Frosty Stop Encounter

Frosty Stop Encounter

    Semis, box trucks, RVs, rusted old pickups, tour buses, passenger cars like the one I was driving, several dozens of all of them, stretching beyond sight in both directions, are all but motionless ahead of and behind us with the cloudless-sky sun converting this spacious Mercury Marquis into a human-occupied oven.   

Upon coming to a complete rest at one juncture, we got out and looked ahead and back but quickly returned to our immobile shady shelter.

      Not running the air conditioning because with this unprecedented national gas shortage, it is important to conserve fuel and go for the higher mileage benefits, especially after opting for a high-powered V-8 two years ago when such fiscal considerations were not a factor.

Dust flies everywhere from highway construction equipment smoothing the ground for what would become the pavement finishing the rest of I-40 through middle Arizona, the final connection on that highway replacing legendary Route 66.

A young guy from Illinois who never experienced the desert, I am headed to Las Vegas for the first time, with a fellow vagabond rookie who I have known as a buddy since we were in grade school.

Never totally averse to new and different experiences in our early adulthood stage, we are practically enjoying the differentness of the so-called “dry heat” that is not as stifling as back home when accompanied by the Midwest humidity – yet can still be devastating when provided in excess.

Enjoying the mix of pop, including disco hits like “Funkytown” by Lipps Inc., and Native American music plus the enthusiastic DJ talk on the Navajo reservation AM radio station, we found it to be the only one on the dial coming in with any listenable clarity. The Marquis crawls ahead with the slow procession, flag men waving drivers off the hard surface that is being done away with in sections onto the smooth, flattened dirt with road graders and concrete destroyers of some sort up ahead, noisily competing with the broadcast emanating from inside the car.

Ahead is a small, homemade mini-billboard proclaiming, “Frosty Stop – 3 Miles!” It is made of a wooden stake with a rectangular piece of cardboard nailed to it and the words scrawled on with a black-type paint.

The car radio’s female voice predicts 99 degrees today on “The Rez” in English then continues in what we believe to be Navajo language.

I can finally, after what seemed to be 20 minutes of vehicular plodding, soon accelerate gradually up to 45 mph then suddenly see the high priority destination.

Surprised that so many others went on their way down the interstate, perhaps to make up time after being delayed for so long, we cannot miss this opportunity.

Only a handful of other vehicles fill parking spaces by the small frame building as we get out of the big Merc without rotating the cranks to roll up the windows and locking the doors, planning to keep it in view the short time we were there. 

Foregoing conversation, Gary heads in a direction away from me after we both look through the Frosty Stop windows and wooden-framed screen door saying “OPEN,” opting, without discussing it, not to enter and take a seat at the six-stool, chromium-based counter seats or one of the three available Formica-topped tables in the half dozen booths.

While I scan the overhead commercially-printed menu above the order window to see what is available, my eyes open widely upon seeing the word “shake.” I turn to see where Gary was headed for immediately upon leaving the car and determined it was the rest room.

Realizing it may be the last chance for a while, I am strolling toward the far corner of the building for that purpose too then notice him and another male nearby.

Waiting about three feet, at 45-degree angles, from the wooden door saying “Men” but apart a good five feet or so, those two appear to be relaxed and patient, not anxious.

The other fellow is by no means young and has many lines in his mahogany reddened face but not they are different from elderly wrinkles. These are lines that show a depth of character, a life of dignity, many years of proud living, all also reflected in his posture, head back, spine straight, feet firmly pointing forward.

He is wearing a short-sleeve, thin plaid shirt and loose-fitting slacks with sandaled feet. His stance, expression and solidity reflect personal self-respect, not in how he looks but in who he is.

Words like wisdom, heritage, tradition, legacy, strength and integrity race through my head when looking at this man, those thoughts prompted apparently by stereotypical influences from earlier in my life.

While standing very erect, full-chested with veined forearms and a slight middle body paunch, he has salt-streaked pepper hair, hanging a couple inches below his shirt collar. His lips are closed as he looks not at the “Men” door or either of us visitors, with the exception of a brief glance, but at the Arizona landscape just beyond the edge of the building, with hands clasped at his belt line.

A faint metallic clicking sound follows from behind the door after these few quick seconds of assessment as we three are standing there. The door flies open quickly, out comes a thin boy in his early teens, with worn, untied tennis shoes, faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt, He dashes off with no eyes following him. 

My thoughts have gone in directions like where the older fellow could be from, the life he has led, his history, the stories he could tell, what his day consists of – I’ve never met or been this close to a real “Indian” before!

After the kid runs away, it was time for someone to take their turn and enter “Men,” but mutual consideration and courtesy prevails momentarily.

Gary leans his upper body and head forward, but hesitates, freezing his feet and legs. The other man remains stoic without any facial expression while I grimace a half-smile and those two look at each other.

Later Gary and I agree that we could not be certain if the other man spoke or understood Midwest American English. It would be natural, in another setting with another type of person, to offer small talk-type conversation as the two of us travelers know it. But no words have left our three mouths as Gary stretches out his arm while looking at the Indian man and encouragingly gestures with a sweep of it toward the door of the rest room. 

After he notices how Gary is hesitant to move forward, and rightfully so because he was not there first, the proud man, obviously, by now, all things considered, a Navajo elder, looks at him and, in a calm, deep conversational voice, queries, “You just gotta piss?”

Gary responds, “Uh, yeah, but I can wait” to which the Navajo said, “No, you go ahead now.”

No further conversation transpires. Gary enters “Men,” then leaves a minute or two later, saying “thank you” for the privilege as the considerate man nods his head with a slight grin.