no service
By Ian Wrisley, Dec 1, 2006
“No service.” I snapped my cell phone shut, a little relieved.

“Figures,” she said.

I shoved the gearshift into first, gunned the engine til it sparkled and
popped, and let out the clutch slowly. The back tires spun like crazed
paddle wheels.

Nothing.

“That jerk,” Stacy grumbled, “he said the four wheel drive worked.”

“Yeah, I know. You said that six times already.”

“You don’t have to bite my head off, Bill. You’re the one who talked to
him.”

“AArright. Enough! I know: I’m the one who bought this thing. Fighting isn’t going to help. See if the manual is in the glove box.”

“There’s nothing new in the glove box since five minutes ago. The manual hasn’t just materialized.” I screamed a short burst of frustration in my throat and opened the door. Water splashed in. I stepped up and out into the back of the pick-up, mine for just three hours. Two hours earlier we pulled off the blacktop, headed up Slate River. This was why I’d moved to Crested Butte from Kansas City. All the locals were always going on and on about hiking this and skiing that. And now, with my new rig, a ‘92 4x4 (primer gray), I felt like them: local. Hell, I looked local, and it had cost me a fortune. Bole sunglasses, Merrill boots, Carhart jeans, and Nalgene water bottle. I epitomized mountain cool. I even had a visor shielding my eyes. Before we left town we hit the post office, gassed up, grabbed a couple decaf lattes at Camp 4, and drove around, deciding where to go. There was plenty of clearance to get across the river and start up Oh-Be-Joyful. There was plenty of clearance, sure, but I hadn’t counted on the distinct lack of power to the front of my new truck. Half an hour of rocking back and forth had gotten us nowhere, Stacy was pointing out, but turned into the current.

“I know that,” I shouted down into her open window. “I told you, I thought that if I could get turned I might get some traction.” Under my breath (I thought) I added, “Thank you, Irene.” Irene is Stacy’s mom. Her window whirred up. At least the automatic windows worked. So did the seat movers, cigarette lighter, and that thing that adjusts your mirrors. The radio fetched stations from as far away as Grand Junction. The only thing that didn’t seem to work was the four-wheel drive. I looked around the bed of the truck. Nothing here from the previous owner that would help get us out of this river. I bent down, pissed, to check under the spare tire that was jammed up against the back of the cab when the horn beeped its road runner greeting. MEEEPP MMEEEPP.

Startled, I jumped up. There was another truck, the twin of mine, rattling along the road above us. Stacy’s window dropped and her head popped out.

Before she could shout I said, “What do you think you’re doing?” I knew what she was doing, and I didn’t like it. The last thing I needed was some dude rescuing me. She stared at me.

“I’m trying to get us some help.”

“Well don’t. I’ve got this under control,” I said through angry teeth.

“I can see that,” Stacy smiled at me. Too late. The truck turned off the road and headed down the path we’d taken earlier. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck and face. My ears burned.

The truck roared up the little bit of incline before the plunge into the river and stopped. A mangy dog with two different colored eyes barked at me from the bed. The driver swung his door wide and climbed out. From his head to his feet he was a rancher. Not like Ralph Lauren or the
Marlboro Man, but like an honest to God, sweat of his brow, barbed wire, bowlegged, chewing tobacco, red face and snow white head American cowboy.

A large irrational part of me, the big kid, hated him for being there, but there was another part, a little boy, who was glad he was there. To that part of me, this man was a god, a hero, a legend come to life to rescue me. I suppressed both parts and called out, “Four wheel drive seems to have gone out.”

“Got a four or a six in that thing?” Mr. Not Ralph Lauren asked. His boots crunched on the week-old snow.

“No, just the four tires.” I tried to sound casual.

“No, I mean the engine. How many cylinders?” What made it worse was that there was no trace of humor or amusement in his voice.

“Oh, that. Couldn’t hear you over the noise out here. I think it’s a (Got a fifty-fifty shot here) four.”

Stacy opened her door. “Could you help us get out of here? We’re stuck.”

Mr. Not Ralph Lauren looked at her. At least, I think he looked at her. His photo-grays winked at me in the mid-November sun as he turned toward her. “I might be able to pull you out,” he offered. “Did you say something about the four wheel drive not working?”

“We’ve tried . . .” Stacy began.

“I think it’s not working,” I interrupted. “I’ve shifted into four H and four L, but it doesn’t engage the front.”

“Aren’t those lock-out hubs you got there?” asked Not Ralph Lauren.

“What?” asked Stacy. “What hubs?”

“On the tires.” Not Ralph Lauren was wading toward us now, his Wranglers wet up to the knees.

“On the tires,” I repeated, trying to say, ‘I was just about to try that myself’. Mr. Not Ralph Lauren bent over and twisted something on my passenger side wheel. Holding onto the hood he crossed in front of the truck, slipping once. He did the same whatever it was to the tire on the driver’s side. Then he got in, adjusted the seat to his height, and drove us out. Stacy stared at him like she’d never seen a guy drive a rig before. I stood in the back, hugging the roof as we hit the steep bank.

Ian's letterhead says he is a runner, chef, poet, philosopher, tree house builder, teacher, skier, artist, pastor, husband, and father living in Crested Butte, CO, where he oversaw a scrubbed launch of a new Christian Community. Now he teaches English at a local college, works construction, writes, hangs out, ponders, and pontificates. It’s exhausting. He has a book of short stories called Ravens and Other Stories, available here.

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