Join me in the silence

I remember when my family used to visit my grandfather's cattle ranch in the high desert east of Prineville, Oregon. For a city kid, the silence of the open country was profound. At the time, I wasn't sure I liked it. Jets were tiny white dots in the sky, speeding toward Portland International Airport. They left contrails but made no sound. 

Living in silence in an age of constant noise can be disturbing. At times I feel very alone and disconnected if I don't have music or talk radio playing in the background. Other times, I sink into the silence like sliding into a warm bath. Mm. Bath. Haven't had one of those in a while. I digress.

Camping in the high desert of Flagstaff, Arizona, gives me a similar feeling. On a Sunday morning, nobody is up. I'm the only one walking along the gravel road, heading to who knows where, someplace I've never been. A few cars pass, kicking up great clouds of dust (implanting seeds of my future resentments). Before long, more cars, more people, and wonder of wonders, the sound of gunshots. Yep. There's a shooting range not far away.

Nothing shatters silence like gunshots. 

This is mining country. The mining companies moved on and left craters, half craters, slag heaps of gravel. The half craters make really good shooting ranges. I made the mistake of driving in that direction, seeking a better cell signal. I found the cell signal next to the shooting range. Two men were there, one supervising, and one sitting at a folding table aiming a long gun at a target some yards away. Blam! Then a few minutes later, blam! This morning was quiet, but around 9:00 a.m. the gunshots began again.

So there's that. 

On the bright side, I met a guy who addressed me as "neighbor," and we talked for a bit. His name is John. I hope I remember that. He lives in a trailer, drives a red car, rides a bike, goes shirtless, wears a Christian cross on a necklace, and has a mother who worries about his well being. Fellow neighbor, fellow nomad.

It's beautiful in the forest. Last night I dreamed it was on fire.

Walking in the early morning sunshine in a timber forest in the high desert puts me in the here and now. It's the safest place to be when one is homeless. Living today for a better past is futile. Living in the wreckage of the future is crazy making. The only safe place is the present. My demented mother was a Zen master. I learned a lot from witnessing her decline. 

I don't know if I'll live long enough to see my own decline into dementia, and even if I do, there's a good chance there will be no facility to take care of me until I die. My retirement plan is fentanyl. I can only hope my brain holds out long enough to score some and my courage holds out long enough for me to take it.

On that sober note, welcome to a new confounding fresh hell. There's room in the hand basket for you, in case you want some company on your own hellish descent.

Winning the reverse lottery

First off, nobody died. Just want to make that clear up front. Nobody got hurt except my bank account and the environment. I guess if the world decides to bestow personhood on the earth, then I'm going to hell. I'm sure I'll have lots of company. 

Early yesterday morning, just after daybreak, I heard something bump my car. I assumed thieves were going after my new spare tire, which I proudly display on my roof rack like the badass old lady urban nomad that I am. Not wanting to lose my $400 tire, I started yelling, "get off my car, get off my car!"

I looked out the driver's side window and saw a chubby Hispanic- looking guy scrambling to get into the passenger seat of a small silver sedan. He and his driver took off. 

I fumbled around in the dark for my glasses, my pants, and my car key so I could hit the panic button. I'd never pressed the panic button before, so I didn't know what to expect. My horn bleated once, and that was it. Not exactly the alarm I'd been hoping for. My fear was that I would accidently presss the "open all the doors and come on in" button, which might not not have ended well. 

I yanked down all my window covers and got myself over the console into the driver's seat in record time. As I started the engine, the silver car returned from the other direction and stopped right next to me. The driver wore a mask pulled up to his eyes. I flipped him off and hit the gas. As I left, I heard a thumping bumping sound from somewhere near my back left tire. I kept going.

I drove a few blocks on autopilot, found a side street, got out of my car to see if my tire was still there, and smelled gasoline.

Yep. You guessed it. I got drilled. Or rather, my gas tank got drilled. Gas poured out a hole about the size of my thumb, onto the street, into the gutter, all my lovely near-full tank of gas.

I called the fire department. A big red firetruck arrived, lights flashing, but no siren. Three firefighters jumped down and rolled their eyes at what they were seeing. One of the firefighters was a woman. They made her crawl under there with some of that magic plastic putty. She couldn't fix it. In her defense, it was a big hole spewing a lot of gas. One of the guys dumped a pile of kitty litter to keep the gas from spreading downhill in the gutter, in case it reached a storm drain. 

"You got any plastic containers?" asked the guy in charge.

I pulled out some plastic bins I had in the back. He situated the bins under the stream of gas. One filled up. He moved a second one into place. At that point the stream trickled to a drip, probably because the gas had dropped below the level of the hole.

The firefighters got ready to go. I said, "What about these containers of gas? Can't you take them?"

"No, we don't take gasoline."

They left. I called my new insurance company (the one I'd had for thirty years cancelled me because I wasn't able to give them all the names of the drivers in my new Oregon household). While I was waiting, I stuffed my most important possessions into a bag. What are my most prized posessions? Thanks for asking. My phones, my calendar, my tablet, my notebook of important documents, and my medications. Plus my laptop. It was kind of an epiphany to realize my entire life could easily fit into one backpack. All I would need to do is add a toothbrush, and I'd be good to go.

Roadside assistance eventually sent me a contract tow truck driver. He called my cell and asked what color my car was. In a few minutes, a slim young Middle Eastern-looking guy pulled up with a flatbed tow truck. 

"I help you," he said.

I pointed out the two containers of gas under the car. He put on rubber gloves and moved them to the sidewalk. Knowing what I know now, I'm sure he would have driven over them without a thought.

"Did you bring a gas can like I requested?" I asked.

"No, I don't take gasoline. It's not my job," he said as he lowered the back end of the flat bed.

He took my car key, started up my car, and floored it up onto the flat bed. Gas spewed everywhere, all over his truck, onto the street. He secured one wheel. Then he got in his truck and drove away with my car.

I sat on a low wall by the sidewalk, wondering what just happened. I called his number. He answered.

"You left me here," I said.

"You didn't say you needed a ride."

"Come back and pick me up," I said.

"Okay, I do it for you, because I love my mother."

In a few minutes, he came back. I hoisted my crap into the passenger seat, boosted myself up, and didn't bother putting on a seatbelt, thinking who cares at this point. It's a nice big windshield, and I'll have a lovely view of the street while I am being decapitated.

The entire drive, he regaled me with stories of his family. Wife, three kids, and his demented mother all live in one household. Mom has some brain thing, probably Alzheimers. Doctors in Afghanistan couldn't help much. Now she's on a med that is working wonders. 

"I'm so happy for you," I said. "Love your mother while you still have her, because mothers don't last forever."

We made it to the mechanic without mishap. The tow truck driver backed my car off the ramp as fast as he could, scraping both the front and the rear of the car, which doesn't have a lot of clearance, being a soccer mom minivan, for crying out loud. He gave me a big grin as he handed me the keys.

Then the young Afghan tow truck driver gave me a long, long, long hug. 

The rest of the day was just a wait-around-and-see-how-much-money-this-is-going-to-cost-me kind of day. I got to know the mechanics pretty well. They told every customer who came in about my car getting drilled. That's the term, apparently. Drilled. 

"How could they do that to an old lady?" one of the workers huffed. I enjoyed hearing the righteous indignation on my behalf almost as much as I enjoyed being called an old lady. 

Somebody told a story of a woman whose car was being drilled, and she was in the driver's seat. She backed up and ran over the miscreant. He won't be doing that again, although now she has to live with the knowledge that she killed somebody, even if "he deserved it." 

Somebody else told me a story of how it cost $2,000 to replace his gas tank. "I would have gladly have given him gas money, if he'd only asked." 

I had to concur.

Lucky for me, it was a one-day ordeal. The mechanics were able to find a gas tank at a salvage yard. By the time they added their markup and labor, the final price was a third of what I would have paid for a new gas tank from the dealer. Not to mention I got mine in one day, and a new one would have taken a week. I'm counting my blessings. It was a long day, but I survived. 

I filled out a police report today. To do that, I needed to find the location of the scene of the crime. Other cars were parked in that spot this morning. I didn't see any Tupperware bin in the gutter with my tire tracks on it, so I guess they took it with them after I split. If I were truly a badass, I would have gone around the block and rammed them. But you can't really do much damage with a minivan. It's like putting a lightning bolt on the side of a wheelbarrow. I can dream, though.

My car seems to be running fine. It seems that cars get drilled often here in the big city of Portland. Still, people park their cars on the streets all over the east side of town. I'd like to put Kevlar all over it, but apparently that's not a thing. I just have to chalk it up to the annoying phenomenon known as winning the reverse lottery and try not to imagine lightning will strike twice in one place.