

Greg stared in awe. Not only were these people from Texas, they were from a place he lived and they knew his parents! He thought he must be dead and way beyond the point of hallucinating or dreaming.

“Mr. Henson? I’m Greg. I can’t believe I’m running into you here!” Mr. Henson stuck out his hand. Greg smiled and shook it.

“Martha look who’s here,” he called to his wife inside the car.

Martha got out with her perfectly backcombed hair and shoulder pads.

“This is Greg Taylor, John Taylor’s son. Remember, we played tennis with them when they lived in Houston.”

“Greg, oh my! I do remember. How are you?”

Jack Henson and his wife Martha had been great friends with his family when Greg and his parents lived in Houston. Now there were right here in the Mojave desert with him, a mirage that had manage to take real-life form.

“Well, I am on my way to Los Angeles.”

“What in the world for?” asked Jack.

“Well, I think that’s the place for me, I want to play rock music, get a band together, you know…”

“Ha ha, sure you do, I think it would be great!” said Mr. Henson.

“I commend you for that, it takes a lot of courage to leave home,” said Martha. Her husband nodded his head.

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Greg, not feeling particularly courageous.

“Why don’t we get a cola or something. You hungry?” asked Mr. Henson.

“Yeah, I kinda had some bad luck…”

After a BLT in the local, swinging cafe, where three other people were busy milling about in the middle of nowhere, Greg and the Hensons mapped a plan. They would take water, fill the car, Greg would drive as far as he could. They would follow. When the car ran out they would go to whichever town: Ludlow or Barstow that happened to be the nearest, get more water and keep going until the prima donna T-bird made it safely to Barstow and he found a mechanic.

Do you know anybody in California?” asked Mr. Henson.

“No, no really. How are you guys liking your vacation so far?” asked Greg with a smile.

“The company is great, and the desert is hot!” laughed Mr. Henson.

Finally, after a few trips and several containers of water, they made it to Barstow, Greg pulled into Mullins Auto Shop. “Well, I guess this is where we leave you,” said Mr. Henson. Martha smiled.

“Listen, I really appreciate it,” said Greg.

“Sure thing,” here, here’s a little something to help with your bad luck,” said Mr. Henson handing him some cash.

“Oh no, you’ve helped me so much already,” said Greg.

“Nonsense, take it. Your gonna need it. I admire a fellow who follows a dream,” said Mr. Henson. Martha nodded. They smiled.

“Good luck!” They got back into their Plymouth and Greg watched them drive away. He walked up to the garage door.

“How can I help you?” said the attendant walking up to him. He was wearing a blue shirt with a name patch: Walt.

“It’s the head gasket,” I think,” said Greg.

“Alrightie, I’ll pull her in here and take a look.”

“Thanks,” said Greg as he headed over to the Waffle House and the pay phone. He dialed home.

“Hello,” said Gran.

“Gran, hey!” said Greg.

“Well hello dear, you made it already?”

“Almost, I had some car trouble.”

“Oh no, are you okay out there?”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it though…”said Greg.

The T-bird was going to be hospitalized for one more day. Greg had to sleep a night at the Do Drop Inn. Barstow was about 1000 times better than Ludlow, but all around, the desert threatened to creep in. On the last day, he picked up the car.

“$128.96,” said Walt. “Guess I can tell where you are headed,” he smiled.

“L.A.” said Greg.

“Yep. I see your guitars, bet you aren’t a Buck Owens fan?” he said.

“Nope,” said Greg.

“Well you got a nice car, I hope you can hold on to it,” said Walt.

“Thanks, man,” said Greg.

Once inside the car, Greg counted his money. What exactly happened in that desert? One minute he was there, stranded. The next, he was walking around a gas pump and boom, the Hensons appeared. You never know, really, now do you? Maybe California wouldn’t be so bad after all.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lPWGOvHBCZU