40StudeDude
08-13-2004, 08:38 PM
A little preface about this story first: This is a car story…a Twilight Zone type of car story…so it fits the board in case Ryan (or Grimlok) are reading. It was inspired by our trip thru the Datil Mountains in New Mexico and Gila National Forest in Arizona in 2001, headed for a GoodGuy’s event in Phoenix in mid-November…I was driving the radical, chopped ’57 Chevy Bel Air and my brother, Dan, led (most of the time) in his ’64 Super Sport…hence the cars in the story.
Out from Denver, we stayed overnite in Albuquerque, then drove south to Socorro in the morning and grabbed Highway 60 westbound...a two-lane. We like running two-lane highways…there’s much more scenery, lots more little towns along the way to explore and a lot more time to day-dream ( or listen to a booming stereo!). This story, basically, was written on the road…and polished when I got home…it was first published in issue # 4, December, 2002, in a paperback entitled “Thirteen Stories” out of Vancouver, BC. Something else you all should know: it’s better than twice as long as the other stories I’ve posted…this one runs 6665 words. Please let me know what you think when you’re finished reading.
Thanx,
Roger (aka Aden Rush)
THE TRINITY PARADOX
“Hey, Russ,” the Citizen’s Band 2-way radio crackled to life. “How much gas you got left?”
Russ gripped the steering wheel with one hand, microphone in the other and deftly maneuvered the tight curve. “Less than an eighth tank.”
Phoenix, Arizona, was the ultimate destination. Luck wasn’t riding with them. Nothing mechanical -- their classic ‘hot rods’ were running great, it just seemed to take forever to traverse New Mexico. Halfway through the state…spend the night and out of Albuquerque by noon Wednesday, south to Socorro, through the foothills, near Magdalena, to the Very Large Array--the NSGS’ flatcar rail-mounted radio telescopes on the Plains of San Augustin. Too much time spent at the visitor center and it cost them…daylight. A ‘short cut’ was needed -- southwest from the VLA, through the Tularosa Mountains. At least, on a flat map, the two-lane looked shorter. Darkness caught them and the ‘short cut’ ate up time.
Dan glanced at his gas gauge, scanned the speedometer and looked back to the roadway. Tall evergreens lined both sides of the treacherous two-lane, headlights wouldn’t penetrate their depth and the moon hadn’t yet risen. “We may be in trouble here, better find a gas station soon.”
“Climbing these mountain roads is burning a lot more gas than usual,” Russ said.
Bright red taillights streaked down the narrow two-lane, Dan followed. “Any idea where that station is?”
Russ thumbed the CB mic switch. “Not a clue. Check your atlas.”
Dash lights weren’t enough to illuminate interior recesses, Dan hastily searched the passenger’s seat, rear seat and the floor of his 1964 Chevrolet. Tight curves prevented any extended looks.
Russ was leading, working his 1957 Chevrolet around several S-curves, playing a game -- taking them 15 mph over the posted limit. The speedometer needle confirmed his acumen and the lowered ‘57 held the roadway like it was attached to corkscrew roller coaster rails. He grinned, picked up the CB mic. “Find your atlas yet? Oh, need the time too.”
“Dark-thirty...11 at least. Hell, I don’t know. We gassed up at 8:00, usually get three hours of driving on a tank. You’d better quit screwing around, you’ll burn more gas.”
Russ forced the wheel hard left and aimed his Chevy around a hairpin 25 mph curve. The dual exhausts echoed off the rocky road-cut. “Dark-thirty, huh? These pines sure block light, seems darker than normal.”
“So dark I’ve lost my atlas. I’ll tell you where the nearest station is when I find it. You did fill the spare gas can? We may need it.”
“I…uhm…forgot,” Russ tapped the brakes and shifted the 4-speed transmission down into third for a 20 mph curve.
“You jest surely? Man, I’m glad I didn’t forget the atlas, we’d be lost in these mountains.”
“We are lost,” Russ’s voice crackled in Dan’s speaker. “And don’t give me any shit about losing it!”
The southwestern New Mexico mountains don’t look huge on an atlas, surely the time crossing them couldn’t take any longer than driving Interstate 40. An assumption proven wrong as darkness deepened. A trip through the Tularosa Mountains are comparable to Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, it simply requires additional driving time. Two-lane highways have an interminable way of convincing skeptics.
“You see that old sign?” Russ asked. Faded and dirty, it leaned into the weeds, reflection paled in the headlights. “Think it said Gila Springs, seventeen miles south. County road just ahead.”
“Slow down a bit, I’ll check,” Dan said and pulled the atlas from under his seat, placed it on his lap and retrieved a flashlight from the console. “You watching for the Arizona line?”
“I’m watching for UFO’s.” Russ grinned, coaxing the ‘57 into a shallow right-hand curve at 55 mph -- 10 over the posted limit.
“Huh? We’re almost out of gas and you’re looking for flying saucers?”
“Yeah, the Tularosa Mountains are where some guy got abducted by one. Remember? It was a movie. ‘Fire in the Sky’ maybe?”
“He and his buddies were cutting wood when they spotted the saucer?”
“Think it spotted them. It’d be easy to disappear up here, haven’t seen a house, or lights for miles, real eerie,” Russ said. “Makes your eyes do funny things.”
“You keep your eyes on the road. I don’t need you plunging into those trees. Here’s something interesting -- according to my atlas, there is no Gila Springs. Nearest town is west of here, 65 miles away.”
“Hey, I know what I saw.”
“Yeah, right. Who just told me darkness was doing funny things to their eyes?” Dan tapped the brakes, forced the steering wheel left and felt the ‘64 float through a curve, lo profile radials super-glued to pavement.
“Let me tell you what this gas gauge is doing to my eyes. I won’t make 65 miles. An hour on this road is roughly 45 miles, I’ll be choking on fumes way before then. Besides, I’m getting tired.”
“If you’re sure Gila Springs is close, maybe we’d better go for it,” Dan said. “Even if it’s small, there may be a 24-hour convenience store. If nothing else, find a motel...gas up in the morning.”
“I’m not sure of anything right now. The sign looked old...but quitting for the night’s a good idea.” Russ shifted into third to slow for the county road. “We’re not expected in Phoenix ‘til tomorrow anyway.”
The county road wasn’t the best they’d ever been on. It hardly mattered--even though their cars were very low, they knew how to handle them and two-lanes seldom presented problems. Poorly maintained county roads were not an exception, even one that had no upkeep for years. New Mexico’s summer heat had buckled the concrete many times and the farther they ventured from the main highway, the rougher it got--weathered and potholed and yellow no-passing centerlines were non-existent. The road’s shoulders were ragged and few warning signs remained upright. Weeds grew in widening cracks and proliferated along the roadway’s edges. The 50-mph speed limit seemed fast for conditions.
The possibility of sleeping in their cars was not inviting if they ran out of gas--providing Dan’s atlas was accurate. Temperatures in New Mexico’s Mountains slip into the twenties after dark in November. With an empty tank and no heat, it’s like sleeping outside. Neither wanted to dwell on that thought.
The road deteriorated as they chased the narrowing strip of concrete down the switchbacks. At 20-25 mph, seventeen miles of twisting road meant close to forty-five minutes of driving.
A faded, school-bus yellow 10 mph curve ahead sign was just barely visible in the weeds as Russ’s headlights played over it. A right turn and immediately back left erased doubt that both men had better pay attention, regardless of how drowsy they were.
Dan watched the brake lights of Russ’s Bel Air illuminate. “What’s going on? You running too fast?”
“Sharper than it looked, misjudged that curve,” Russ said. “Have you noticed how much downhill we’ve done since we left the main road?”
“Yeah, didn’t think we were that high. My map shows Gila Springs River and Canyon but no town.”
“Whoa. What was that?” Russ mumbled, coasting between weathered, falling-down snow fences. “Strange, almost look like they blocked this road at one time. Un-uhn, must be imagining things now.” He grabbed his mic, “Dan, check out those snow fences as you go by. Looks to me like this road was blocked years ago.” As he clicked off the mic, the road surface deteriorated farther, he didn’t see it til the last second . “Brakes. Brakes… awwww damn!” Russ’s ’57 banged off the end of the concrete and bounced hard. Gravel and rock scattered, dust flew. The steering wheel knocked the mic out of his hand. “Slow it, Dan. Slow it. Damn, too late!” He shouted inside his car, knowing Dan couldn’t hear him. The ‘64’s headlights flashed in his rear view mirror as Dan dropped off the ragged edge and blew through billowing dust. Gravel clanged off the ‘64’s undercarriage.
“What happened to the road?” Dan shouted into the mic. “I felt the pavement end but didn’t see those fences. You seeing things again?”
Russ pulled the shifter into second to slow. “Maybe. I swear it’s getting darker. I sure as hell didn’t see that little surprise coming.”
The night had become blacker, stars winked out. Heavy cloud mingled with evergreen trees. The smell of snow drifted in through a vent window. Russ pulled the CB mic to his mouth. “You ready for good news-bad news? Bad news first -- road’s getting worse. Good news -- lights -- maybe street lights, just below us.”
“Hope so, that seventeen miles just finished me.”
The town limit sign read 20 mph. Headlights lit the next rectangular white sign, lettered in black: Welcome to Gila Springs. Main Street started where gravel ended…the business district up ahead lit the night.
“Grab a motel. We’ll worry about gas tomorrow,” Dan announced.
Yellow incandescent streetlights lent buildings an old appearance: reddish brick, wooden door frames and doors, glass block. Gila Springs’ business area was ten blocks long, all but deserted.
“Brick...,” Russ said into the CB mic. Low profile radial tires slapped on unending seams. “Paved with brick.”
“Haven’t seen brick streets for years, didn’t know this was done anywhere else other than the Midwest,” Dan said. “This town has to be quite old.”
A neon sign flashed above a solitary car parked in front of the local tavern. Russ rolled by the pristine, light colored convertible. Neon changed the car’s color with each blink of its red, blue, pink and green. Winter condensation accumulated on the windows and dulled vivid color. “Check out the Oldsmobile, Dan, looks like a 1950.”
“Oh, man…wide whitewall tires, spinner hubcaps, fender skirts, even a name lettered on the quarter. Can’t read it, tho,” Dan said. “Definitely 1950. Way too cool.”
“There’s a motel.” The yellow and red neon sign up ahead flashed Welcome. “And vacancy.”
Russ pulled under the small canopy, Dan followed. Single story, Gable roof, park right-in-front-of-your-room suggested it had been built in the late forties -- yet not at all run down.
“Looks like Route 66 motels.” Dan recalled recent souvenir coffee table books he’d seen on the road. “Bet this town doesn’t get many tourists anymore. It’s waaa-aaay off the beaten path.”
It took the old lady a few minutes to answer the night bell; after all, it was after midnight. She stood behind the counter in her housecoat, silent and efficient, signed them in, took their cash and handed Dan a metal key. Twenty-eight dollars for two beds seemed cheap, but why question it? New Mexico’s tourist season was summer-time, not November -- off-season.
The room door creaked open. Dan switched on the light. A turquoise AM radio sat on a dark wood, cigarette-burnt end table and the clock, with a photo of a red woodpecker, hung on a yellow enameled wall. The clock’s mechanism was a bit noisy, but the room was quiet otherwise, even though it faced the street.
“Won’t be any traffic tonight. They’ve rolled up the streets…sidewalks, maybe even the alleys, too.” Russ stepped onto the mottled carpet and slipped past the beds--yellow three and one half inch square tiles lined bathroom walls. A shower curtain laden with cattails, water lilies and frogs hung from a chromed rod. The room was clean and the beds were comfortable. Even without a TV, it didn’t take long to fall asleep.
Russ hammered the wind-up alarm clock off at 9:00 AM and went to the window to see what the day presented. He held the multi-colored, floral drapes slightly apart. “Hey, Dan, check this out.” The winter’s dull early morning light flowed into the dark room.
Dan shuffled to the window. “What are those people doing around our cars? Haven’t they ever seen a ‘57 Chevy or a ‘64 Impala?”
“Should have put car covers on. Word got around town fast us car guys are here. Wonder where that nice Olds convert that was sitting outside the local watering hole is right now?”
“Wonder how big this town is? Few thousand maybe? Downtown wasn’t very big.”
“Too small for a traffic light. Get showered,” Russ ordered, “let’s go. We’ll grab some gas, some doughnuts and some road, I want to be in Phoenix this afternoon.”
After a shower, Russ walked out to his pastel green ‘57 hardtop and pushed the key-chain remote, the handle-less door popped open. The crowd was gone.
“Mornin’,” a gruff voice resonated from shadowed alcove, near a red, round-cornered Coke machine. “Where you guys from?”
“Morning,” Russ replied without turning around, used to people asking like questions when they were on the road. “Denver.” He pushed the electric trunk opener under the dash. It released with a ‘thunk’.
“Nice car.” The voice stepped into the morning haze.
“Thank you.” Russ situated his bag in the trunk and grabbed his jacket. The morning was a bit too cold for shorts and a T-shirt.
“Where you headed?”
“Phoenix.” Russ turned to see who was asking.
A Sheriff’s badge, crisp brown uniform and flat brimmed hat emblazoned with the New Mexico sun startled him. The officer stood with a hand resting on a holstered pistol, sunglasses covered his eyes. The man was big, his youthful face set in determination. “What’s going on there this time of the year?”
“Visit relatives, do a car show on Friday and the Thanksgiving thing next week. Besides, it snowed in Denver Monday.”
“What brings you into Gila Springs?”
“Nearly ran out of gas last night. Can’t get far on an empty tank.”
“Staying long?”
“Anything ‘round here to see scenic-wise? Guess we’ll see how it goes after we grab some doughnuts and gas up.” Russ wiped at the condensation coating the windows. “Point me to the nearest station, would you?”
The Sheriff pointed at Dan’s Impala. “What year is that blue one?” He pulled off the sunglasses to get a better look, eyed both cars carefully and walked past the ’57.
“Sixty-four,” Russ grinned, proud of his bodywork and paint. “Modified a little. This one’s a ‘57.”
The Sheriff ignored the last statement. “Nineteen sixty-four?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Russ cupped his hands and blew on his fingers -- the condensation was cold.
The motel door slammed. Dan maneuvered between the cars. He looked twice, nodded at the Sheriff, walked to the rear of his car and opened the trunk. The suitcase positioned, he grabbed a roll of paper towels.
The Sheriff approached the blue hardtop. “Your friend here tells me this is a 1964 Chevy, that right?”
“My brother...and it is.” Dan eyed the Sheriff and closed the trunk. “To be more precise: it’s an Impala Super Sport, manufactured on the Los Angeles assembly line. It’s not stock though. I’m running a 450 horse 502 inch big block engine, tuned port fuel injection, cam, block hugger headers, Flowmaster mufflers, stainless steel exhaust and shift-kitted 700R4 automatic transmission.”
“Un-hunh,” the Sheriff slipped off his broad brimmed hat and knelt to peer under the car.
“Also powder-coated engine brackets, valve covers and air cleaner instead of chroming them,” Dan added.
The Sheriff stood up and backed away from the car. “I don’t take kindly to funnin’, boys,” he scolded. “You’re pullin’ my leg and that isn’t one bit funny.” Dark, piercing eyes stared. The man was dead serious. “This car could only come off an assembly line in Detroit. Cars aren’t built in Los Angeles.”
“Whatever you say, Sheriff.” Dan looked quizzically at Russ. “Do us a favor, tell us where the nearest station is.”
“Not before you explain why you’re tellin’ me this here is a nineteen sixty-four automobile and has all that stuff.” The Sheriff turned and pointed at the green car. “Your pal said that one was manufactured in 1957?”
“Correct.” Dan glanced at Russ again, expecting an explanation of the Sheriff’s line of questioning.
The Sheriff walked around both cars several times. “You boys wait right here. I’m going to get a friend. Sam will want to take a look at these.” He ambled across the street toward the footbridge in City Park. The slow-flowing Gila River disappeared behind heavily wooded banks. The tall man wriggled behind the wheel of a black and white Ford sedan parked in the shade of tall cottonwoods, a New Mexico sun logo painted on the door above ‘Gila Springs Sheriff’.
Russ watched him pull away. “Let’s find a station and get. He has no reason to hold us and I don’t like the inquisition we’re getting.”
“Sure isn’t the friendliest cop in the world. He thought we were lying,” Dan said. “You see that old black and white cruiser he got into?”
“Something right off Broderick Crawford’s Highway Patrol. From the looks of this town, you’d think it was stuck in the fifties all the time. We going back out the way we came in?”
“Since this town isn’t on my map, let’s not take a chance.” Dan looked both directions of Main Street. “There’s a station two blocks down, wrong way though.”
“Got no choice, won’t make it to the outskirts, let alone up that road. I may have enough to get to that station if I don’t warm up the engine.”
Five minutes later, Russ pulled up to a gas pump, got out and removed his gas cap. “Hey Dan, check this out. These pumps are so old there’s nowhere to put the one-dollar space in front of the 19.9, they left it off. Even the Regular and Ethyl labels are here.”
“Cool. Cheap gas today,” Dan chuckled. “I’m using Ethyl in mine.”
“Mornin’ guys, them’s nice cars,” the attendant said. He was dressed in a clean, light yellow uniform, thin red pinstripes highlighted it and the yellow baseball cap. “Gulf ” embroidered on both. “Mitch” in black above his left pocket, a pen and an air gauge peeked out of the right. He held a key in his hand. “Let me reset that. I’ll pump. How much you need?”
“Uhmm, fill it,” Dan said, bemused by the uniform.
Mitch pointed to Russ, “I’ll get yours next,” and slipped the nozzle into the filler neck. “Be happy to check the oil and clean them windows, too, but can’t let you pump. New Mexico law, ya know?”
Russ removed his hand from the nozzle. “Seriously?”
“Yessir. I’ll check tires, too. Go ahead an’ open your hood, it’ll save a few minutes. You guys seem to be in a hurry.”
“Yeah, had a run-in with your Sheriff,” Russ said.
“Gill Gavin?”
“Didn’t get his name. Wasn’t real friendly, concerned about our cars. Some kind of theft ring operating around here?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that,” Mitch said. “Gill gets really suspicious when anyone shows up. He knows what goes on ‘round here twenty-six hours a day, eight days a week, if you get my meaning. He don’t miss anything and we don’t get tourists here. These really are some gorgeous cars.”
“We aren’t tourists. Almost ran out of gas last night, stayed at the motel up the street,” Dan said caustically.
Mitch nodded toward the street. “Here comes Gill now, looks like he’s got Sam with him.”
“Awww, damn,” Russ said, “We’re not getting out of here now.”
The Sheriff parked his black and white cross-wise in front of Russ’s ‘57, effectively blocked him from leaving. Sam pulled his white-walled, hub-capped ‘46 Ford coupe directly behind. He slid out of the gloss jet-black coupe, gently closed the door and joined the Sheriff in front of Dan’s ‘64.
“I thought I told you boys to stay put?” Gill said. “You don’t listen too good.”
“What do you want with us, Sheriff? We didn’t do anything wrong,” Russ shot back.
“These vehicles got my curiosity up. Sam’s gonna check ‘em out, confirm that blue car is as new as you say it is.”
Dan reached for his wallet. “Sheriff, I can do that by showing you my registration, it’s got the date of manufacture on it.”
“Paperwork can be forged, modified,” Gill remarked, “don’t prove nothin’. Sam’s a crack mechanic, owns the local garage, built some really hot cars the last few years. He knows engines, just put a new Cadillac V8 in his chopped ‘49 Merc. Runs like a scalded dog. Open them trunks...doors, too. Now.”
Russ glanced at Dan and silently mouthed the words ‘scalded dog’. Dan shrugged, opened the passenger door and trunk. Russ did likewise.
Sam appeared stunned, seemed he couldn’t even talk. He studied the chrome and polished aluminum on the engine and the cleanliness of the engine bay -- everything was shiny, no sign of grease or oil anywhere. Russ and Dan stood back and watched, not inclined to offer explanation. Mitch walked out of the station office and asked each for $4.78.
“Don’t think so,” Dan said. “You’ve made a mistake.”
Mitch shook his head, went back inside and returned with an adding machine paper tape. “Twenty-four gallons of Ethyl at 19.9 cents per gallon is $4.78. No mistake.”
Sheriff Gavin listened.
Dan handed Mitch a twenty. “For both. Keep the change, you did a great job.”
“Getting worried here, Dan,” Russ said softly. “Two and two isn’t adding up to four.”
Gill sauntered over to Dan’s Chevy and rummaged around inside. “Hey boys, what’s all them plastic things on the seat?”
“Plastic things? Oh, you mean CD’s, or the cassettes?”
“Don’t know what I mean.” Gill shook his head and walked to the trunk. “What’s this silver box-like thing with all the wires?”
“The amp. Oh yeah…’plastic things’…music, Sheriff. This amp powers six speakers and two sub-woofers -- puts out over 500 watts.”
“Amp? Kay-settes? Woofers? You’re talkin’ way over my head, boy. Where you boys really from?”
“Already told you,” Russ said. “Denv...”
“Hold on,” Gill interrupted, “I’m beginning to think you’ve got something to do with that strange saucer-like thing that crashed near Roswell some years back.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding, Sheriff. That was nineteen-for...”
“Gill,” Sam yelled from under the hood. “I ain’t never seen an engine like this. Ain’t got carburetors…or air cleaner. Don’t understand how it runs. No generator either, has something that looks like one...but it ain’t.” The Sheriff leaned in over the polished aluminum radiator, Sam continued. “The transmission in the green car--never seen one that small. Chromed shifter’s attached to the side...that ain’t no truck 4-speed.”
Sam knelt alongside the front tire. “Check out these brakes, Gill, no drums.” He pointed inside the car. “And the interiors-real leather, in color yet. Lookit this steering column, tilts outta the way. The paint, Gill, changes color, looks pearly and smoother than glass, makes both cars futuristic looking.”
“OK Sam, I appreciate your help. Go on back to your garage,” the Sheriff ordered. “I’ll handle it from here.”
“Aww Gill, I wanna stick around, listen to them engines. Bet they sound real purty. Might even like to take me a ride.”
“Sam,” Gill shouted.
“All right, Gill. When you get done, send them down to see my Merc and the rest of my cars. Ain’t near as nice as theirs, but they might like to check ‘em out.”
“It’ll be a while, Sam, these boys have some explaining to do.”
“Explain what?” Russ demanded, watching Sam climb into the sinister black coupe. “What have we done wrong, other than find this town?”
“Not quite sure yet,” Gill said. “Now you listen. I’m telling you this just once, boys. Don’t leave town. Understand what I said? Go on back to the motel, stay another night. I’ve made arrangements with Glenda, the room is gratis.”
“But, Sheriff,” Dan said. “We need to get to Phoenix…”
“You’ve got time, you said the car show started Friday. I’m not done with you two but right now I’ve got a little investigating to do.” The Sheriff turned toward his car, then looked over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t try to make any phone calls out of here, I’ve informed the operators--only local calls for you. I’ll need to see you boys again…tomorrow.”
“What’re we going to do until then?” Russ asked.
The Sheriff stopped walking and turned. “Go get your doughnuts, go on down to Sam’s, look over his cars, spend some time down there. I’ll tell him you’re on the way. Enjoy his company, I’ll tell him to fire up the barbeque for you this afternoon. Tonight take in a movie. I WILL see you tomorrow.”
Sheriff Gavin yelled at Mitch. He trotted over and listened to the Sheriff. Minutes later he came out of the office with pen and paper in hand. “Here ya go, guys. Directions…to Sam’s. Movie is downtown, three blocks from the motel. Sheriff wants you here at 1:00, right after lunch. Bennie’s Breakfast Shack, half a block from the theatre, has great breakfast…and lunch. See ya.”
After a visit to Sam’s, an afternoon nap, an Edward G. Robinson movie--“House of Strangers” at 8:00 PM, it was back to the motel. “How old was that movie anyway? Can’t believe they’re still showing black and whites around here.”
Mitch had been straight with them, breakfast at Bennie’s was the best they’d had but the Sheriff worried them. He stood waiting at the station, pocket watch in hand. It was 1:25 when they rolled in.
“I said one o’clock. You boys irritate me. Now get in my car. Let’s take a ride. Mitch will keep an eye on yours.”
Mitch stopped sweeping. “Hold on, Gill. I’d hate to see them beautiful cars get ruined. Park them next to the building, in the shadow. You know what this haze does to paint.”
“Do what Mitch says, then get in,” the Sheriff motioned toward his black and white.
“What’s he mean about the haze, Sheriff? Where are you taking us?” Russ inquired after the big man.
The Sheriff held the back door of his sedan and waited. Minutes later, both men climbed in. Gill closed it and slipped behind the large steering wheel. He turned the key at the bottom of the dash and pushed the chromed button next to it. The engine jumped to life...quiet as a summer breeze. Russ covered one side of his mouth and whispered to Dan-- “It’s stock, original as the day it rolled out of the factory.” The engine purred. Gill pulled the column shifter into low gear and spun the right rear tire, screeching it as the car bounced out of the driveway.
Russ hung onto the armrest as Gill shifted into second gear. “Where we going, Sheriff?”
“People are expecting us in Phoenix,” Dan added. “‘If we don’t show up...”
“Look,” Gill interrupted, “I’m not going to toss you in jail on some trumped-up charge. The only thing I’m going to do is make you late getting into Phoenix, understand?”
“Why wouldn’t you let us leave yesterday then? And please tell us what Mitch meant.” Russ said. “Our paint wasn’t cheap.”
“He meant the haze hanging over this valley eventually blisters anything painted.”
“Even Urethane paint?” Russ asked.
“What the hell is that?” Gill shot back.
“Three stage paint; primer, base coat, clear coat,” Dan volunteered. “Plastic paint. Our cars are painted...ahh, never mind. You won’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Go on about the haze,” Russ interjected.
Gill turned the Ford toward the county road. “Always here, every day. I haven’t seen full sun for nigh onto five, six years now.”
“Sounds like L.A. smog,” Dan said, holding tight to the passenger assist on back of the front seat.
“L.A. what?” Gill asked. “What’s smog?”
Dan smirked and whispered to Russ, “Where’s this guy been for the last fifty years?”
Russ smirked. “Smog is a combination of auto and truck exhaust, factory pollutants and dust...under an inversion layer.”
Gill turned to look at them. “Now what the hell is that?”
“What? An inversion layer?”
Gill slowed for a dip in the road. “Yeah, that.”
“It’s a layer of cold air above and warm air near the ground. Holds pollution down. Smog first appeared in the Los Angeles basin after too many people moved there. Car and truck engines were dirtier then, spouted unburned pollutants. Factories were dirtier, too. Smog looks like fog, only it’s not good for the lungs. Don’t know why it’d be here though.”
“Uh-hunh,” Gill said, not real sure if Russ was to be believed.
“What’s up with this haze?” Dan asked. “You said you haven’t seen the sun for a long time?”
“It appeared right after that bomb test over at Trinity,” Gill said.
“Trinity...White Sands? No way! That was 1945. July, if I remember correctly.”
“Yeah, just weeks after,” Gill said. “It started building slow, eventually covered this whole valley. Some days it was real bad, right down on the ground. Had to have lights on during the day. Slowly raised to a point where it just hangs in the valley now, a few hundred feet above street level. Doesn’t move up or down. Been here ever since.”
“You think the test caused it?”
“Don’t think...I know,” Gill shouted. “The Trinity site is only ninety miles east. Winds blow over these mountains easterly. Not then. That blast changed weather ‘round here for weeks, blew radioactivity into our valley, mixed with storm clouds...and stayed.”
“I can’t buy that,” Dan said.
“You don’t have to buy nothin’! It’s fact. Early ‘46, I finally convinced Doc Sherman and a couple of government boys monitoring the Trinity site to come over--check the fall-out. I’d been keeping up with the whole thing by newspaper out of Alamogordo...a few days late ‘cause we’re kinda isolated in this valley, but still reading what was going on over there. I learned enough about radioactivity to know it’s damned dangerous. Besides, I could trust those men to tell me the truth. That blast was real dirty.”
“That was one hell of a lot of years ago,” Russ said.
The Ford bounced on the rutted gravel road leading out of town. Gill shifted into second to pull the hill. “Yeah, I was almost sure it’d been more years than I wanted to know about.”
“Meaning what, Sheriff?” Dan asked.
“Well, here’s the real paradox about Trinity, Gila Springs, this haze and you two. As Doc Sherman got older, I didn’t. I became convinced the years were passing mighty slow.”
“Doc Sherman…your friend?” Dan queried.
“Was my friend, lived here in Gila Springs after he quit the Trinity team. Got scared of that bomb. When he was with the team, he used to come over weekends to fish the river, loved this valley. Met Ramona Guttierrez. Moved in with her, right here in town for several years, then bought a house up on the rim after the blast. Said he couldn’t stand this haze, wanted to see the sun again. They moved…he began to age. Didn’t think anything of it at first, when he came to town for groceries, but his aging seemed faster than normal. After several weeks up there, he got real old...I didn’t,” Gill paused. “Three years ago he died. He was ten years younger than I. Strange thing is, Ramona died right after, giving birth to their daughter. She was only thirty-four.”
Russ gazed out the window toward the town below, partially hidden in haze. “Tell us about that monitoring team.”
“Poked ‘round here better’n two weeks, checked everything. Thought it was strange when they left…sudden-like, without telling me or anyone else. Packed up equipment in the middle of the night and took off. I got worried, drove up. Snow fences blocked the road. Barbed wire ran through the slats. Signs all over stated Government property. Nuclear test site. No trespassing. Deadly force authorized. I didn’t tell anyone about it, didn’t want to scare townsfolk. I knew no one was coming to Gila Springs...ever.”
“Sounds like a cover-up,” Dan said. “Probably figured they’d killed a couple thousand U.S. citizens with radiation poisoning and didn’t want anyone to find out. Would have jeopardized the whole nuclear program. Covering it up wouldn’t have been that hard, especially since Gila Springs is so isolated.”
“That’s how I figured it,” Gill said. “As far as they were concerned, in a few months, this town simply wouldn’t exist anymore. Everyone would be dead. Government conveniently and intentionally forgot us, erased us. I’d bet this town has been removed from maps, records—anything and everything.”
“You’re correct, my map doesn’t show this town,” Dan said.
“If no one came in, did anyone ever leave?” Russ asked.
“Yeah, but they never came back. Doc Sherman didn’t.”
“Why all the questions and suspicions about us?” Russ tensed up and watched the Sheriff pull off the narrow road. “You act like you don’t believe us.”
“Had to make sure you weren’t government agents. They tried to kill everyone in this town once.” Gill stopped the Ford, backed out of the narrow road and turned the Black and White back toward town. “Figured they’d eventually send another team to check on us...you two. Wanted to make sure you stumbled onto my town accidentally, like you said.”
“As for how we found your town, I thought I saw a sign,” Russ said, “just before the county road”
“You guys are the first to happen onto Gila Springs. Sure there was a sign up there?”
“No,” Russ said, “it was dark, late and I was tired. Eyes may have been playing tricks.”
“Now that you know we’re not government men, why won’t you let us leave?” Dan asked.
“Want you to confirm one other suspicion I got: Time has slowed, or even stopped, here in Gila Springs.”
“Not possible,” Dan snapped. “Time doesn’t stop. For anything…or anyone.”
“You boys are reasonably intelligent,” Gill said, looking at them in the rear view mirror. “You know when this Ford was manufactured?”
“Yeah. Nineteen forty-nine,” Dan offered. “So?”
“Johnny Bond’s white Olds sitting in front of Tommy’s Tavern...you saw it?”
“A nineteen fifty...not many of them left around. Why?”
“My point,” Gill answered. “Looked like a new car, just like this Ford, right?”
“We didn’t see the Olds up close, looked new,” Dan said, rubbing his hand across the back of the seat’s Mohair upholstery, “this Ford sure does.”
“You boys question the motel bill? Cheap, right? And the 19.9 cent a gallon Ethyl? How much were movie tickets last night?”
“Didn’t really question $28 for two beds, figured off-season. The gas took us by surprise,” Russ said, “and the movie…a little strange.”
“Of course it’s strange...nothing changes here, nothing ages, we never run out of anything. Time’s stopped. And then you show up in a 1964 automobile. There’s a big difference between 1950 automobiles and 1964 automobiles.”
“Sheriff, you think we’re from the future?”
“Look, I’m not that stupid, boys,” Gill said. “It’s not a case of you, or your cars, being from the future. It’s more like you drove into the past...from 1964 into 1950.”
“Hold on. You think it’s 1964 outside your valley?”
“Come on! I have to spell it out for you?” Gill shouted. “Amps, kay-settes, steer-e-o’s, plastic paint. Smog, fuel injection, Impalas. Stuff that don’t exist here, never has...things I’ve never heard of. Those huge, fancy shiny wheel rims and those ‘18 inch ZZX low profile high speed rated radial tires’...got that off’n your tires...we still use plain old bias ply rubber here.”
“Wait a minute. It’s not that...”
“No, you wait.” the Sheriff fired back. “You seen another town with brick streets lately? How ‘bout Sam’s hot rods? Probably vintage stuff to you. You seen anything in this town compare to 1964 prices?”
“No, but you can’t be serious about that ‘time stopped’ thing?” Dan said.
“As serious as that bomb blast. I’m living proof of it,” Gill said. “I was born January, 1900, do I look like I’m 64 years old?”
“More like 35/40. But that doesn’t prove a thing. Some people age slow. Time does not stop.”
“You just proved it does. You two drive in here in cars that haven’t been built yet...at least for us in this valley. Sam don’t know what to make of your engines, paint or brakes. And here’s the clincher; automobile’s manufactured up to 1950 only have 16 gallon gas tanks. Both of yours have 24 gallon tanks.”
“Sheriff, you don’t really know…”
“I just know, now, that fourteen years has moved on by us,” Gill said. “Time has stopped in 1950 for Gila Springs, New Mexico.”
“I’ve got real bad news, Sheriff. Time has moved on more than fourteen years. My ‘64 Chevrolet is thirty-nine years old,” Dan said. “You’re older than you realize. The century has changed, it’s 2003. Fifty-three years have passed since 1950.”
Gill swallowed hard and slammed on the brakes. The Ford skidded to a stop sideways in the middle of the gravel road. He turned, shaking, and looked at the two men. Russ held out his driver’s license. “Look at my renewal date: 2003, and my birth-date; 1943. I was born two years before the Trinity test, that makes me 60.”
“I...uhm...that’d make me...103 years old,” Gill exclaimed. “Damn, I had no idea that much time had passed.”
“Whoaaa,” Dan said. “Do you know how valuable this could be?”
“I got a good idea,” Gill said, “that’s why I don’t want anyone in this valley that has anything to do with the government. That’s why I asked so many questions, had to make sure you were who you said.”
“Sooner or later, Sheriff, someone’s bound to discover this,” Russ said. “These days, people will kill to know why time has stopped in this valley.”
“So, now you’re convinced? I don’t doubt people will kill for this information, but I’m still Sheriff, with a job to do,” Gill said. “I’ve got to preserve our lifestyle here. The only thing I can do is prevent anyone from finding us. Besides, I like living here. So does everyone in Gila Springs.”
“What about us, Sheriff?” Russ asked. “Aren’t you worried we’ll tell the world.”
“Nope. When you leave this valley you won’t remember us. Whatever is in this haze makes people forget. Doc Sherman couldn’t remember anything after he moved; forgot about Trinity, didn’t remember living in Gila Springs, didn’t even know Ramona gave him a daughter. After a while up on the rim, he forgot everything. Hell, it got so he didn’t even know me.”
“Sheriff, if you don’t want anyone to find this town, bulldoze that intersection,” Dan said. “Remove the county road…two, three miles back into the trees. Plant some pines, let the underbrush grow back over. Erase any outward appearance and make sure you find that county road sign. No one will ever come to Gila Springs again. You’ll be the only town that really is lost in the fifties.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” the Sheriff said. “No one will ever know we’re here.”
“Your secret is safe with us,” Russ smiled at the Sheriff, “we were brought up with old fashioned values. But, life in 1950 sounds appealing.”
“We could use some new blood ‘round here, new thinking in this town. I don’t want to be Sheriff…forever.”
“Thanks, but no,” Dan said.
The Sheriff slowed for Mitch’s driveway. “I’m disappointed, I like you boys...and your new cars, but you can be on your way now. Uhm…are you sure you can’t stay?”
“Got things to do in OUR future, Sheriff,” Russ said. “A car show to attend and my newest grandson is waiting in Phoenix for his grampa.”
Gill lowered his head. “Got some bad news on that, son…your car show is over. So’s Thanksgiving. You’ve been here two days. Based on the dates you’ve given me, calculations project several weeks gone by up-valley. It’s New Year’s Eve in your world. Besides, you’ll have some explaining to do, IF YOU CAN. As a peace officer, and knowing what I know, I’d bet your family’s filed missing persons reports on you and your brother.”
Copyright 11-02 Aden Rush/R.A. Jetter
Out from Denver, we stayed overnite in Albuquerque, then drove south to Socorro in the morning and grabbed Highway 60 westbound...a two-lane. We like running two-lane highways…there’s much more scenery, lots more little towns along the way to explore and a lot more time to day-dream ( or listen to a booming stereo!). This story, basically, was written on the road…and polished when I got home…it was first published in issue # 4, December, 2002, in a paperback entitled “Thirteen Stories” out of Vancouver, BC. Something else you all should know: it’s better than twice as long as the other stories I’ve posted…this one runs 6665 words. Please let me know what you think when you’re finished reading.
Thanx,
Roger (aka Aden Rush)
THE TRINITY PARADOX
“Hey, Russ,” the Citizen’s Band 2-way radio crackled to life. “How much gas you got left?”
Russ gripped the steering wheel with one hand, microphone in the other and deftly maneuvered the tight curve. “Less than an eighth tank.”
Phoenix, Arizona, was the ultimate destination. Luck wasn’t riding with them. Nothing mechanical -- their classic ‘hot rods’ were running great, it just seemed to take forever to traverse New Mexico. Halfway through the state…spend the night and out of Albuquerque by noon Wednesday, south to Socorro, through the foothills, near Magdalena, to the Very Large Array--the NSGS’ flatcar rail-mounted radio telescopes on the Plains of San Augustin. Too much time spent at the visitor center and it cost them…daylight. A ‘short cut’ was needed -- southwest from the VLA, through the Tularosa Mountains. At least, on a flat map, the two-lane looked shorter. Darkness caught them and the ‘short cut’ ate up time.
Dan glanced at his gas gauge, scanned the speedometer and looked back to the roadway. Tall evergreens lined both sides of the treacherous two-lane, headlights wouldn’t penetrate their depth and the moon hadn’t yet risen. “We may be in trouble here, better find a gas station soon.”
“Climbing these mountain roads is burning a lot more gas than usual,” Russ said.
Bright red taillights streaked down the narrow two-lane, Dan followed. “Any idea where that station is?”
Russ thumbed the CB mic switch. “Not a clue. Check your atlas.”
Dash lights weren’t enough to illuminate interior recesses, Dan hastily searched the passenger’s seat, rear seat and the floor of his 1964 Chevrolet. Tight curves prevented any extended looks.
Russ was leading, working his 1957 Chevrolet around several S-curves, playing a game -- taking them 15 mph over the posted limit. The speedometer needle confirmed his acumen and the lowered ‘57 held the roadway like it was attached to corkscrew roller coaster rails. He grinned, picked up the CB mic. “Find your atlas yet? Oh, need the time too.”
“Dark-thirty...11 at least. Hell, I don’t know. We gassed up at 8:00, usually get three hours of driving on a tank. You’d better quit screwing around, you’ll burn more gas.”
Russ forced the wheel hard left and aimed his Chevy around a hairpin 25 mph curve. The dual exhausts echoed off the rocky road-cut. “Dark-thirty, huh? These pines sure block light, seems darker than normal.”
“So dark I’ve lost my atlas. I’ll tell you where the nearest station is when I find it. You did fill the spare gas can? We may need it.”
“I…uhm…forgot,” Russ tapped the brakes and shifted the 4-speed transmission down into third for a 20 mph curve.
“You jest surely? Man, I’m glad I didn’t forget the atlas, we’d be lost in these mountains.”
“We are lost,” Russ’s voice crackled in Dan’s speaker. “And don’t give me any shit about losing it!”
The southwestern New Mexico mountains don’t look huge on an atlas, surely the time crossing them couldn’t take any longer than driving Interstate 40. An assumption proven wrong as darkness deepened. A trip through the Tularosa Mountains are comparable to Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, it simply requires additional driving time. Two-lane highways have an interminable way of convincing skeptics.
“You see that old sign?” Russ asked. Faded and dirty, it leaned into the weeds, reflection paled in the headlights. “Think it said Gila Springs, seventeen miles south. County road just ahead.”
“Slow down a bit, I’ll check,” Dan said and pulled the atlas from under his seat, placed it on his lap and retrieved a flashlight from the console. “You watching for the Arizona line?”
“I’m watching for UFO’s.” Russ grinned, coaxing the ‘57 into a shallow right-hand curve at 55 mph -- 10 over the posted limit.
“Huh? We’re almost out of gas and you’re looking for flying saucers?”
“Yeah, the Tularosa Mountains are where some guy got abducted by one. Remember? It was a movie. ‘Fire in the Sky’ maybe?”
“He and his buddies were cutting wood when they spotted the saucer?”
“Think it spotted them. It’d be easy to disappear up here, haven’t seen a house, or lights for miles, real eerie,” Russ said. “Makes your eyes do funny things.”
“You keep your eyes on the road. I don’t need you plunging into those trees. Here’s something interesting -- according to my atlas, there is no Gila Springs. Nearest town is west of here, 65 miles away.”
“Hey, I know what I saw.”
“Yeah, right. Who just told me darkness was doing funny things to their eyes?” Dan tapped the brakes, forced the steering wheel left and felt the ‘64 float through a curve, lo profile radials super-glued to pavement.
“Let me tell you what this gas gauge is doing to my eyes. I won’t make 65 miles. An hour on this road is roughly 45 miles, I’ll be choking on fumes way before then. Besides, I’m getting tired.”
“If you’re sure Gila Springs is close, maybe we’d better go for it,” Dan said. “Even if it’s small, there may be a 24-hour convenience store. If nothing else, find a motel...gas up in the morning.”
“I’m not sure of anything right now. The sign looked old...but quitting for the night’s a good idea.” Russ shifted into third to slow for the county road. “We’re not expected in Phoenix ‘til tomorrow anyway.”
The county road wasn’t the best they’d ever been on. It hardly mattered--even though their cars were very low, they knew how to handle them and two-lanes seldom presented problems. Poorly maintained county roads were not an exception, even one that had no upkeep for years. New Mexico’s summer heat had buckled the concrete many times and the farther they ventured from the main highway, the rougher it got--weathered and potholed and yellow no-passing centerlines were non-existent. The road’s shoulders were ragged and few warning signs remained upright. Weeds grew in widening cracks and proliferated along the roadway’s edges. The 50-mph speed limit seemed fast for conditions.
The possibility of sleeping in their cars was not inviting if they ran out of gas--providing Dan’s atlas was accurate. Temperatures in New Mexico’s Mountains slip into the twenties after dark in November. With an empty tank and no heat, it’s like sleeping outside. Neither wanted to dwell on that thought.
The road deteriorated as they chased the narrowing strip of concrete down the switchbacks. At 20-25 mph, seventeen miles of twisting road meant close to forty-five minutes of driving.
A faded, school-bus yellow 10 mph curve ahead sign was just barely visible in the weeds as Russ’s headlights played over it. A right turn and immediately back left erased doubt that both men had better pay attention, regardless of how drowsy they were.
Dan watched the brake lights of Russ’s Bel Air illuminate. “What’s going on? You running too fast?”
“Sharper than it looked, misjudged that curve,” Russ said. “Have you noticed how much downhill we’ve done since we left the main road?”
“Yeah, didn’t think we were that high. My map shows Gila Springs River and Canyon but no town.”
“Whoa. What was that?” Russ mumbled, coasting between weathered, falling-down snow fences. “Strange, almost look like they blocked this road at one time. Un-uhn, must be imagining things now.” He grabbed his mic, “Dan, check out those snow fences as you go by. Looks to me like this road was blocked years ago.” As he clicked off the mic, the road surface deteriorated farther, he didn’t see it til the last second . “Brakes. Brakes… awwww damn!” Russ’s ’57 banged off the end of the concrete and bounced hard. Gravel and rock scattered, dust flew. The steering wheel knocked the mic out of his hand. “Slow it, Dan. Slow it. Damn, too late!” He shouted inside his car, knowing Dan couldn’t hear him. The ‘64’s headlights flashed in his rear view mirror as Dan dropped off the ragged edge and blew through billowing dust. Gravel clanged off the ‘64’s undercarriage.
“What happened to the road?” Dan shouted into the mic. “I felt the pavement end but didn’t see those fences. You seeing things again?”
Russ pulled the shifter into second to slow. “Maybe. I swear it’s getting darker. I sure as hell didn’t see that little surprise coming.”
The night had become blacker, stars winked out. Heavy cloud mingled with evergreen trees. The smell of snow drifted in through a vent window. Russ pulled the CB mic to his mouth. “You ready for good news-bad news? Bad news first -- road’s getting worse. Good news -- lights -- maybe street lights, just below us.”
“Hope so, that seventeen miles just finished me.”
The town limit sign read 20 mph. Headlights lit the next rectangular white sign, lettered in black: Welcome to Gila Springs. Main Street started where gravel ended…the business district up ahead lit the night.
“Grab a motel. We’ll worry about gas tomorrow,” Dan announced.
Yellow incandescent streetlights lent buildings an old appearance: reddish brick, wooden door frames and doors, glass block. Gila Springs’ business area was ten blocks long, all but deserted.
“Brick...,” Russ said into the CB mic. Low profile radial tires slapped on unending seams. “Paved with brick.”
“Haven’t seen brick streets for years, didn’t know this was done anywhere else other than the Midwest,” Dan said. “This town has to be quite old.”
A neon sign flashed above a solitary car parked in front of the local tavern. Russ rolled by the pristine, light colored convertible. Neon changed the car’s color with each blink of its red, blue, pink and green. Winter condensation accumulated on the windows and dulled vivid color. “Check out the Oldsmobile, Dan, looks like a 1950.”
“Oh, man…wide whitewall tires, spinner hubcaps, fender skirts, even a name lettered on the quarter. Can’t read it, tho,” Dan said. “Definitely 1950. Way too cool.”
“There’s a motel.” The yellow and red neon sign up ahead flashed Welcome. “And vacancy.”
Russ pulled under the small canopy, Dan followed. Single story, Gable roof, park right-in-front-of-your-room suggested it had been built in the late forties -- yet not at all run down.
“Looks like Route 66 motels.” Dan recalled recent souvenir coffee table books he’d seen on the road. “Bet this town doesn’t get many tourists anymore. It’s waaa-aaay off the beaten path.”
It took the old lady a few minutes to answer the night bell; after all, it was after midnight. She stood behind the counter in her housecoat, silent and efficient, signed them in, took their cash and handed Dan a metal key. Twenty-eight dollars for two beds seemed cheap, but why question it? New Mexico’s tourist season was summer-time, not November -- off-season.
The room door creaked open. Dan switched on the light. A turquoise AM radio sat on a dark wood, cigarette-burnt end table and the clock, with a photo of a red woodpecker, hung on a yellow enameled wall. The clock’s mechanism was a bit noisy, but the room was quiet otherwise, even though it faced the street.
“Won’t be any traffic tonight. They’ve rolled up the streets…sidewalks, maybe even the alleys, too.” Russ stepped onto the mottled carpet and slipped past the beds--yellow three and one half inch square tiles lined bathroom walls. A shower curtain laden with cattails, water lilies and frogs hung from a chromed rod. The room was clean and the beds were comfortable. Even without a TV, it didn’t take long to fall asleep.
Russ hammered the wind-up alarm clock off at 9:00 AM and went to the window to see what the day presented. He held the multi-colored, floral drapes slightly apart. “Hey, Dan, check this out.” The winter’s dull early morning light flowed into the dark room.
Dan shuffled to the window. “What are those people doing around our cars? Haven’t they ever seen a ‘57 Chevy or a ‘64 Impala?”
“Should have put car covers on. Word got around town fast us car guys are here. Wonder where that nice Olds convert that was sitting outside the local watering hole is right now?”
“Wonder how big this town is? Few thousand maybe? Downtown wasn’t very big.”
“Too small for a traffic light. Get showered,” Russ ordered, “let’s go. We’ll grab some gas, some doughnuts and some road, I want to be in Phoenix this afternoon.”
After a shower, Russ walked out to his pastel green ‘57 hardtop and pushed the key-chain remote, the handle-less door popped open. The crowd was gone.
“Mornin’,” a gruff voice resonated from shadowed alcove, near a red, round-cornered Coke machine. “Where you guys from?”
“Morning,” Russ replied without turning around, used to people asking like questions when they were on the road. “Denver.” He pushed the electric trunk opener under the dash. It released with a ‘thunk’.
“Nice car.” The voice stepped into the morning haze.
“Thank you.” Russ situated his bag in the trunk and grabbed his jacket. The morning was a bit too cold for shorts and a T-shirt.
“Where you headed?”
“Phoenix.” Russ turned to see who was asking.
A Sheriff’s badge, crisp brown uniform and flat brimmed hat emblazoned with the New Mexico sun startled him. The officer stood with a hand resting on a holstered pistol, sunglasses covered his eyes. The man was big, his youthful face set in determination. “What’s going on there this time of the year?”
“Visit relatives, do a car show on Friday and the Thanksgiving thing next week. Besides, it snowed in Denver Monday.”
“What brings you into Gila Springs?”
“Nearly ran out of gas last night. Can’t get far on an empty tank.”
“Staying long?”
“Anything ‘round here to see scenic-wise? Guess we’ll see how it goes after we grab some doughnuts and gas up.” Russ wiped at the condensation coating the windows. “Point me to the nearest station, would you?”
The Sheriff pointed at Dan’s Impala. “What year is that blue one?” He pulled off the sunglasses to get a better look, eyed both cars carefully and walked past the ’57.
“Sixty-four,” Russ grinned, proud of his bodywork and paint. “Modified a little. This one’s a ‘57.”
The Sheriff ignored the last statement. “Nineteen sixty-four?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Russ cupped his hands and blew on his fingers -- the condensation was cold.
The motel door slammed. Dan maneuvered between the cars. He looked twice, nodded at the Sheriff, walked to the rear of his car and opened the trunk. The suitcase positioned, he grabbed a roll of paper towels.
The Sheriff approached the blue hardtop. “Your friend here tells me this is a 1964 Chevy, that right?”
“My brother...and it is.” Dan eyed the Sheriff and closed the trunk. “To be more precise: it’s an Impala Super Sport, manufactured on the Los Angeles assembly line. It’s not stock though. I’m running a 450 horse 502 inch big block engine, tuned port fuel injection, cam, block hugger headers, Flowmaster mufflers, stainless steel exhaust and shift-kitted 700R4 automatic transmission.”
“Un-hunh,” the Sheriff slipped off his broad brimmed hat and knelt to peer under the car.
“Also powder-coated engine brackets, valve covers and air cleaner instead of chroming them,” Dan added.
The Sheriff stood up and backed away from the car. “I don’t take kindly to funnin’, boys,” he scolded. “You’re pullin’ my leg and that isn’t one bit funny.” Dark, piercing eyes stared. The man was dead serious. “This car could only come off an assembly line in Detroit. Cars aren’t built in Los Angeles.”
“Whatever you say, Sheriff.” Dan looked quizzically at Russ. “Do us a favor, tell us where the nearest station is.”
“Not before you explain why you’re tellin’ me this here is a nineteen sixty-four automobile and has all that stuff.” The Sheriff turned and pointed at the green car. “Your pal said that one was manufactured in 1957?”
“Correct.” Dan glanced at Russ again, expecting an explanation of the Sheriff’s line of questioning.
The Sheriff walked around both cars several times. “You boys wait right here. I’m going to get a friend. Sam will want to take a look at these.” He ambled across the street toward the footbridge in City Park. The slow-flowing Gila River disappeared behind heavily wooded banks. The tall man wriggled behind the wheel of a black and white Ford sedan parked in the shade of tall cottonwoods, a New Mexico sun logo painted on the door above ‘Gila Springs Sheriff’.
Russ watched him pull away. “Let’s find a station and get. He has no reason to hold us and I don’t like the inquisition we’re getting.”
“Sure isn’t the friendliest cop in the world. He thought we were lying,” Dan said. “You see that old black and white cruiser he got into?”
“Something right off Broderick Crawford’s Highway Patrol. From the looks of this town, you’d think it was stuck in the fifties all the time. We going back out the way we came in?”
“Since this town isn’t on my map, let’s not take a chance.” Dan looked both directions of Main Street. “There’s a station two blocks down, wrong way though.”
“Got no choice, won’t make it to the outskirts, let alone up that road. I may have enough to get to that station if I don’t warm up the engine.”
Five minutes later, Russ pulled up to a gas pump, got out and removed his gas cap. “Hey Dan, check this out. These pumps are so old there’s nowhere to put the one-dollar space in front of the 19.9, they left it off. Even the Regular and Ethyl labels are here.”
“Cool. Cheap gas today,” Dan chuckled. “I’m using Ethyl in mine.”
“Mornin’ guys, them’s nice cars,” the attendant said. He was dressed in a clean, light yellow uniform, thin red pinstripes highlighted it and the yellow baseball cap. “Gulf ” embroidered on both. “Mitch” in black above his left pocket, a pen and an air gauge peeked out of the right. He held a key in his hand. “Let me reset that. I’ll pump. How much you need?”
“Uhmm, fill it,” Dan said, bemused by the uniform.
Mitch pointed to Russ, “I’ll get yours next,” and slipped the nozzle into the filler neck. “Be happy to check the oil and clean them windows, too, but can’t let you pump. New Mexico law, ya know?”
Russ removed his hand from the nozzle. “Seriously?”
“Yessir. I’ll check tires, too. Go ahead an’ open your hood, it’ll save a few minutes. You guys seem to be in a hurry.”
“Yeah, had a run-in with your Sheriff,” Russ said.
“Gill Gavin?”
“Didn’t get his name. Wasn’t real friendly, concerned about our cars. Some kind of theft ring operating around here?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that,” Mitch said. “Gill gets really suspicious when anyone shows up. He knows what goes on ‘round here twenty-six hours a day, eight days a week, if you get my meaning. He don’t miss anything and we don’t get tourists here. These really are some gorgeous cars.”
“We aren’t tourists. Almost ran out of gas last night, stayed at the motel up the street,” Dan said caustically.
Mitch nodded toward the street. “Here comes Gill now, looks like he’s got Sam with him.”
“Awww, damn,” Russ said, “We’re not getting out of here now.”
The Sheriff parked his black and white cross-wise in front of Russ’s ‘57, effectively blocked him from leaving. Sam pulled his white-walled, hub-capped ‘46 Ford coupe directly behind. He slid out of the gloss jet-black coupe, gently closed the door and joined the Sheriff in front of Dan’s ‘64.
“I thought I told you boys to stay put?” Gill said. “You don’t listen too good.”
“What do you want with us, Sheriff? We didn’t do anything wrong,” Russ shot back.
“These vehicles got my curiosity up. Sam’s gonna check ‘em out, confirm that blue car is as new as you say it is.”
Dan reached for his wallet. “Sheriff, I can do that by showing you my registration, it’s got the date of manufacture on it.”
“Paperwork can be forged, modified,” Gill remarked, “don’t prove nothin’. Sam’s a crack mechanic, owns the local garage, built some really hot cars the last few years. He knows engines, just put a new Cadillac V8 in his chopped ‘49 Merc. Runs like a scalded dog. Open them trunks...doors, too. Now.”
Russ glanced at Dan and silently mouthed the words ‘scalded dog’. Dan shrugged, opened the passenger door and trunk. Russ did likewise.
Sam appeared stunned, seemed he couldn’t even talk. He studied the chrome and polished aluminum on the engine and the cleanliness of the engine bay -- everything was shiny, no sign of grease or oil anywhere. Russ and Dan stood back and watched, not inclined to offer explanation. Mitch walked out of the station office and asked each for $4.78.
“Don’t think so,” Dan said. “You’ve made a mistake.”
Mitch shook his head, went back inside and returned with an adding machine paper tape. “Twenty-four gallons of Ethyl at 19.9 cents per gallon is $4.78. No mistake.”
Sheriff Gavin listened.
Dan handed Mitch a twenty. “For both. Keep the change, you did a great job.”
“Getting worried here, Dan,” Russ said softly. “Two and two isn’t adding up to four.”
Gill sauntered over to Dan’s Chevy and rummaged around inside. “Hey boys, what’s all them plastic things on the seat?”
“Plastic things? Oh, you mean CD’s, or the cassettes?”
“Don’t know what I mean.” Gill shook his head and walked to the trunk. “What’s this silver box-like thing with all the wires?”
“The amp. Oh yeah…’plastic things’…music, Sheriff. This amp powers six speakers and two sub-woofers -- puts out over 500 watts.”
“Amp? Kay-settes? Woofers? You’re talkin’ way over my head, boy. Where you boys really from?”
“Already told you,” Russ said. “Denv...”
“Hold on,” Gill interrupted, “I’m beginning to think you’ve got something to do with that strange saucer-like thing that crashed near Roswell some years back.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding, Sheriff. That was nineteen-for...”
“Gill,” Sam yelled from under the hood. “I ain’t never seen an engine like this. Ain’t got carburetors…or air cleaner. Don’t understand how it runs. No generator either, has something that looks like one...but it ain’t.” The Sheriff leaned in over the polished aluminum radiator, Sam continued. “The transmission in the green car--never seen one that small. Chromed shifter’s attached to the side...that ain’t no truck 4-speed.”
Sam knelt alongside the front tire. “Check out these brakes, Gill, no drums.” He pointed inside the car. “And the interiors-real leather, in color yet. Lookit this steering column, tilts outta the way. The paint, Gill, changes color, looks pearly and smoother than glass, makes both cars futuristic looking.”
“OK Sam, I appreciate your help. Go on back to your garage,” the Sheriff ordered. “I’ll handle it from here.”
“Aww Gill, I wanna stick around, listen to them engines. Bet they sound real purty. Might even like to take me a ride.”
“Sam,” Gill shouted.
“All right, Gill. When you get done, send them down to see my Merc and the rest of my cars. Ain’t near as nice as theirs, but they might like to check ‘em out.”
“It’ll be a while, Sam, these boys have some explaining to do.”
“Explain what?” Russ demanded, watching Sam climb into the sinister black coupe. “What have we done wrong, other than find this town?”
“Not quite sure yet,” Gill said. “Now you listen. I’m telling you this just once, boys. Don’t leave town. Understand what I said? Go on back to the motel, stay another night. I’ve made arrangements with Glenda, the room is gratis.”
“But, Sheriff,” Dan said. “We need to get to Phoenix…”
“You’ve got time, you said the car show started Friday. I’m not done with you two but right now I’ve got a little investigating to do.” The Sheriff turned toward his car, then looked over his shoulder. “Oh, don’t try to make any phone calls out of here, I’ve informed the operators--only local calls for you. I’ll need to see you boys again…tomorrow.”
“What’re we going to do until then?” Russ asked.
The Sheriff stopped walking and turned. “Go get your doughnuts, go on down to Sam’s, look over his cars, spend some time down there. I’ll tell him you’re on the way. Enjoy his company, I’ll tell him to fire up the barbeque for you this afternoon. Tonight take in a movie. I WILL see you tomorrow.”
Sheriff Gavin yelled at Mitch. He trotted over and listened to the Sheriff. Minutes later he came out of the office with pen and paper in hand. “Here ya go, guys. Directions…to Sam’s. Movie is downtown, three blocks from the motel. Sheriff wants you here at 1:00, right after lunch. Bennie’s Breakfast Shack, half a block from the theatre, has great breakfast…and lunch. See ya.”
After a visit to Sam’s, an afternoon nap, an Edward G. Robinson movie--“House of Strangers” at 8:00 PM, it was back to the motel. “How old was that movie anyway? Can’t believe they’re still showing black and whites around here.”
Mitch had been straight with them, breakfast at Bennie’s was the best they’d had but the Sheriff worried them. He stood waiting at the station, pocket watch in hand. It was 1:25 when they rolled in.
“I said one o’clock. You boys irritate me. Now get in my car. Let’s take a ride. Mitch will keep an eye on yours.”
Mitch stopped sweeping. “Hold on, Gill. I’d hate to see them beautiful cars get ruined. Park them next to the building, in the shadow. You know what this haze does to paint.”
“Do what Mitch says, then get in,” the Sheriff motioned toward his black and white.
“What’s he mean about the haze, Sheriff? Where are you taking us?” Russ inquired after the big man.
The Sheriff held the back door of his sedan and waited. Minutes later, both men climbed in. Gill closed it and slipped behind the large steering wheel. He turned the key at the bottom of the dash and pushed the chromed button next to it. The engine jumped to life...quiet as a summer breeze. Russ covered one side of his mouth and whispered to Dan-- “It’s stock, original as the day it rolled out of the factory.” The engine purred. Gill pulled the column shifter into low gear and spun the right rear tire, screeching it as the car bounced out of the driveway.
Russ hung onto the armrest as Gill shifted into second gear. “Where we going, Sheriff?”
“People are expecting us in Phoenix,” Dan added. “‘If we don’t show up...”
“Look,” Gill interrupted, “I’m not going to toss you in jail on some trumped-up charge. The only thing I’m going to do is make you late getting into Phoenix, understand?”
“Why wouldn’t you let us leave yesterday then? And please tell us what Mitch meant.” Russ said. “Our paint wasn’t cheap.”
“He meant the haze hanging over this valley eventually blisters anything painted.”
“Even Urethane paint?” Russ asked.
“What the hell is that?” Gill shot back.
“Three stage paint; primer, base coat, clear coat,” Dan volunteered. “Plastic paint. Our cars are painted...ahh, never mind. You won’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Go on about the haze,” Russ interjected.
Gill turned the Ford toward the county road. “Always here, every day. I haven’t seen full sun for nigh onto five, six years now.”
“Sounds like L.A. smog,” Dan said, holding tight to the passenger assist on back of the front seat.
“L.A. what?” Gill asked. “What’s smog?”
Dan smirked and whispered to Russ, “Where’s this guy been for the last fifty years?”
Russ smirked. “Smog is a combination of auto and truck exhaust, factory pollutants and dust...under an inversion layer.”
Gill turned to look at them. “Now what the hell is that?”
“What? An inversion layer?”
Gill slowed for a dip in the road. “Yeah, that.”
“It’s a layer of cold air above and warm air near the ground. Holds pollution down. Smog first appeared in the Los Angeles basin after too many people moved there. Car and truck engines were dirtier then, spouted unburned pollutants. Factories were dirtier, too. Smog looks like fog, only it’s not good for the lungs. Don’t know why it’d be here though.”
“Uh-hunh,” Gill said, not real sure if Russ was to be believed.
“What’s up with this haze?” Dan asked. “You said you haven’t seen the sun for a long time?”
“It appeared right after that bomb test over at Trinity,” Gill said.
“Trinity...White Sands? No way! That was 1945. July, if I remember correctly.”
“Yeah, just weeks after,” Gill said. “It started building slow, eventually covered this whole valley. Some days it was real bad, right down on the ground. Had to have lights on during the day. Slowly raised to a point where it just hangs in the valley now, a few hundred feet above street level. Doesn’t move up or down. Been here ever since.”
“You think the test caused it?”
“Don’t think...I know,” Gill shouted. “The Trinity site is only ninety miles east. Winds blow over these mountains easterly. Not then. That blast changed weather ‘round here for weeks, blew radioactivity into our valley, mixed with storm clouds...and stayed.”
“I can’t buy that,” Dan said.
“You don’t have to buy nothin’! It’s fact. Early ‘46, I finally convinced Doc Sherman and a couple of government boys monitoring the Trinity site to come over--check the fall-out. I’d been keeping up with the whole thing by newspaper out of Alamogordo...a few days late ‘cause we’re kinda isolated in this valley, but still reading what was going on over there. I learned enough about radioactivity to know it’s damned dangerous. Besides, I could trust those men to tell me the truth. That blast was real dirty.”
“That was one hell of a lot of years ago,” Russ said.
The Ford bounced on the rutted gravel road leading out of town. Gill shifted into second to pull the hill. “Yeah, I was almost sure it’d been more years than I wanted to know about.”
“Meaning what, Sheriff?” Dan asked.
“Well, here’s the real paradox about Trinity, Gila Springs, this haze and you two. As Doc Sherman got older, I didn’t. I became convinced the years were passing mighty slow.”
“Doc Sherman…your friend?” Dan queried.
“Was my friend, lived here in Gila Springs after he quit the Trinity team. Got scared of that bomb. When he was with the team, he used to come over weekends to fish the river, loved this valley. Met Ramona Guttierrez. Moved in with her, right here in town for several years, then bought a house up on the rim after the blast. Said he couldn’t stand this haze, wanted to see the sun again. They moved…he began to age. Didn’t think anything of it at first, when he came to town for groceries, but his aging seemed faster than normal. After several weeks up there, he got real old...I didn’t,” Gill paused. “Three years ago he died. He was ten years younger than I. Strange thing is, Ramona died right after, giving birth to their daughter. She was only thirty-four.”
Russ gazed out the window toward the town below, partially hidden in haze. “Tell us about that monitoring team.”
“Poked ‘round here better’n two weeks, checked everything. Thought it was strange when they left…sudden-like, without telling me or anyone else. Packed up equipment in the middle of the night and took off. I got worried, drove up. Snow fences blocked the road. Barbed wire ran through the slats. Signs all over stated Government property. Nuclear test site. No trespassing. Deadly force authorized. I didn’t tell anyone about it, didn’t want to scare townsfolk. I knew no one was coming to Gila Springs...ever.”
“Sounds like a cover-up,” Dan said. “Probably figured they’d killed a couple thousand U.S. citizens with radiation poisoning and didn’t want anyone to find out. Would have jeopardized the whole nuclear program. Covering it up wouldn’t have been that hard, especially since Gila Springs is so isolated.”
“That’s how I figured it,” Gill said. “As far as they were concerned, in a few months, this town simply wouldn’t exist anymore. Everyone would be dead. Government conveniently and intentionally forgot us, erased us. I’d bet this town has been removed from maps, records—anything and everything.”
“You’re correct, my map doesn’t show this town,” Dan said.
“If no one came in, did anyone ever leave?” Russ asked.
“Yeah, but they never came back. Doc Sherman didn’t.”
“Why all the questions and suspicions about us?” Russ tensed up and watched the Sheriff pull off the narrow road. “You act like you don’t believe us.”
“Had to make sure you weren’t government agents. They tried to kill everyone in this town once.” Gill stopped the Ford, backed out of the narrow road and turned the Black and White back toward town. “Figured they’d eventually send another team to check on us...you two. Wanted to make sure you stumbled onto my town accidentally, like you said.”
“As for how we found your town, I thought I saw a sign,” Russ said, “just before the county road”
“You guys are the first to happen onto Gila Springs. Sure there was a sign up there?”
“No,” Russ said, “it was dark, late and I was tired. Eyes may have been playing tricks.”
“Now that you know we’re not government men, why won’t you let us leave?” Dan asked.
“Want you to confirm one other suspicion I got: Time has slowed, or even stopped, here in Gila Springs.”
“Not possible,” Dan snapped. “Time doesn’t stop. For anything…or anyone.”
“You boys are reasonably intelligent,” Gill said, looking at them in the rear view mirror. “You know when this Ford was manufactured?”
“Yeah. Nineteen forty-nine,” Dan offered. “So?”
“Johnny Bond’s white Olds sitting in front of Tommy’s Tavern...you saw it?”
“A nineteen fifty...not many of them left around. Why?”
“My point,” Gill answered. “Looked like a new car, just like this Ford, right?”
“We didn’t see the Olds up close, looked new,” Dan said, rubbing his hand across the back of the seat’s Mohair upholstery, “this Ford sure does.”
“You boys question the motel bill? Cheap, right? And the 19.9 cent a gallon Ethyl? How much were movie tickets last night?”
“Didn’t really question $28 for two beds, figured off-season. The gas took us by surprise,” Russ said, “and the movie…a little strange.”
“Of course it’s strange...nothing changes here, nothing ages, we never run out of anything. Time’s stopped. And then you show up in a 1964 automobile. There’s a big difference between 1950 automobiles and 1964 automobiles.”
“Sheriff, you think we’re from the future?”
“Look, I’m not that stupid, boys,” Gill said. “It’s not a case of you, or your cars, being from the future. It’s more like you drove into the past...from 1964 into 1950.”
“Hold on. You think it’s 1964 outside your valley?”
“Come on! I have to spell it out for you?” Gill shouted. “Amps, kay-settes, steer-e-o’s, plastic paint. Smog, fuel injection, Impalas. Stuff that don’t exist here, never has...things I’ve never heard of. Those huge, fancy shiny wheel rims and those ‘18 inch ZZX low profile high speed rated radial tires’...got that off’n your tires...we still use plain old bias ply rubber here.”
“Wait a minute. It’s not that...”
“No, you wait.” the Sheriff fired back. “You seen another town with brick streets lately? How ‘bout Sam’s hot rods? Probably vintage stuff to you. You seen anything in this town compare to 1964 prices?”
“No, but you can’t be serious about that ‘time stopped’ thing?” Dan said.
“As serious as that bomb blast. I’m living proof of it,” Gill said. “I was born January, 1900, do I look like I’m 64 years old?”
“More like 35/40. But that doesn’t prove a thing. Some people age slow. Time does not stop.”
“You just proved it does. You two drive in here in cars that haven’t been built yet...at least for us in this valley. Sam don’t know what to make of your engines, paint or brakes. And here’s the clincher; automobile’s manufactured up to 1950 only have 16 gallon gas tanks. Both of yours have 24 gallon tanks.”
“Sheriff, you don’t really know…”
“I just know, now, that fourteen years has moved on by us,” Gill said. “Time has stopped in 1950 for Gila Springs, New Mexico.”
“I’ve got real bad news, Sheriff. Time has moved on more than fourteen years. My ‘64 Chevrolet is thirty-nine years old,” Dan said. “You’re older than you realize. The century has changed, it’s 2003. Fifty-three years have passed since 1950.”
Gill swallowed hard and slammed on the brakes. The Ford skidded to a stop sideways in the middle of the gravel road. He turned, shaking, and looked at the two men. Russ held out his driver’s license. “Look at my renewal date: 2003, and my birth-date; 1943. I was born two years before the Trinity test, that makes me 60.”
“I...uhm...that’d make me...103 years old,” Gill exclaimed. “Damn, I had no idea that much time had passed.”
“Whoaaa,” Dan said. “Do you know how valuable this could be?”
“I got a good idea,” Gill said, “that’s why I don’t want anyone in this valley that has anything to do with the government. That’s why I asked so many questions, had to make sure you were who you said.”
“Sooner or later, Sheriff, someone’s bound to discover this,” Russ said. “These days, people will kill to know why time has stopped in this valley.”
“So, now you’re convinced? I don’t doubt people will kill for this information, but I’m still Sheriff, with a job to do,” Gill said. “I’ve got to preserve our lifestyle here. The only thing I can do is prevent anyone from finding us. Besides, I like living here. So does everyone in Gila Springs.”
“What about us, Sheriff?” Russ asked. “Aren’t you worried we’ll tell the world.”
“Nope. When you leave this valley you won’t remember us. Whatever is in this haze makes people forget. Doc Sherman couldn’t remember anything after he moved; forgot about Trinity, didn’t remember living in Gila Springs, didn’t even know Ramona gave him a daughter. After a while up on the rim, he forgot everything. Hell, it got so he didn’t even know me.”
“Sheriff, if you don’t want anyone to find this town, bulldoze that intersection,” Dan said. “Remove the county road…two, three miles back into the trees. Plant some pines, let the underbrush grow back over. Erase any outward appearance and make sure you find that county road sign. No one will ever come to Gila Springs again. You’ll be the only town that really is lost in the fifties.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” the Sheriff said. “No one will ever know we’re here.”
“Your secret is safe with us,” Russ smiled at the Sheriff, “we were brought up with old fashioned values. But, life in 1950 sounds appealing.”
“We could use some new blood ‘round here, new thinking in this town. I don’t want to be Sheriff…forever.”
“Thanks, but no,” Dan said.
The Sheriff slowed for Mitch’s driveway. “I’m disappointed, I like you boys...and your new cars, but you can be on your way now. Uhm…are you sure you can’t stay?”
“Got things to do in OUR future, Sheriff,” Russ said. “A car show to attend and my newest grandson is waiting in Phoenix for his grampa.”
Gill lowered his head. “Got some bad news on that, son…your car show is over. So’s Thanksgiving. You’ve been here two days. Based on the dates you’ve given me, calculations project several weeks gone by up-valley. It’s New Year’s Eve in your world. Besides, you’ll have some explaining to do, IF YOU CAN. As a peace officer, and knowing what I know, I’d bet your family’s filed missing persons reports on you and your brother.”
Copyright 11-02 Aden Rush/R.A. Jetter