The Missing Sign

My adult son told me I had one weekend left on their timetable to drive to his home and see my daughter-in-law pregnant with their first child. My mouth blurted the affirmative answer to him and I stared at the phone when I hung up. I looked out the window, realizing I had a fourteen hour drive each way to accomplish the task. I estimated the amount of gas I would need for the mileage and realized I had to ask someone to ride along and split the cost.

Feeling reckless, I called an acquaintance who I knew had a relative who lived near my son. She answered her phone while on a hiking trail. I rattled off the invitation as slowly and clearly as I could and she said, “Yes! I planned a trip there but couldn’t afford the airfare so this is perfect. Thank you for thinking of me.“

I gulped, crossing my fingers, “Could we leave in two hours?”

“Yes. We’re almost back to the trailhead.  I’ll go home shower and pack. Pick me up!”

I hung up, amazed at my luck that this woman, Serena, had agreed to the spontaneous departure but I had no extra time to sit and gloat about it, I had to pack too.

About half way on our first day of travel, we discovered we were on the wrong freeway. Nearly out of gas, I decided to pull over to what looked like one of those single intersections sprinkled throughout the desert to save those few who have car trouble, need more ice or didn’t fill up with gas in the last big city.. Once I pulled off the exit, we saw there was one building on each of the four corners .

As I rolled up to the combined gas and auto repair station, Serena noted the other three were an American food diner, a grocery store and a motel. I giggled, “What else does anyone stuck in the hot desert ever need!”

After the gas station employee filled the tank, he said he knew exactly where we had missed the directional sign. “Yeah, you’re not the first ones to miss it either,” he said, the blistering heat passed through my open window. Although his attire was matted in sweat, he seemed perfectly adjusted to the desolated surroundings by slowly chewing tobacco between words like a piece of gum. He was deeply tanned and waved an oil-stained hand toward the on ramp about a quarter mile away, “If you get back on the road heading the opposite direction, about fifteen miles down you’ll see the route you need”

“How will I know it’s the right road?”

He smiled, the tobacco clumping into one side of his cheek like a kid who hadn't finished a mouthful of vegetables at dinner yet, “That sign is still standing.”

I nodded, shut out the invading blast of dry air, started the engine, and restarted the air conditioning, when he came closer to the window. I lowered it to hear him. “Listen, you two look like really nice, kind ladies out of the road alone. You okay with me checking your oil? I wouldn’t want you to fry your engine. It’s extra hot today and you could be stuck for hours if somethin’ happens to your vehicle out on the road.”

I nodded, thinking this was a good idea because I hadn’t thought of measuring it before leaving so I reclosed the window and popped the hood. He pulled a dirty rag out of his back pocket as he walked up to the front end of my car. For several minutes Serena and I waited and then he leaned to the side of the front and yelled holding up the dip stick, “Yep. These hot temperatures soak up the oil in older cars. You’re a quart low. I can fill it up now for you if you would like.” He wiped his forehead with one end of the rag, leaving a smudge.

“Sure, why not,."

He went inside and came out with a gray plastic bottle. When done, he came back to my window for payment. He tossed the quart bottle over the roof of my car into the trash can located between pumps with the practiced precision of someone accustomed to the act. He said, “I noticed your coolant is low too. Also, the water is low in your radiator. Want refills?”

Suspicious, I looked at Serena, “I don’t believe this,” I whispered to her in confidence. “I took care of these already.”

“Maybe have him check though. How can it hurt?”

He kicked my front tire. “You aware this tire is low?” I stared at him with disbelief. “Hey, “ he added, “you gals could stay in the station where it’s cool while I work on it,” he said as though it just occurred to him. “ I’ve got cold drinks in there. No charge.” He placed a beefy hand on the window sill. “Why suffer, huh? Then maybe you could stay at the motel for the night ‘cause it will be close to sunset by then.”

“No way,” I said.

He backed up a step from the car door with his palms raised as though innocent, “Hey, you’re the ones risking your lives in this weather. You city girls don’t know how to travel safe and I do. At least let me take the tire off and see what the problem is before you go.”

“We’re done here,” I  barked.

Serena leaned toward the window and said, “Hey, why did we miss the sign coming the other way?”

“Aw, “ he moaned, approaching the window again, “you know teens. There’s a gang of ‘em that pull stunts like this.”

“Why doesn’t someone put the sign back up?”

“Kids stole it.”

Serena’s eyebrows lifted, “What?”

“Yep,” he shifted the tobacco to the other cheek like he was prepping himself to tell a long story and I felt impatience rise in me. “We informed the powers-that-be but you know how long it takes for government work, don’t cha?”

“Forget the government,” I said, “call the cops.”

 “That don’t work either,” he muttered,  wiping his hands with the oily rag, “they like getting quick collars in the city fifty miles from here, ‘fraid that’s our fate here.”

I started the engine, rolled the window back up  and looked at Serena. “Sounds awfully suspicious, doesn’t it.”

“No kidding. I bet these businesses purposely took the sign down so drivers have to come here and spend money. How much did he charge you?”

I pulled out the credit card receipt I had absent mindedly stuffed into my handbag and read it. “Double what we would have paid in town.”

“And that’s without a new tire!”

“This place is highway robbery.”

“Drive over to the diner. I want to use the bathroom. Then let’s get out of this hell hole!”

I watched as she entered the building, afraid to leave the vehicle unattended. I would use the room after she got back. Once it was my turn, the hot pavement bled through my sandal soles.  My lungs hurt with the stinging heat. I ignored the stares of the restaurant crew as I bypassed their invitations to order and aimed for the latrine at the back of the room. The bathing area was constructed of old wood needing paint. Placed along the walls were discarded construction signs and hand painted amateur painted slogan signs I had seen plenty of times at seedy yard sales. There were rusty license plates filling up spaces in-between them all in an attempt to appear cutesy to the weary customer. When I reached for the toilet paper I glimpsed at the multiple placards decorating my stall. There, on the celling, suspended with metal hooks, was the missing freeway sign.