Slowly Sliding Into the Abyss
Part 3
January, 1963
Tommy X.
In order to staff the radar positions in the Winnemucca AFS radar room twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week, several rotating crews of operators, working nine days in a row—three day shifts, three evening shifts, three midnight shifts, and finally three days off—were required. Shift scheduling in the days before personal computers was done by hand and was one of the least desirable of the many collateral duties assigned to the cadre of sergeants in charge of the various crews.
I soon learned, as unlikely as it would seem, that it was entirely possible for a crew of radar operators, such as the one to which I was assigned, to never meet anyone from another crew that was working completely opposite shifts. For example, a crew having worked their last midnight shift before taking three days off, would be relieved by a crew coming on to work the first of three day shifts. That crew would be relieved by another crew coming in to work the second of three swing shifts. And so on.
Before I married Sharon, and still living in my assigned Quonset hut, the first of my three days off would usually be spent hanging around members of the other crews who were either on their second or third day off. In short, there were some airmen assigned to the radar station and doing the same job that I was, who I never, or rarely ever saw. This was the case with a fellow radar operator, and Texan, Tómas X. Sánchez. He preferred to be called ‘Tommy’, and detested having anyone address him by his middle name, ‘Xavier’.
Hailing from San Antonio, Texas, Tommy had arrived at Winnemucca in July of 1961, a month after my arrival, and was housed in an adjoining Quonset hut. He was very quiet, staying mostly to himself, and preferring to spend his days off reading or listening to music in his room. Whenever he did choose to venture out it was mostly to the Rec Room to shoot pool—at which he was quite the hustler.
To my knowledge, he didn’t frequent the Officers’ Club very often; at least I don’t remember seeing him there, except for one exceptional occasion, during my eighteen months in Winnemucca. On very rare occasions I did see him in the Rec Room, usually shooting some very serious pool, but I never had the opportunity to actually meet or converse with him.
Although I saw him very seldom and did not socialize with him at all, I had heard of his propensity for getting into verbal and physical altercations, usually involving alcohol. I would usually overhear snippets of conversation about the “little” Mexican kid with the thin skin getting pissed at the club and getting into a fight. He was often described as a quiet little guy with a big temper who couldn’t take a joke about his size or ethnicity. Since I didn’t really know him I took very little interest in this type of gossip.
The one incident that actually involved Tommy and myself occurred one evening at the Officers’ Club. It was a weekend during the first few months of my having arrived at Winnemucca when I happened to be having a few beers and socializing with some of my crewmembers. We were sitting at a table when the club’s juke box suddenly broke down yet again, eliciting boos and jeers from the crowd. After a few minutes someone yelled from the bar that I should get my guitar and entertain them with a few songs. A raucous cheer and applause erupted and off I went. Yes, they were all very easily entertained.
After returning to the club, guitar in hand, I rejoined my group and began to sing a few popular folk songs of the day. Partying a couple of tables away was a small contingent of sailors from the Naval Air Station in Fallon, Nevada, who’d been visiting our radar station for a few days receiving cross training on our radar hardware. After our songfest started they pulled their table up close to ours and joined in the fun.
We were all having a really good time, and after about an hour I asked if we could take a little break so I could catch up on some beer drinking and visit the restroom. As I was putting my Gibson back into its case I thought I heard one of the sailors say, “Hey, you know, you play and sing pretty good—for a Mexican!”
An ominous hush came over the Air Force guys gathered around our table as the naval contingent chuckled, chortled, and raised their beers and voices in unanimous affirmation of the anonymous statement.
I stood back up, still holding my guitar in my left hand by its ebony layered neck, and asked, “Who said that?”
A paunchy, pimple-faced sailor, red hair cut down to a miniscule crew cut, and leaning back in his chair—one dungareed bell-bottomed leg resting on the table—held his beer bottle high and yelled back, “I did!!”
Still holding my guitar, I took a few steps in his direction and asked, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you very well. What was it you said about my singing?”
“I said,” his drunken smile slowly changing into a cynical sneer, “that for a fucking Mexican, you sing pretty good!”
“OK, that’s what I thought you said.”
I don’t recall exactly why his comment suddenly made me so angry, as remarks like that usually didn’t bother me, but I’m assuming that my consumption of various adult beverages during the evening may’ve had something to do with it.
I was within a few feet of him when that strange and surprisingly satisfying thought entered my mind. Without further hesitation, and acting strictly on impulse, I grabbed the neck of my guitar with both hands and swung it, somewhat underhanded, in the direction of the sailor’s face.
I heard a satisfying crunch and remember seeing a beer bottle flying up and bouncing off the club’s ceiling. The momentum and weight of the flying guitar spun me to my left and I lost my balance on the slippery vinyl floor. Landing heavily on my left buttock, the momentum of my swing caused me to slide under a table; all the while still holding my now slightly fractured guitar by its neck.
The sound of yelling, table and chair legs breaking, and bodies slamming onto the hard floor, brought me to my senses, and I quickly decided that maybe I should formulate an exit strategy while I was still pretty much intact.
Still under the table and laying on my left side I spotted a clear route to the back door. Everyone looked pretty busy at the moment and no one seemed to be paying attention to me so I felt that this was as good a time as any for me and my injured guitar to make our escape. As I brought my knees under me, preparing to make a dash for the door, I heard a violent, ear-splitting scream high, and off to my right. Snapping my head in the direction of the cry, fully expecting someone’s fist to come smashing into my face, I instead saw a pint-sized uniformed airman—arms and legs spread out, wing-like—literally flying towards a writhing pile of sailors and air force guys on the floor. Mouth open, neck arteries popping out, he looked like some kind of rabid flying squirrel gone screamingly mad and executing a Kamikaze-like attack on a hoard of newly discovered pine nuts.
As he crashed head-first into the pile of thrashing people I spotted the flying munchkin’s name tag: SANCHEZ. Although I had not seen him earlier, Tommy had been at the bar the whole time and was apparently quite drunk.
As the crazy melee gained momentum I was somehow able to belly-crawl with my guitar to one of the back doors and escape into the night.
The next day I slept in until well past ten in the morning, nursing a moderate hangover and a semi-queasy stomach. Upon waking, jumbled memories of a fight at the club flooded my mind and I wondered how everything had ended up after I’d made my stealthy escape.
I glanced over to where I’d hurriedly put my guitar the night before and strained to see if it had sustained any damage during the fight. It was propped up in a corner of my room, and from my vantage point on the bed it looked OK.
Eventually, my curiosity won over my laziness, and trying to ignore the little post-alcohol throb beating inside my forehead, I got up to check out the Gibson and look for any damage. Aside from a lot of smudges and fingerprints, the top and the sound hole looked OK; then I picked it up and spun it around to inspect its back. Regrettably, I saw a long split in the wood running along the body on what is referred to as the lower “waist” side of the guitar. My heart skipped a beat and I remember feeling a deep sorrow as I ran my finger up and down the split. My first thoughts were try to find some musical instrument store in town that would repair the damage, but then I realized that in my financial situation my beloved Gibson would probably have to bear this wound for the foreseeable future.
I sat on the bed and brought the guitar up to strum a few chords—hoping I wouldn’t hear a rattle. The damaged waist rested on my right leg and I felt the split bite into my skin as I gripped the neck to form a C chord. I lay my beloved guitar gently down on the bed, and decided that maybe I should just shower and head to the chow hall for lunch.
Coming out of the shower room and taking the hall back to my room I saw one of my crew mates exit his room. Wearing a white bath towel wrapped around his waist and carrying a shaving kit, he looked a little ragged and appeared to be limping slightly.
“Hey!” I said, cheerily. “You OK?”
“Yeah.” he said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes gingerly with his wrist. “Don’t know how I bummed my knee last night. I spent most of the fucking fight last night on the floor. Speaking of which, did you see who started it?”
“Me? No! I heard some yelling and I started to put my guitar down when all Hell broke loose.” I lied. “Then I left in a hurry.”
“Yeah well, I was headed to the latrine to take a piss when I heard some yelling behind me and one of the asshole squids (derogatory term for navy guy) grabbed me by the neck. We both went down on the slick floor, but I did manage to kick him in the nuts. That’s when I got up and hightailed it for the front door.”
“Yeah, I scooted out the back and hurried back to my room, so I don’t know what happened next.
“Well you know, we’re probably the only two in the whole club who didn’t get hauled off to jail.”
“Jail!?”
“Oh yeah. Jay stopped by this morning coming off his mid shift and said that he’d heard it got so bad the base commander had to call the cops, and everyone who was still in the club when they got there got hauled off to jail. Fuck, half the base is probably still down there now trying to make bail, including the little Mexican.”
“Jesus! You know, when I was under a table I saw him leap into the pile!”
“Yup. I guess he did some righteous damage to those fucking squids.”
“He must have.”
“Yeah, well I gotta go take a shower and get some chow in my belly. Got a hell of a hangover.”
“OK, yeah me too. See ya later.”
“OK. But I’d still like to know who the hell threw the first punch.” He said as he shuffled off down the hall, flip-flops slapping on the tile floor.
“Oh,” I said over my shoulder with a little grin. “You know, I heard it was someone named Gibson.”
Tommy Hitches a Ride
It was the second week of January and my orders stated a report-in date to the radar station in Alaska as February 12, 1963. That meant that we would have to leave Winnemucca at least by the third week of January to have time enough to drive down to Houston to leave Sharon and the baby with my folks. I would use a few days of home leave while there, then depart for Alaska.
Sharon and I decided that she’d keep the car in Houston, and that I’d take a Greyhound bus to Seattle (cheaper than flying), then catch a military charter flight (my first ever) to Anchorage. From there the military would put me on a shuttle flight to McGrath, and finally fly me, in a bush- piloted two-seater prop plane, to the Tatalina Radar Station—tucked away on top of a rugged hill overlooking the seven hundred-mile-long Kuskokwim River.
On my way home after finishing one of my last day shifts, I stopped at our little mail to see if I’d received any late letters from my mom. Looking through the tiny glass window I saw what appeared to be a slip of paper laying diagonally in the mail slot. Too thin to be an envelope, I fantasized that maybe this could be a note from the base commander telling me that my reassignment to Alaska was all just a joke.
I pulled out the neatly folded note, noting my last name hand-written in small block letters. I unfolded it, looking first at the signature at the bottom before daring to read the message it contained. It was signed, ‘T.X. Sanchez’. Slightly confused, my eyes shot up to the body of the note.
‘Frank, before you leave the base for home today can you come see me? I’ll be in the Rec Room. I’d like to ask you a favor.
Thanks, T.X. Sanchez’
I looked around to see if there may be someone hiding behind a door waiting to play some kind of joke on me, but I saw no one.
I walked out of the mailroom, stopping by the orderly’s desk on my way out.
“Hey,” I said to the airman sitting at his desk typing some important-looking document on his Royal typewriter, “I just got this note in my mail slot.” I waved the note at him.
“Yeah?” He said, making his answer sound like a question.
“Yeah, well I was just wondering if you saw who may have put it there.”
“Is it signed?” He asked, a little annoyed that I’d interrupted him.
“Uh, yeah. ‘Sanchez’.”
“Tommy?”
“I think so.”
“Is it a dirty note?”
“What?”
“Is it a dirty note?” Delivered, word by word—slowly.
“Oh, no. He says he wants me to see him in the Rec Room before I leave for home.”
The orderly leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Well fuck, DeLeón. Why don’t you just go to the Rec Room to see what he wants instead of standing here taking up my time?”
“No. I mean, yes. That’s what I plan to do. But I was just wondering…”
He cocked his head and stared at me, harder.
“Never mind.” I said. “I’ll go see if he’s there.” I turned and headed for the door.
“There you go!” He said to my back.
I felt kind of stupid as I walked up the wooden incline that led to the stairs outside the Rec Room, but since I’d never really met Tommy I was a little confused as to what he may want with me. I guess I just didn’t want any more surprises.
Entering the large fluorescent-lit room, I was overwhelmed with the stench of cigarette smoke and the sharp marble-like clicks of pool table balls. Since I’d been married I hadn’t spent any time there and had forgotten how noisy and smelly it was. With the note still in my hand I paused, looking around the room for Tommy.
I spotted him hunched over the end of one of the pool tables, left arm stiffly stretched on the dusty green felt, fingers wrapped around the end of a cue. His head was poised directly over the stick, right arm like a pendulum, pushing the end of the cue forward and back as he lined up his shot.
I waited for him to finish his shot, which he missed, and move away from the table.
“Tommy!” I called out.
He turned around to face me as I walked up to him. “Yeah?”
“Hey,” I said, holding the folded note in my hand, “you wanted to talk to me?”
He looked a little distracted as his opponent, one of the radar technicians whom I’d seen on occasion on the hill, ran three consecutive balls into the pool table’s leather pockets. “Oh yeah. Uh, you mind waiting a little bit. I’m about to lose this game anyway.”
“Sure, no problem. I’ll just wait over here.” I walked over and sat on one of the dated double-cushioned lounge chairs.
Putting the note into my uniform shirt’s breast pocket I sat and watched as Tommy took his turns on the pool table. He played with a determined intensity, lining up each shot with great care, his face a mask of deep concentration.
He was small with a dark, slightly pockmarked complexion, and wore his shiny black hair in a neat flat-top. After each shot his demeanor would immediately swing back from intense to jovial—joking and chuckling—either lining up his next ball or humorously remarking how badly he’d missed the previous shot. He didn’t just walk around the table but seemed to bounce from place to place. I got the distinct impression that somewhere inside of him there was a flaming ball of energy just fighting to get out.
As his opponent finally sank the eight ball, Tommy let out a shout of disgust. “Shit, I can’t believe this!” He banged the rubber base of his cue lightly on the floor and pointed to another guy sitting on one of the rec room’s high stools. “You’re up! Maybe you can beat this guy and his shit shots!” He then looked my way and the look on his face said that he’d totally forgotten that I was even there.
“Oh yeah,” he said, pointing at me, “let me put this cue up.”
He walked back from the cue rack and sat heavily down beside me on the lounge chair. He stuck out his hand, “Hey, Tommy Sanchez!”
I shook his hand and noted that even though it felt small in mine, his grip was vise-like.
“So, I got your note. What’s up?” I said.
“Well, you know it’s crazy, but I’ve been here for about a year and a half, doing the same job as you, and I’ve only seen you a couple of times.”
“Yeah. Those nine-on and three-off shifts tend to do that. There’s a whole group of guys that I see here and there that I’ve never met.”
“So, you were on Nietzsche’s crew, right?”
“Yeah, I was. Then he left.”
“OK, I’m on Kazinski’s crew. We work completely opposite to you. That’s why we never see each other.”
“So are you on days off now?” I asked.
“Yup. Second of three.”
“So,” I wanted to cut to the chase, “what’s the favor you wanted?”
“Well, I heard you got orders for Alaska…Tatalina.”
“Yeah, I sure did.”
“So…me too.”
“What?”
“Yeah, reporting next month on the twelfth. So it looks like the Air Force picked the only two Mexicans on the base and decided to send us to Alaska to freeze our asses off.”
“Holy crap!”
“Yeah, that sucks, right? And I asked around and heard you were from Texas—is that right?”
“Yeah, Houston.”
“San Antonio!” He said, poking himself in the chest.
“Really?”
“Yup, born and raised. So the Air Force is two-for-two.
“Sure seems like it.”
“OK, so here’s what I wanted to know. I know you got married a few months ago to some local chick…and you got a kid already, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“So are you planning to leave them here with her folks when you leave, or is she and your kid going somewhere else?”
“Well, I just got my car rebuilt so we’re driving to Houston where they’ll stay with my folks while I’m in Alaska.”
“Perfect!” He said it with so much emphasis that I jumped just a bit. “So, I live in San Antonio, and since we have to be at Tatalina on the same day I was wondering if you’d mind if I tagged along with you guys when you drive down to Texas. See, on the way to Houston you can drop me off in San Antonio. I’ll help pay for the gas and stuff, of course. What’dya say?”
“Well,” I said slowly, “I sure don’t mind, but I’ll have to ask Sharon to see how she feels about it. I don’t see why she’d mind though. Especially if you’re going to help pay for gas.”
“And I’ll kick in for some groceries too, along the way!”
“So, you know my son is not even six months old, right?”
“Oh, I didn’t know how old he was. But yeah, that’s OK.”
“And he gets a lot of colic and cries a lot.”
“Well, your car’s got a radio?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, there you go! Or I can stick my head out the window…my hair-do won’t get too messed up.” He rubbed his head and flashed a big smile. “But really man, this would save me a lot of travel money. I was planning to fly to San Antonio, but if I drive down with you and share expenses, that’ll mean more money for me. Oh, and a little more for you too.”
I looked up at the wall clock and knew Sharon would be wondering why I wasn’t home yet.
“OK look, I have to go now.” I said. “Have to eat dinner, then I have to pull a shift at the gas station where I work part-time. But I’ll talk to my wife and then let you know.”
“All right, that’s cool.”
I got up, and we both started heading for the door. “How do I get ahold of you?”
“Just leave me a note in my mailbox. It’s number 1122.” He said. “Just write ‘Yes’, if you and your wife agree.”
“OK. Are you getting a couple of days off work as travel time?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. If all goes well, we can use those days to get everything packed in the car and plan our drive down.”
“Sounds great.” He stuck his hand out and I shook it. “OK, see you vato.”
That last word gave me a bit of a pause, as I’d not heard it since before I left Houston for what seemed to be years ago.
***
On Thursday, January 31, 1963, I was officially relieved of official duty at the Winnemucca Air Force Station and was placed on ‘Travel Status’. Sharon and I had already packed up most of the stuff we were taking to Houston (not much), and what I would need when I left Houston on my way to Alaska. Our rent was paid up until the end of the month, and the utilities were to be cut off on February 1st.
We decided that we would start our drive to Houston early Friday morning, after stopping to pick up Tommy at the base. He and I would share the driving, and Sharon would ride in the back seat next to Ricky, who would be tucked into his bassinet. The baby’s formula came in cans so all we had to worry about was making sure that when we stopped to eat we did so at places that would let us warm his bottles up. Since restaurants and gas stations always had a coffee maker we felt confident that Sharon could sweet talk the waitresses and attendants into helping us out in that regard.
Although the weather was very cold in Nevada, the car had a very good heater so we weren’t too worried about the baby getting cold. Besides, the further south we drove the warmer it would get. We considered ourselves lucky that there was no snow on the ground, nor was there any forecast in the next few days.
We stuffed most of our clothing into laundry and cloth bags instead of boxes, so we could push them easier into all the nooks and crannies in the Bel Air’s spacious trunk. The last two items that went into the trunk was Tommy’s and my military duffel bags.
Since we couldn’t spare the money or the time to stay overnight in motels, we calculated that if we drove nonstop from Winnemucca to San Antonio, it would take us about thirty hours. Including food and restroom stops, that would put us at Tommy’s house late Saturday afternoon, and in Houston sometime later that night. That would give me a week to spend at home with my folks and to get Sharon and the baby settled before leaving around February 10th, for the trip to Alaska.
It was still dark when we pulled up to Tommy’s barracks Friday morning, and after putting his stuff in the trunk, drove off the base for the last time ever.
Looking back now, I shudder to think how the three of us started our roughly sixteen hundred-mile-trip with not a worry in the world. We were young, inexperienced, and excited to be off on a great adventure, never giving a second thought to a long road trip that would be fraught with danger.
And it would not be long before we would all come very close to losing our lives.
Somewhere In Arizona
We turned east onto Highway 40 and I drove the fifty-odd miles to Battle Mountain, where we’d turn south onto Highway 95, on our way to our first major waypoint, Las Vegas. There was very little traffic on the old two-lane road, and Sharon and I spent the first hour of the trip getting acquainted with Tommy.
I found him to be a very pleasant and funny guy, with a very quick wit and easy to get along with. We passed the time relating stories about our experiences at Winnemucca and comparing our sergeants’ differing sergeants’ supervisory styles.
He was very curious about how Sharon and I had met, and wondered aloud why he’d never come close to dating, or even meeting, any local Winnemucca girls. I told him about the local dances at the Town Hall, and he confessed that although he’d heard about them, he never had to courage to attend one.
“I don’t dance that good.” He said, looking at the mountains in the distance. “Besides, since I didn’t have a car I didn’t know how I’d get down and back anyway.”
I talked to him about how sometimes I’d ride down with Jay, or how I’d ask Michael if I could borrow his car.”
“Oh,” Sharon chimed in, “and don’t forget to fill Tommy in on who taught you how to dance.”
I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw that Sharon had a little smirk on her face. “I only asked Judy to teach me how to dance so I could have more dance time with you…” I said to the mirror.
“Judy, who?” Tommy asked.
I glanced at Tommy, “Oh, a girl named Judy Travis. Her dad owned those Sunoco gas stations on either side of Winnemucca. I met her at the base pool on one of those ‘Civilian Guest’ days.”
“Man,” Tommy said, “for not having a car you sure got around.”
“OK, let’s change the subject, all right?” I said, half-jokingly and half annoyed.
***
We made the city limits of Las Vegas around five o’clock in the evening. Because we spent twenty-five to thirty minutes at each of our stops from Winnemucca, we were making very poor time. By the time we all visited the restrooms, the baby was changed, and Sharon rinsed out Ricky’s cloth diapers and stowed them in the sealed metal container we kept in the trunk, our planned brief stops became extended stops. In addition, we found that somehow we’d forgotten to pack a can opener to punch holes in the cans of baby formula, so we spent a little extra time at one of the truck stops hunting one down.
After gassing up, Tommy took over the driving duties as we pulled out of Las Vegas and headed for Arizona. As late evening turned into night the drive turned extremely monotonous. About twenty miles out of town, my attempts to find anything on the radio other than static proved fruitless, and I turned it off.
Sharon was curled up on the back seat sleeping pleasantly, and thankfully, Ricky was quiet, probably soothed into silence by the car’s slightly rocking motion.
Since Tommy had not slept at all during the morning and afternoon drive, I was worried that he’d fall asleep at the wheel, and that concern was enough to keep me awake. It seemed like every time I closed my eyes and started to slip into a comfortable slumber, I would feel the car make a slight but unexpected swerve that would instantly bring me back into startled consciousness.
A couple of times I opened my eyes and saw Tommy sitting straight up, both hands on the wheel, with both eyes closed.
“Uh, Tommy! Are you OK?” became the question of the night—with the response, after opening his eyes wide, “Yeah…yeah. I’m OK. Don’t worry. I’m OK.”
Well, I was worried.
When Tommy took over the driving just outside of Las Vegas, we’d decided that he’d take us all the way to Tucson, Arizona. But well before dawn I could see that Tommy was not going to make it. Just outside of Kingman, I asked Tommy to pull over.
I had been dozing uncomfortably when I felt the car leave the paved highway and roll onto the shoulder. Jerking my head up I saw Tommy, his chin resting on his chest and his mouth hanging open, death gripping the steering wheel, sound asleep.
“TOMMY!” I yelled, at the same time grabbing the steering wheel with my left hand. “WAKE UP!”
His head popped up and his eyelids sprang open. I saw that, although his eyes were open, he was seeing nothing.
“What?” He said, groggily.
“STOP THE CAR!” I yelled.
“Uh…”
I sat up on the bench seat and quickly slid to the left. I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and stabilized the car. Although the two right tires were rolling on the shoulder, the two left tires were still on the pavement.
“STOP THE CAR!” I repeated, forcefully.
Fully conscious now, he applied the brake and we coasted to a stop. Because we were on the highway’s emergency lane, a couple of cars that had been trailing behind us passed us safely on the left, their occupants glaring curiously at us from their windows.
“Shit man, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” Tommy said, rubbing his eyes.
“You fell asleep, that’s what happened!” I said, a little angry and a lot scared. “Go ahead and get out, I’ll drive.”
“No, I’m OK now. Really.”
“No, you’re not. Let me drive for a while and you take a good nap. We’ll switch back in a couple of hours.”
“OK.” He said, a bit sheepishly.
As he got out and I slid behind the steering wheel, I remembered Sharon and Ricky. I looked back over my right shoulder. “Are you and the baby OK?”
“Yeah.” Sharon said. “Why are we stopped in the middle of nowhere? I heard yelling.”
“Tommy fell asleep.”
“While he was driving?”
“Uh, yes. While he was driving.” Tommy opened the passenger door and slid in.
“Tommy?” Sharon asked, pulling herself up to the back of his seat. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired. Is the baby all right?”
Sharon glanced over to the bassinet and readjusted Ricky’s blanket. “Yeah, he’s fine.”
I checked the mirror and pulled cautiously back onto the highway. Taking a deep breath, I wondered if I could make it all the way to San Antonio without any sleep.
Death Slips In
It was still dark as I accelerated the car back to highway speed, my senses still highly elevated due to the rush of adrenaline now coursing through every vein and artery in my body. I surveyed the car’s instrument panel and found that everything was working exactly as it should. At sixty to sixty-five miles an hour the car purred like a contented feline, the engine temperature hovering just below the normal operating range and the oil pressure needle steady and strong.
Tommy remained awake for all of about five minutes, after which he’d finally rolled over to the right and succumbed to a deep and snoring slumber. Sharon had drawn her legs up to her chest, covered her head with one of Ricky’s blankets and was also soundly sleeping. The regularly-spaced sound of the Bel Air’s tires slapping the highway’s rubberized expansion joints was inexplicably reassuring, and I settled in for a long drive.
For the next three hours everything went pleasingly well.
***
I remember trying to focus on the hands gripping the steering wheel and wondering who they belonged to. Waves of gray floated in and out of my vision; I re-lived, in episodic-like fashion, the event when I broke my arm at age five, and saw my mother beckoning for me to come to her.
A strange ogre-like face stared back at me from a floating oblong mirror, and I wondered why the road behind the face was racing backwards.
I urgently tried to recall why Tommy needed to wake up; when I looked for him on the passenger side of the bench seat I couldn’t find him. How did he disappear? I thought. Maybe he’s already driving and I just can’t see him.
My wife was in the back seat and it was time for her to drink her formula. If I could just will my hands to go of this wheel I could open a can and feed her.
In the distance…something red. It was coming closer and I knew I had to stop to see it. I needed to push the brake pedal but my foot was so heavy. I called for Tommy to help me get my foot off the gas pedal and onto the brake. He was there now, but he wasn’t hearing me. I called his name again…loud. But it came out as a whisper.
The red thing was coming up fast and I knew I needed to stop there. My foot was on the brake and I aimed for the red thing. Was it a house? Yes, maybe–but a bright red one. And those two white columns—were those long black snakes coming out of their sides? Odd, I dreamily thought, the house had Coca Cola and 7Up signs. And it was so small.
The car floated to a stop next to the columns and I knew I had to get out, but I didn’t know why.
I pushed the door open and gray concrete with black stains rapidly came up to meet me.
***
My face felt cold and wet and I felt like I was drowning.
“Don’t drink! I wash your face! Wake up!”
A hard hand behind my head, the inside of which hurt so badly.
“Wake up!” A gruff voice demanded.
“Wake up!” I opened my eyes and I looked at…Tonto? I wondered where the Lone Ranger was.
“Hey? How you feel now?” Tonto asked.
“I…I…Tonto?” Just asking.
“Wha…?”
A pulsing ball that had suddenly grown in my stomach needed to come out.
“OK, you need to throw up! Here, I turn your head.” The hand twisted my head, and I smelled gas and oil. My body tightened up as a wave passed through it and I vomited into the oil smell.
“OK, good! You going to be good now.” Tonto said. “Sit up!”
I reached out and grabbed Tonto’s shoulder and pulled myself up into a sitting position.
“Breathe deep! Breathe deep!”
I gulped the cool dry air. I turned my head and saw a car above me. The door was open. I saw tiny feet…in slippers.
“Oh God…” the worried girl voice coming from above the feet. “Is he going to be alright?”
It sounded like Sharon’s voice.
“Yes, I think so. He needs to breathe deep.” Tonto, again.
“Frank!” Sharon’s voice pleaded…sounding very scared. “Breathe, okay? Do what he says.”
“Okay.” I said. I breathed deeply and things began to fall into place.
My head still hurt, throbbing from my forehead all the way down my neck, but my thinking was clearing up a bit. I looked around and saw that I was sitting on a concrete pad outside of a small red gas station. Tonto was not Tonto at all—he was a tall Indian in a black sleeveless vest, long black hair pulled back in a braid.
“Come on, let’s try to get you up.” He said, as he put a strong hand under my armpit and pulled up.
I felt a little woozy but was able to hold my balance.
My hair was wet and water ran down my neck, giving me a little shiver.
“You feel OK now?” Sharon asked, her voice full of concern.
“Yeah, I think so.” Then, I thought about the baby. “Where’s Ricky?”
“He’s OK.” Sharon said. “We’re both OK. It was just you and Tommy.”
Tommy!! “Oh, where’s Tommy?”
“He’s inside the station. I think he’s going to be OK too.” The Indian said. “And call me Nick, not Tonto, OK? I know your wife’s name is Sharon.”
“OK Nick, thanks.” I was still just a little shaky as I started to walk into the station with Nick following closely behind, his strong hand in my right armpit.
Tommy was sitting on a stool with a wet shop rag hanging off his head. His face looked a little gray, but otherwise he seemed fine.
“You OK?” I asked as I walked in.
“Yeah. Shit man, that was bad.”
Up to that moment, I hadn’t even thought to ask what the hell had happened. I turned to Nick.
“What happened? Did we eat something bad?”
“Well,” he said, crossing his massive arms, “I think you and your buddy got carbon monoxide poisoning. Your wife said you just got your car worked on. Is that right?”
“Well, it was more than that. The entire engine was rebuilt and dropped into that Bel Air.”
“Aha!” Nick said, shaking his head. “My guess is that whoever re-did the engine didn’t torque down the exhaust manifold to specs and you blew the gaskets. That would allow exhaust fumes to seep into the car through the firewall.”
Not really comprehending all that he’d just said, I nodded my head and said, “Oh.”
“Yeah son,” Nick said, crossing his arms, “I’m thinking you got a good dose of carbon monoxide because of an exhaust leak. But I’ll know better after I take a torque wrench to those bolts. I’m betting they’re loose.”
I had not heard of carbon monoxide in those days, but the phrase, ‘exhaust manifold’ rang a bell in my memory.
During the motor rebuild back at the gas station, I remember Tom mentioning the exhaust manifold. We’d just received the gaskets in the mail from the JC Whitney catalog and I asked him what they were for.
“They go between the manifold here (pointing to the set of pipes coming out of the side of the engine) and the engine itself. When the gas burns and gets pumped out, it goes into these pipes and out the exhaust in the back. This gasket makes sure none of the exhaust leaks out. Of course, we’ll make sure the manifold is nice and tight so the gasket can do its job.”
I don’t recall him mentioning a torque wrench, but I found out later that the bolts holding the manifold to the side of the engine, with the gasket in between, must be screwed down to a certain degree of tightness. If not, then eventually the bolts will loosen as a result of being heated and cooled repeatedly. A torque wrench measures the tightness of the bolts it is tightening in terms of foot pounds.
A few minutes later, Nick came back into the station. He was carrying a thick wrench about eighteen inches long with a large socket attached to one end.
“Yep, that was it!” He announced loudly. “Those puppies were loose all right!”
So there we had it. Because of us overlooking a very small detail while hurriedly rebuilding the engine on the Bel Air, my wife, my child, a friend and I had almost died.
“So it’s OK now?” I asked, just a bit concerned.
“Sure it is!” Nick proudly said, waving the torque wrench in the air. “Got’r tightened down! She was loose as a goose. If you’d driven any further, the damned manifold would’ve probably fallen clean off.”
***
It turns out the little gas station was located just south of a place called Wikieup; literally a bump on the southbound highway 93, just past Arizona State Highway 131. It was a no-brand kind of station, painted bright red and sported two blazing white gas pumps.
Nick kept insisting that we should get some kind of medical evaluation because of the amount of carbon monoxide Tommy and I had been exposed to, but when I asked him where the nearest medical facility was, he said that would be in Kingman. Well, I wasn’t willing to travel back to where we’d come from; besides, we were feeling pretty normal as we loaded back into the car.
What was amazing was that neither Sharon nor Ricky had suffered any ill effects from the leaking exhaust. What we finally figured out later was that when I’d taken over the driving in Kingman, Sharon, feeling a bit stuffy in the back, had lowered both back windows about an inch or so. Evidently that had been just enough to draft the exhaust out of the car well before they had a chance to inhale it into their lungs.
After having spent a little over an hour at the little gas station, Tommy and I felt pretty normal so we decided to go ahead and press on to San Antonio. Before leaving we gassed up, bought a bunch of stale candy and snacks, and Sharon refreshed the baby’s diaper bucket. We all thanked Nick profusely and offered to pay him for his exhaust manifold repair job. He refused, saying that seeing us all alive and well was thanks enough for him.
Pulling away and rejoining the highway, we all waved goodbye; the last memory I have of Nick is seeing him waving back, his long black hair blowing in the desert breeze.
During the time we were there, not one customer had pulled in for gas or anything else for that matter. If you look at a current map nowadays you’ll see that the little generic gas stop has now been turned into a nice full-service Chevron station. But it’s still in the middle of nowhere.
***
Many long hours later, we finally turned into an old, but well taken care of, neighborhood within view of the San Antonio skyline. Tommy guided the car along the narrow two-lane street, passing one modestly-sized wood-frame home after another before he pointed and announced, “Here we are!”
He pulled in to a driveway of sorts—two concrete strips, adjacent to each other—between two houses. Sharon had been dozing, but Tommy’s exclamation woke her up.
“Where are we?” She asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning deliciously.
“My house!” Tommy answered.
“Which one? The one on the right or the one on the left?”
“This one.” Tommy pointed to the one on the right.
“Are your folks at home?” I asked, looking over the small house as we came to a stop.
“Yeah, my mom never goes anywhere. She practically lives in the kitchen day and night.”
“Oh…” Sharon exclaimed. “Cooking? For who?”
“My dad, my brothers, sisters; you know.” Tommy answered, pushing open the door and stepping out.
Sharon pulled herself up to the front seat, and whispered in my ear, “Are we going inside?”
“I don’t know.” I answered, truthfully. “He didn’t say anything.” I heard the trunk being popped open. “Let me see if he needs any help.”
I opened my door and stepped out into the cool but humid San Antonio evening.
“Hey, you need some help getting your stuff?”
“Nope!” Tommy said, as he balanced his duffle bag on the ground and pushed the trunk closed.
“OK, well…” And, before I could finish, Tommy shot his hand out. I reached out and shook it.
“Hey, thanks for the ride.” He said, as he shook my hand quickly. “Guess I’ll see you in Alaska in a few weeks.”
He swung the duffle bag over his shoulder, turned and walked up the three wooden steps leading to the porch and the front door. I sort of stood there watching as he put the duffle bag down and with an open hand slapped at the closed screen door.
“Mom! Mom! Hey, open up!”
He turned and gave me a little smile. I didn’t know what to do so I just stood there smiling back.
“Sometimes she can’t hear the door ‘cause she likes to listen to Mexican music on her radio.” Tommy said.
He hit the door again, and this time the solid wooden door behind the screen screeched open.
“Mijo!” I heard a woman saying excitedly. Then a pair of mom arms reached out and embraced Tommy. He broke the embrace, swung the duffle bag over his shoulder and disappeared through the door. It slammed shut.
I continued to stand there for a few more seconds staring at the door, expecting him to come back out to the porch and invite us in.
The right rear car window rolled down and Sharon asked, “Where did he go?”
As I was about to tell her that he’d just gone into his house I heard the wooden door close and the sound of a deadbolt slide into place.
And that was that.
I stood there a few more seconds believing that Tommy would eventually come out and invite us in to meet his mom, but that didn’t happen. The door stayed closed.
Ricky started crying, and Sharon rolled the car window shut.
I walked around the back of the car and slipped into the driver’s seat. Ricky was now in full voice.
“He needs a change and I need to feed him.” Sharon said as I slammed the car door shut. “We need to find a gas station if we don’t get invited in.”
I glanced longingly towards the closed doors, hoping to see them swing open again. But that didn’t happen. I turned the key and started the car.
A few minutes later I saw a small gas station and pulled up to the pumps.
“OK, go ahead and take the baby to the restroom while I gas up the car. I also need to check the oil.” I said to Sharon, trying to talk over the baby’s wailing.
“All right.” She answered. “Can you go in and see if they’ll let us use their coffee pot warmer so I can give Ricky his formula?”
“Sure.” I helped her get our screaming and kicking baby out of the bassinet. “I’ll go in and get the key to the bathroom.”
While I was filling the car I checked to see how much money I still had. The crumpled bills and the assorted coins added up to less than ten dollars. But I figured that that would be enough to get us to Houston, and once there I’d be able to cash the Air Force travel funds check that I’d been given before I left Winnemucca. I planned to leave the majority of that money with Sharon and take just a few dollars with me on my bus ride to Seattle.
The gas pump popped off and I hurried into the station to pay and ask to use their coffee warmer.
About an hour later we were eastbound on Texas Highway 90. The baby was sound asleep and Sharon had moved up to the front seat. We’d hardly spoken since leaving San Antonio, both of us deep in our own thoughts.
Finally Sharon said, “Well, that guy turned out to be an asshole.”
“Tommy? Yeah…” I said slowly.
“He hardly spoke after the first hour, and didn’t say anything for most of the trip. Then on top of that, you had to do most of the driving because he kept falling asleep.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Then I can’t believe he didn’t even have the decency to introduce us to his mom, or even ask if we wanted to come in for a while.
“Yeah, I don’t know what that was all about. I guess he was just glad to be home and forgot about us being there.”
Well, it’s good thing that it’s gonna be you and not me who’s going to spend the next year with him.”
“Yeah…” I said, and wondered what the next year would be like for us. Although our little family would be apart for a whole year, I was somewhat comforted in the thought that Sharon and the baby, or babies in a few months, would be fine as they’d have my parents looking out for them.
Unfortunately, and to my complete surprise, it wouldn’t be long before that particular situation would deteriorate and spin completely out of control.
To be continued…