W is for Wasted

This is your reward for denial, I thought. You decide you don’t care and the family home vanishes. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The Universe was having a little tee-hee at my expense. Whereas the Kinsey branch of the family was chockablock with cousins, aunts, and uncles, even an ancient living grandmother, the Millhones had disappeared. As further punishment, I was now saddled with a cluster of second or third cousins related to me tangentially through Rebecca Dace, and I was far better acquainted with that bunch than I wanted to be. I’d also inherited the family corpse, a dead guy whose last rites had fallen to me. The only upside I could see was that the Daces made my mother’s side of the family look like bastions of mental health.

I headed back to the 99 and took up my southbound journey. Forty miles outside of Bakersfield, I checked my watch. It was 11:45 and I was starving. I hadn’t bothered to eat anything before I left the hotel. I’d been more interested in getting the journey under way than in feeding my face. How foolhardy was that? I’d never make it to Santa Teresa without something to eat. I wouldn’t arrive until midafternoon and by then I’d be gnawing my own arm. I pulled my shoulder bag closer and fumbled through the interior, but all I came up with was a sugarfree breath mint of no known nutritional value. At that very moment, I realized I’d forgotten to call Henry to advise him of my estimated arrival time. That did it.

I started scanning for highway signs, looking for the closest rest stop. Of particular interest was the crossed knife and fork, the universal symbol for fatty foodstuffs. Coming up on the Tejon Pass, I took the Frazier Mountain Park Road where the Flying J promised numerous forms of relief: weighing scales, a pump dump, liquid propane, diesel fuel, a travel store, and overnight RV accommodations. The parking area was expansive, probably three hundred spaces, only a small number of which were taken. Most important of all was the Denny’s restaurant rising up in splendor.

I parked two aisles away from the entrance, locked the Mustang, and went in. I availed myself of the facilities and then found an empty booth. A kindly waitress brought me water, a menu, and silverware. Since I’d eaten breakfast a scant three hours before, I skipped that section of the menu and looked at the garish photographs of burgers. Most were alarmingly large; double-meat patties with cheese and all manner of folderol piled up in a bun. Feeling virtuous, I opted for a salad, knowing that before I left I could hoof it over to the minimart and stock up on candy bars.

When I paid my check, I asked the cashier to make change for a five-dollar bill. I’d seen a pay phone outside the service station and I was headed in that direction when a middle-aged man approached from the parking lot and tagged me by the arm.

“Is that your Mustang?”

I turned to him with surprise. “It is.”

“I thought so. I saw you pull in. My wife and I had a booth by the window and she’s the one who called it to my attention. We were just having a closer look.”

“I take it you’re a fan.”

“Yes’sum, but that’s not why I came looking for you. Are you aware you have a flat tire?”

“You’re kidding. Flat as in dead flat or low on air?”

“Come on and I’ll show you. I worried you might not notice it. You get back on the road and first thing you know, you’d be riding on the rim.”

He turned and headed toward the rows of parked cars and I quick-stepped to catch up.

“Where’re you coming from?” he asked.

“Bakersfield. I’m on my way to Santa Teresa.”

We passed through to the second aisle. His wife was standing by the Mustang and she sent me an apologetic smile, as though she felt responsible for the problem I’d been dealt.

He said, “I’m Ron Swingler, by the way, and this is my wife, Gilda.”

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said as we shook hands all around. “I appreciate your taking the time to let me know about this.”

They shared a similar body type, round through the middle with truncated extremities. Easy to see how their shared lifestyle and eating habits had created the symmetry.

“What about you? Where are you from?” I asked.

“Texas. This is our honeymoon. We’ve been married two days.”

There went that keenly observed conclusion.

Then I caught sight of my left rear tire. “Well, dang. That is flat.”

“Look here.” He pointed to a round metal circle the size of a pencil eraser between the sidewall and the hubcap with its tiny silver horse in the center. “Looks like a roofing nail, which is technically called a clout nail. Short shank with that wide flat head? I put myself through college working as a roofer. This is the type we used to fasten shingles or roofing felt. Nail like that isn’t but about that long,” he said, showing me with his thumb and index finger. “Pull it out, you’ll probably see a ring or screw shank.”