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Feb 25
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It was one of the few times I’ve ever been on time to anything. We’d arrived early to meet with the rest of the students taking Geology of the Grand Canyon, so I should’ve known we were doomed. There’s a cosmic inversion of luck between my time of arrival and the time of departure.
The earlier and more prepared I am, the worse things are going to go. My current theory is that if I’m too early I become an object at rest, unable to repel the cosmic cursewaves.
My boyfriend’s truck was loaded with a week’s worth of camping supplies and gear for more than two dozen students. We started our caravan to the Grand Canyon almost an hour behind schedule because nearly a third of the class, one professor, and the guy in charge of picking up the college van still used sundials to tell time. Literally. They’d stand and point at the sun and the shadows and argue about it.
We were passing through downtown Blinkenmissit, Utah, when the flashy lights in the side mirrors caught our attention. “Huh,” I said. “He must be after someone.” A quick, paranoid check confirmed that we weren’t speeding.
Half of a mile later, the police car bleeped at us. The officer was gesturing for us to pull over. I said, “Apparently, he’s after us.” We pulled over while the rest of our caravaners slowed to snicker and point as they passed us.
Rolling down his window as the officer approached, Boyfriend said, “Can I help you officer?” We hadn’t broken any traffic laws, and all of our lights were working properly. We were on the side of the road and no one else was around. Scenes from The Hitcher and Macon County Line flashed through my head. I glanced over to make sure the cop didn’t look like Rutger Hauer or Jethro.
Thumbs hitched to his belt, the cop thrust forward his ample belly, snapped his gum, and drawled, “You were driving too close to the center line.”
Huh? How does one drive “too close” to the center line? As in many very important life boundaries, I was certain this one came under the “breaking the plane” rule.
Boyfriend’s mouth said, “Um, I’m not sure what you mean by “too close.” Are we getting a ticket or something?” But his eyes clearly said, “Are you out of your mind?” Officer Jethro changed tactics, harassing us about a small crack in the passenger side of the windshield instead. Because that wasn’t nearly as stupid. Once again, I tested fate by pointing out that the windshield was, in fact, legal due to size and placement of the crack.
Twenty minutes later, Officer Jethro generously let us go without a ticket for doing nothing wrong. Yay! The system works! We escaped, carefully driving in the exact center of the lane for the rest of Utah.
The truck, sensing our relief, started making scary noises. “Wheel bearing,” said my boyfriend, the mechanic. “I had a feeling this would happen. I’ll repack it Tuba City when we meet up with the van.” In a sunbaked (I know–redundant for Arizona) empty lot he magically produced wrenches, tools, and new bearing junk that he’d brought along “just in case.”
I’ve discovered that a wrench, flashing brightly in the mid-day Arizona sun, causes instantaneous brain damage to every man within 500ft of it. Like raccoons, every male student in our caravan gravitated toward the shiny object. A pack of them wandered over to stand around near the truck and talk about Man Stuff.
Boyfriend plowed through the crowd, scooted under the front of the truck, and stated, “Why don’t you guys go get something to eat. It’ll take me 45 minutes at most to fix this.”
Ha.
I’m not sure if it was the sweltering midday heat or a sudden build-up of testosterone at the sight of power tools. Whatever it was, the men morphed into instant experts on all things bearings. And they were in a sharing mood. Frustrated, and out of goopy stuff, we sent a few of the more “helpful” guys to find a parts store while another group went in search of beer.
Boyfriend grimly worked on his task, surrounded by eleventy-billion college students who were all arguing about the best way to repack wheel bearings, when an unfamiliar voice sliced through the clamor, “You sure you doin’ that right?”
We’d been infiltrated by a tiny, 200 year old Navajo with a big bottle of whiskey and three fuzzy teeth. He was armed with toxic halitosis and an aversion to water; we were careful not to get too close. Leaning down to get a better look, he told my boyfriend, the mechanic, “I know a thing or two about packin’ bearin’s.” With bleary eyes and a wide, gaping grin he and several of his magically appearing friends settled in with the undergrads to advise and annoy Boyfriend.
Two hours, several whiners, one near-fight, and another drunken local later, we were back on the road! We headed toward the Grand Canyon, our camp site, and the promise of a shower. Boyfriend, having had enough advice crossed the Reservation in record time. In the exact center of the lane.
We pulled in at almost ten o’clock that night. Four hours late, sunburned, dirty, and itchy from sweat, we arrived in time to set up camp in the middle of a freak blizzard and two feet of snow.
I slept in a bed that night.
