Yuma

I’m falling behind on my blog, sorry about that. Here’s another story from Arizona.

Lee and I stopped for gas in Yuma. I was sitting there with nothing to do when I got the idea to take some pictures. It was a desolate setting, the arid desert and a singular palm tree offset by concrete from the gas station and an abandoned car. I took a picture. It wasn’t all that interesting, but for maybe the clouds hovering overhead.

I noticed a gold Ford van from the seventies filling up next to us. The van had three six inch wide pin strips on the side of it. The pin strips were in three different colors orange, Sedona red, and a deep shade of brown. There was a four foot by four foot square tinted window half way back on the drivers side, and when I looked inside the cab area I noticed a teenage girl sitting in the passenger seat.

I had the camera in hand, and there was something artistic about the scenario. I pointed the camera at the girl and the van and took a picture. Then I took a picture of Lee in his cowboy hat, and put the camera away. I saw the young girl talking to someone, but I didn’t think much about it.

Out of nowhere a big fat woman approached Lee.

“Did you take a picture of my daughter?” the woman asked in an high pitched aggressive tone. She was a beast, a big ugly woman. I saw her husband shrink. He didn’t want anything to do with the situation. He was whistling to himself. He wanted to move on. He got behind the wheel as quickly as he could and waited.

“We have an old camera and we were making sure it worked.” Lee said to the woman.

Lee’s answer took the woman by surprise. She wasn’t sure what to say.

“Oh,” was all she could muster.

With that the conversation was over. She got in the van and they drove away.

            “Did you take a picture of my daughter?” I kept saying over and over. 

The Grave Yard at Quartzsite

My friend Lee hired me to help him with a film he’s making. He needed to film some pick-up shots in Arizona. I agreed to help him for my day rate.

            He picked me up in a run down red 1986 Volkswagen Rabbit sixteen valve. The car was an essential element of the film he was making. He didn’t tell me about the car’s electrical problems until it started to rain.

            “Hey Lee it’s raining why don’t you put your windshield wipers on?”

            “That's because they don’t work.”

            “They don't work.”

            “Nope. I don’t need them anyway. I’ve learned to drive without them. I just stare into the distance, it’s a trick of the mind.”

            It turned out the only thing that worked were the headlights and the passenger window and I was grateful for that. No air-con, just sweat and warm water there and back.

            Lee would stick his arm out of the window to change lines. It was a primitive means of transportation but we got there alright. 
            Our first stop was in Quartzsite Arizona where we shot at a grave site. We set up the camera and we were just about ready to shot when it started to rain. We stood there in the rain and waited for it to stop. It didn’t stop. It came down progressively harder. We were soaked to the bone before we grabbed the camera and retreated to the comfort of the Rabbit. We sat in the car and ate turkey sandwiches. Lee’s wife made them for us. I was dry. But Lee was still getting wet, because Lee's window didn’t roll up.   

Arizona

        I'm just back from Arizona, where the trees grow funny with spikes. I just about lost my skin to the heat. It was nothing short of hot. It made me wonder how people do it, or why. I have many stories to tell and I'll be sure to tell them, however, I need a little time to digest them, and some time to sit and write. Bare with me. I'll try to get back on schedule tomorrow. 

Sunflower Seeds

            I think I’m addicted sunflower seeds. I walked to the neighborhood gas station where I pick up my seeds. They carry an off brand, possibly organic, the seeds are large, pregnant, swollen with just the right amount of salt on them.

            I walked toward the rack where I usually find them, but there weren’t any left. Sold Out. I couldn’t believe it. I looked more than twice, thinking they were hidden behind the peanuts. I had a false hope. I kept looking. My heart sunk, my mouth felt a longing for them. I searched high and low. I was having a hard time excepting reality.

            I walked back home feeling empty, beaten, and looking for solutions.

Mumble-Jumbo

I just got home. It’s almost nine-thirty. I was running around today. I like to post a blog every other day as a matter of principle. So here I am writing about the mumble- jumbo of the day.

I woke up and tried to fix the lady friends car without much success. There was a bolt I couldn’t budge, so we took it to a mechanic up the street. He fixed it for thirty-five dollars The fat mechanic losses.

            I talked to Bill the smog guru about my case. Everything is moving along nicely. He even offered me a job. Bill’s a cool cat. He lived in San Francisco in the sixties. We have a lot in common. I didn’t live in San Francisco in the sixties but I lived there for a time. We were talking music and smog and jobs, before he got a phone call, and I had to leave for Martin’s.

            Martin and I worked on the Dust Covered Man. I laid down some backing vocals. Improvised stuff that left me feeling raw. Exposed. I killed the mood with my criticism of myself. It’s dumb to be critical, but I seldom feel comfortable in my own skin. It feels awkward when you kill the mood.

            Things are good beyond that. Things are real good. Don’t grasp, don’t cling, just swing.  

The Fat Mechanic

Now my lady friend’s car went down. Nothing major, just a bolt that holds the shifting linkage in place. A tow truck driver and I put a temporary patch on it. The plan was for my lady friend to drive it to work the next day and have it fixed at an automotive repair shop nearby. Painless right. Wrong. The mechanic wanted to charge her eighty bananas for the repair. She called me in a panic. I drove over to see what the heck.

            The mechanic was a big fat guy, he kind of looked like Diego Rivera.

            “It’s just a bolt right!” I asked.

            “”No we have to order a bracket from the dealer, replace the bushings, dig deep into your wallet, so I can eat steak for dinner. I like porter house steaks, or the biggest most expensive steak I can find,” he might as well have said.

            “Well how much is that!”

            “Twenty-five for the part, forty-five for labor.”

            I yanked the car out of there. The fat mechanic was angry at me. I didn’t care, He was crazy. The bastard was trying to take advantage of a nice woman to feed his over sized mug. I figured I could fix it myself for two dollars. If I can’t fix it we’ll take it somewhere else. 

The Seafood Man

            I went to a barbeque last night. I met a man named Paul. We were the only men there and we bonded at the grill.

            Paul and I got to talking and he told me he was in the seafood business in Vegas for twenty years. That didn’t sound sketchy at all. I was instantly intrigued. He said he had stories and I believed him. He wanted to be a writer but he kept making excuses for not writing. He was from Minnesota. I asked if he knew Bob Dylan. It’s my standard question for people I meet from Minnesota.

            “Well, yeah, my dad knew him really well,” he said.

            I wasn’t expecting that answer. It took me by surprise.

            “Do you want to meet him? Give me your phone number.”

            I froze up. I’m not sure why. Nothing came out of my mouth and in an instant the subject changed. Paul’s mood changed too. He seemed to take offense to my inaction.

            It’s the second time I’ve blown a chance to meet Bob Dylan.