Just a Happy Camper

by Jinx Schwartz

  ❋

  Loaded down with Bustelo Espresso Coffee pods (I made a double for myself immediately), Oberto jerky, dog goodies, and another hundred bucks worth of food, wine and beer, I entered I-10 and sped up smartly to sixty-five. I had almost five hundred miles to cover to Yuma, and lumbering along at fifty wasn’t gonna cut it. Luckily it was a calm day, but we still got rocked by passing trucks.

  I’d just pulled in to refuel in Lordsburg when the phone dinged.

  “Hey, Becky. How are you and Scruffy doin’? Did you get the email update I sent you?”

  On hearing Scruffy’s name, Po Thang’s tail thumped, and he opened one eye.

  “Yes. I’m tracking you and see you’re about to leave New Mexico. You gonna try to make Yuma today?”

  “I’d like to, but that’s a long haul with a dog that wants to walk and pee every three hours.”

  “Just as well. We’re leaving right now to catch up with you. We don’t want you on your own.”

  Much as I hated to admit it, I was relieved she was coming. That way she could see for herself when I shot her fiancé in the balls for stealing my boat. Just kidding. Sort of.

  I hung up with Becky and pulled into the Pilot station. It was time for gas and a Diet Dr. Pepper, my go-to road-trip treat.

  After topping off the tank, I was about to pull back out onto I-10 when I got a call with no caller ID. I would normally blow it off as a telemarketer, but what with everything going on, I couldn’t take chances.

  “Hetta here.”

  “Ma petite chou! Where are you?”

  ❋

  Yuma was about to have a tourism boom.

  Jean Luc was in New York, booking a flight, Antoine was driving down from Northern California, and Becky was headed west out of Texas. I figured Becky might catch me before I got to Yuma, because I’d have to find a place to pull over for the night.

  To keep myself alert on a stretch of straight, boring, desert road, I called one of my best friends in Arizona, Doctor Craig Washington. Craig, a veterinarian, and I had become close back in the Bay Area when he treated my Yellow Lab, RJ—short for Raymond Johnson—for bone cancer. He had since moved to Bisbee, Arizona, where he and his partner, Roger, had a successful large-and-small-animal veterinary practice, and a huge working ranch.

  “Hetta! Where are you?” Craig asked.

  “Seems to be the question of the day. I am, at this moment, leaving Lordsburg, New Mexico, and headed for Yuma.”

  “So, you’re on the move.”

  I spent ten minutes filling Craig in on what was going on.

  He listened silently, then summarized the situation for me. “Okay, let me know if I have this straight. You are in an RV, with Po Thang and Trouble, planning to cross into Mexico and find your boat, which was stolen by your friend, Nacho?”

  “That simplifies it, yes.”

  “We’ll meet you at Texas Canyon. It’s a great roadside rest stop about a hundred miles to the West of you.”

  “Oh, why the hell not?”

  I hung up, elated I’d be seeing my friends, but slightly annoyed by the delay of an unscheduled stop.

  “Oh well, guys. We’ll get to Yuma one of these days.”

  “Ruff.”

  “Ack! Yuma! Yuma! Oberto!”

  That screeching was bound to wipe out that spectacular hearing of mine well before age had a chance to.

  ❋

  Craig and Roger were waiting for me at Texas Canyon, standing in the truck parking area.

  After excited squawks and barks, and Po Thang watering my tires, we all moved inside. I raided the fridge and came up with bean dip, Camembert, apples, and dried fruit. We settled in to catch up, and it didn’t take long.

  “We’re going to follow you,” Roger announced.

  “To Yuma?”

  “Wherever you’re headin’.”

  “Lemme guess. You talked to Jenks, right?”

  “Yep, on the way here. Craig and me had a whole hour to load up after you called. We’re ordinarily ready to move out at the drop of a calf. Jenks and us, we don’t want you out there by yourself.”

  I was both a little annoyed and relieved at a growing pattern. Annoyed that Jenks thought I needed watching after, and relieved that Jenks knew I needed watching after.

  “Ack! Oberto!”

  I gave Trouble a piece of dried fruit instead of the jerky he demanded, mainly because Dr. Craig disapproved of me turning my parrot into a carnivore.

  Trouble didn’t seem to mind and shredded the date in record time, then started shrieking.

  “Hey,” I said over the din, “I’ll bet Trouble would just love to ride with you. You got room?”

  “Okay, we’ll give you a break,” Craig said with a grin. “But we get Po Thang as well. I’ll get our truck and you gather up their stuff.”

  Roger and I made up a bag of dog treats, tethers, leashes, dried fruit, and the like. By the time Craig pulled up next to us and we left the RV, he’d drawn a crowd.

  Truckers, travelers and RVers alike were gathered around the vehicle. And no wonder.

  “Roger, what in hell is that thing?”

  He puffed with pride and started spouting stuff like, “Hummer H1 Alpha, Predator, T6 ultra-light-weight armoring,” and finished with, “and, she’s bulletproof.”

  “Wow, does it come in red?”

  ❋

  The Hummer got even worse gas mileage than my RV did, so we convoyed at fifty-five, communicating via two-way radio. They had six radios on board, with a master charging station, and they’d passed one off to me. As we rolled, we chatted about the impressive behemoth they were driving.

  “Well, as you know, we do veterinary services on both sides of the border, and after a couple of scrapes with some bad actors, we decided we needed something better than they drive. Roger is allowed weapons in Mexico, so now we’re better equipped than the Mexican army. Over.”

  “Do I dare ask what it cost? Over.”

  “Right at four by the time we got through. Over.”

  “Four thousand? I want one. Over.”

  “Four hundred thousand, Hetta. Over.”

  I gasped. “Uh, Roger, Roger. Over and out while I recover from the shock.”

  Taking a slug of iced tea, I wondered what bank they’d robbed.

  I wanted in on the next heist.

  Already mentally spending the loot from my imagined future crime, I followed them down the road and realized how much easier it was when caravanning.

  I was downright relaxed, just about the time I had a blowout.

  Chapter Twenty

  When the tire exploded, it sounded like a bomb went off and I envisioned skidding across the median into oncoming traffic, but the RV only gave me a bump, probably to remind me not to do something stupid like stomping the brake pedal.

  I eased off the gas and coasted to the side of the road. Up ahead, the Hummer’s brake lights came on, and they began backing up. I turned off the RV and went out to assess the situation. The outside dually was a complete mess, its shredded tread lying on the road behind me, and the inside tire was only half inflated.

  Rummaging through my paperwork in the RV, I found the insurance company phone number and called, giving my approximate location, and situation. A nice young lady answered and said, “Oh, dear, we need to get you to safety. Do you have a spare tire?”

  Did I? I walked out to find the guys inspecting the tires.

  “I don’t see a spare. Besides, I’ll need two,” I told the girl.

  “Okay, we’ll get you a tow.”

  “Uh, I don’t think I can be towed with two bad tires on the back. We’re talking about an RV here. ”

  Silence. “I’ll call you back.”

  Roger said, “You called roadside service?”

  “Yes. And the nice young nitwit who answered wants to send a tow truck. She said she’d call right back.”

  And an hour later, she did. “I’ve found a guy who can change the tire, but he doesn’t have y
our tires in stock, so he’ll have to pick them up tomorrow and get out to you.”

  “Tomorrow? I’m on the side of Interstate 10. Every truck that goes by rocks us like an explosion.”

  “Yes ma’am, I’m trying to locate a provider.”

  “I thought you were the provider.”

  “No ma’am, we have contracts with only certain people in the area.”

  “I want to speak with a supervisor. Do you have one of those in the area?”

  Okay, so that was a little snippy.

  I had just hung up with her when I got a text message: YOUR ROADSIDE SERVICE REQUEST HAS BEEN PUT ON HOLD. IF YOU STILL NEED SERVICE PLEASE CALL—they gave me a number and told me not to respond to the message.

  “What the hell?” I screamed at the phone.

  I showed my phone screen to Roger, who had something a little stronger to say.

  I called the number and was told they had sent the message so they didn’t have to put me on hold while working on finding a provider. There was that word again.

  Three hours later, they located a place forty miles away with one of the tires, and a guy forty miles in the other direction had another, and a non-contracted guy was approved and dispatched to mount them, so we were, in their minds, back in business.

  I later learned that road service with a regular insurance company for an RV was way iffy, and that getting an RV-specific package from someone like Good Sam is a good idea. So I did.

  By the time we made it to Tucson, we were windblown and dusty.

  Craig scored me an RV spot in a KOA campground on the east end of town, and a cabin on site for them. As soon as I was plugged in, I took a look at Raymond Johnson’s location, and sighed with relief when I saw my boat was still cruising north at a measly five knots.

  We had a pizza delivered and were all in bed by eight.

  Jan called at ten.

  “Hetta, where are you?”

  “Tucson. Barely. Had a flat.”

  “Bummer. Okay, I’m in San Felipe at our base camp. I can’t get an update on Raymond Johnson cuz we ain’t got no stinking internet. However, I’m grateful to have phone service.”

  After giving her the latest info, she asked, “Did I wake you up? You sound groggy.”

  “It’s just been a long day. For-ever on the side of the road waiting for road service. But the good news is that Craig and Roger are with me here in Tucson, and Antoine, Becky, and Jean Luc will meet us in Yuma.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a posse you’re amassing. Good, we may need them.”

  “Amen. We’ll see you in Felipe day after tomorrow, Lawd willin’ and the creek don’t rise.”

  “No predictions of rain down here. So, whatcha gonna do about Trouble?”

  Crap.

  ❋

  The guys joined me for coffee at oh-dark-thirty and we discussed the Trouble situation.

  I dug out the map and we decided to cross into Mexico at Algodones, because it just looked better on the map for our bird smuggling operation, and we could get close enough to each other to use the whistle. Both countries had a bug up their butts about birds.

  “Looks good to me,” Craig said. “I’d like to test Trouble somewhere down the road.”

  “I agree. I think I know just the right place. All we have to do is pull into opposite ends of a rest area I know of at the sand dunes, just west of Yuma. Hopefully Trouble won’t get into a dog fight with any sea gulls there.”

  Trouble was cozied up to Craig’s neck, doing his deep. rumbly parrot noises. Craig scratched the bird’s neck feathers and said, “You did just fine. You are such a good bird.”

  “Ack! Trouble is—” I tapped his beak with my finger, and he mumbled, “¡Pinche puta!” then dove for cover under Craig’s shirt.

  “That bird is funnier than television,” Roger said, wiping his eyes.

  “You want him?”

  Craig and Roger both said, “No!”

  ❋

  Becky was due in Yuma later in the afternoon, as were Jean Luc, and Antoine.

  I coordinated for us to all meet at the La Fuente Hotel, an old-style place that I’d stayed at several times. They accepted pets—okay so they have a two-pet, fifty-pound limit, so I figured that Po Thang weighs eighty-ish and Trouble is only a half-pound soaking wet, so I averaged, right? They also have a bar, which is always a high priority on my list of must-have accommodations.

  It was still, in my opinion, a little cool for the pool, but all I really cared about was a nice room, a drink or two, and a good night’s sleep in a king-sized bed for a change. The RV’s twin beds were comfy enough, but Po Thang absolutely refused to sleep in his, preferring to sneak up and join me in the middle of the night, leaving me up against the wall until I was conscious enough to shove him off. This nightly tussle was wearing me down, and besides that, if I stayed in an RV park, I’d miss all the fun at the hotel.

  We arrived early, so I parked the RV, stuffed an overnight bag with essentials and a change of clothes, and fobbed the animals off on Craig and Roger. Once in my room, I turned off my phone since I had a backup team, rubbed argan oil into my hair, paying special attention to the crispy ends, and smoothed on a creamy face mask that promised to hydrate, plump, exfoliate, and save dry, tired-looking skin in minutes. I briefly wondered if it came by the gallon as I slipped into a blessedly dog-free hot bubble bath, hoping to soothe my raggedy…everything.

  The thought of seeing Jean Luc again, especially in our new circumstances as parents to a grown child, was new and scary territory.

  I took two Advil—I hadn’t realized how tensed up my shoulders were from driving the RV several days in a row—and grabbed a nap before getting dressed to meet the whole gang at the bar at five.

  It was warm enough to put on slightly wrinkled white linen pants, a gauzy top over a camisole, and espadrilles, to make me look taller. For the first time in days I put on makeup and had to admit I looked better, but then I probably couldn’t have looked worse than I did after waiting in the desert for five hours for roadside service the day before. Had I been able to get my hands on that perky gal in white, I would have throttled her.

  Taking a deep breath, I sauntered toward the bar and smack into a barking, screeching, hugging, kissing fest on the patio by the pool. Someone shoved a Margarita in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. Jean Luc and Antoine both gave me the French three-time cheek-peck “bise,” and it seemed to me that Jean Luc lingered a bit longer than a peck, and much closer to my ear.

  Po Thang took the opportunity to break training and leave muddy paw prints on my white pants, as well as smushing pizza into my blouse.

  Trouble jumped onto my head from Craig’s shoulder and did a little dance, stirring my carefully coiffed hair into a fright wig.

  I flumped into a chair and downed my Margarita.

  So much for my envisioned entrancing entrance; I looked like I’d spent the night in a doorway.

  ❋

  Everyone had already met each other, and we ended up at two tables: Jean Luc, Antoine, and I at one, the “team” at another, talking on cells with Jenks and Jan, coming up with a plan of action for the next day, while I caught up with my French connection.

  “Hetta, you have made me a very happy man,” Jean Luc said, taking my tomato sauce-slathered hand in his. “I only wish I had known my son,” he gave Antoine a smile, “long ago.”

  I opened my mouth to say something I’d probably regret, but Antoine stepped in. “But, Père Jean Luc!” he said with French flair. “Maman Hetta, she was so young, and so alone.”

  Now it was Jean Luc on the hot seat, which I enjoyed a moment before I decided to put a stop to any blame gaming in its tracks. “The only totally innocent one in this situation is you, Antoine. Mistakes were made, but we all have so much to be happy about now.”

  Jean Luc heartily agreed, and we took turns telling highlights of our lives during the past twenty years, realizing that, at times, we were very near to each other without knowing
it. Antoine told us about his parents and his grandparents, Jean Luc filled his newly discovered son in on his half-siblings and family on his side, and we fell into a rhythm of familial reminiscence.

  Antoine made it easy on us, not seeming to regret one minute of his life, and was ecstatic to learn more about his French and American families.

  After a while we pushed the tables together and joined in the planning session, cooking up a day of bird smuggling and meeting up with Jan and Chico at the kayak expedition camp in San Felipe. The Frenchmen insisted on coming with us for what they considered such a grand adventure, so we all agreed to meet for breakfast at eight and leave in a caravan.

  Sometime during the night, I heard a light tapping on my room door and ignored it, thinking if Jean Luc had any idea about reuniting in more ways than one, he was badly mistaken.

  So why, after I went back to sleep, did I dream of Jean Luc and me, twenty years back, walking the rain-dampened streets of Paris, hand in hand?

  Oh, and we were eating pizza. Which might have had something to do with eating it for three nights in a row.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We all arrived in Mexicali before lunch and rendezvoused at an area just before the crossing.

  Craig and I took off in the Hummer to scope out the border area on the US side, while Jean Luc and Antoine entered Mexico. Algodones, a busy Mexican border town, is a popular destination for medical tourism for residents of the United States and Canada. It is chockablock with pharmacies, doctors, dentists, and opticians, who offer heavily discounted prescriptions, eyeglasses, and medical and dental care.

  Craig and I spotted a large parking area right against the fence, at about the same time as our radio crackled. “We have found the dentist office,” Jean Luc said in French. It was our code for the best place for Trouble to fly over the wall.

  “Oh, good. The address?” I answered, also in French.

  “The one we found on the internet looks good.”