a story by David Dripps.
The year was somewhere around 1990... it is all a blur to me now.
I remember it something like this.
Eric, do you still drive the same 1973 Mercury Capri you drove on our ill-fated cross country trip that went tragically wrong when we stopped briefly at the I-70 rest stop just East of Limon Colorado to refill the profusely leaking radiator during the deepest throes of a blistering, white-out snow storm?
Filling plastic jugs with water in the men's room, we had no idea that fate was waiving her middle finger at us. In the far stall, collapsed like a fetus in a 180 day ultrasound, laid a crippled and defeated Hispanic male.
He was no more than five feet tall and 120 pounds. Introducing himself as Ishmael, he was doubled over and dry heaving in a puddle of his own wretch under a porcelain toilet, succumbed to the perils of alcohol and prescription drug withdrawal.
His left hand was permanently tightened in a contorted, painful fist that he waved like a club while calling Hugo Chavez the devil. He plead with us to take the keys to his Ford LTL 9000 class 8 tanker and drive it over the ice covered and landslide prone Monarch pass and deliver its cargo of 8,000 gallons of highly flammable compressed propane to a desperate Pima Indian reservation near Moab, Utah. I grabbed him just under the shoulders and lifted his brittle, diseased body over the toilet bowl to give him the final dignity of at least being able to puke on his knees and go out like a man and not some pitiful bum. The gold cross on his necklace slipped into the toilet water as he gave repeated wheezing, labored, and moaning heaves.
Leaving the Capri behind, you sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key. The mighty in line six cylinder 855 cubic inch Cummins diesel engine coughed to life with authority. Without hesitation I ran to join you, taking a last pull on the joint and stopping only to pop a couple of amyl nitrates. I jumped into the cab beside you.
Pedal to the metal, the turbo spooling, you ignored all weigh stations along the way while taking repeated chin slobbering pulls off a 1.75 liter bottle of Jim Beam and praying we’d avoid getting pulled over since you had no CDL license and had never driven a truck before.
We re-routed over Berthoud pass hoping for a break from the icy conditions. It turned out to be a horrible decision and a major tactical mistake. Snow fall worsened. You refused to slow down and when we crested a hill at over 75 MPH, there was a rabbit sitting in the middle of the road. Mashing the brakes to the floor, the wheels locked up and the 80,000 lb trailer jack knifed sideways, sliding another half mile down the mountain pass and finally settling against a guard rail, blocking both lanes of traffic. An Aspen branch pierced the hood and snapped the fuel line. We weren’t going anywhere. The Pima Indians were going to have to tough it out.
Fortunately, a driver going the opposite direction on his way to Kansas witnessed the whole thing. He offered to drop us back off at the rest stop in Limon where we’d left the Capri. It was our only hope. It took us another four hours to make it. In a panicked frenzy, we raced into the rest room to break the bad news to Ishmael. I kicked open the door to the stall but he was nowhere to be found. All that remained was his gold cross necklace sitting in the bottom of the toilet. You dipped your hand into the bowl and retrieved it, wiping it off on your shirt, gave it a kiss, and lifted it around your neck. “He left this behind for a reason,” you said, fighting back tears. “I don’t know why, but some day this will all make sense.” Last I heard you still wear it around your neck even to this day.
The year was somewhere around 1990... it is all a blur to me now.
I remember it something like this.
Eric, do you still drive the same 1973 Mercury Capri you drove on our ill-fated cross country trip that went tragically wrong when we stopped briefly at the I-70 rest stop just East of Limon Colorado to refill the profusely leaking radiator during the deepest throes of a blistering, white-out snow storm?
Filling plastic jugs with water in the men's room, we had no idea that fate was waiving her middle finger at us. In the far stall, collapsed like a fetus in a 180 day ultrasound, laid a crippled and defeated Hispanic male.
A crippled, dying Hispanic man.
He was no more than five feet tall and 120 pounds. Introducing himself as Ishmael, he was doubled over and dry heaving in a puddle of his own wretch under a porcelain toilet, succumbed to the perils of alcohol and prescription drug withdrawal.
His left hand was permanently tightened in a contorted, painful fist that he waved like a club while calling Hugo Chavez the devil. He plead with us to take the keys to his Ford LTL 9000 class 8 tanker and drive it over the ice covered and landslide prone Monarch pass and deliver its cargo of 8,000 gallons of highly flammable compressed propane to a desperate Pima Indian reservation near Moab, Utah. I grabbed him just under the shoulders and lifted his brittle, diseased body over the toilet bowl to give him the final dignity of at least being able to puke on his knees and go out like a man and not some pitiful bum. The gold cross on his necklace slipped into the toilet water as he gave repeated wheezing, labored, and moaning heaves.
Mr. Larson takes command.
Pedal to the metal, the turbo spooling, you ignored all weigh stations along the way while taking repeated chin slobbering pulls off a 1.75 liter bottle of Jim Beam and praying we’d avoid getting pulled over since you had no CDL license and had never driven a truck before.
We re-routed over Berthoud pass hoping for a break from the icy conditions. It turned out to be a horrible decision and a major tactical mistake. Snow fall worsened. You refused to slow down and when we crested a hill at over 75 MPH, there was a rabbit sitting in the middle of the road. Mashing the brakes to the floor, the wheels locked up and the 80,000 lb trailer jack knifed sideways, sliding another half mile down the mountain pass and finally settling against a guard rail, blocking both lanes of traffic. An Aspen branch pierced the hood and snapped the fuel line. We weren’t going anywhere. The Pima Indians were going to have to tough it out.
A good Samaritan.
.Fortunately, a driver going the opposite direction on his way to Kansas witnessed the whole thing. He offered to drop us back off at the rest stop in Limon where we’d left the Capri. It was our only hope. It took us another four hours to make it. In a panicked frenzy, we raced into the rest room to break the bad news to Ishmael. I kicked open the door to the stall but he was nowhere to be found. All that remained was his gold cross necklace sitting in the bottom of the toilet. You dipped your hand into the bowl and retrieved it, wiping it off on your shirt, gave it a kiss, and lifted it around your neck. “He left this behind for a reason,” you said, fighting back tears. “I don’t know why, but some day this will all make sense.” Last I heard you still wear it around your neck even to this day.
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