2. The Subaru

Saturday, July 10, 1982;  Wewoka-Cromwell Exit, I-40, Oklahoma

Tom's journal:

The Subaru made it about 80 miles yesterday before it died in a paroxysm of effort on a mild slope.  We spent the night in some very soft grass about 10 feet off the side of the interstate.

Greg had the hood up attempting to work on the car by matchlight.  Matchlight!  

Two cars stopped and offered assistance.   The first car contained one young guy.  He discovered we needed more than a jump and left.  The next car contained an elderly couple.  He was sympathetic and would have done all he could.  She started out the same way, but then noticed our shadowy bulks lying in the grass.  She immediately became nervous and started poking her husband urgently, conveying the unspoken message that they were in the midst of obviously dangerous drug fiends and should vacate the scene before we killed and ate them.

Things are very bleak at this point.  We may get this machine running.  We may not.

Greg and Joe took off on foot earlier, timing their excursion to coincide with the only rain we've seen in four days.  Hopefully their timing is indicative of nothing other than impatience.
Anybody want to buy a 1974 Subura?  It's full of gas.

Under the bridge at the Wewoka-Cromwell exit

Joe and Greg returned with two leather-brown Oklahomans who are now puttering around with the erstwhile engine.  "If this isn't a comedy, I don't know what is," Joe noted.  The fellow asked how many horses the Subaru had.

"Four horses' asses," Joe informed him.

We limped the Subaru into an Exxon station where these two men work.  They've tried several things, mostly involving the carburetor.  "All I know to do is eliminate," one of the fellows said, meaning the only way he knew to fix the car was to replace it one part at a time until it started running again.  Wonderful.

Doug, Joe, and I regretfully left Greg and the Exxon station, paying $15 for a ride to Shawnee. We went to the bus station, bought tickets to Oklahoma City, and made reservations for a rental car to take to Denver.

Our $15 ride to Shawnee

Shawnee, Oklahoma

Tom's journal:

It's now 6:00 pm.  Our bus leaves for Oklahoma City at 2:45 am, so we've got some time to kill. We've been trying to decide what will happen next.  Suggestions include Jack's house in Denver burning down as soon as our gear gets there; getting arrested, which seems not only a possibility but a pretty safe bet; and dying.  

The latter would probably be cheapest.

After several attempts, Doug managed to toss a paper wad down my T-shirt.  We roasted to the day's first success, a reflection of our collective despondency.  To be perfectly honest, not one break has gone our way.  We're due.

Joe just had an emotional breakdown and asked permission to cry for the second time in as many days.  As he said earlier, while sitting under the overpass of I-40 at Cromwell, these are indeed the times that try men's souls.

We toyed with the idea of having Greg retrieve the rent-a-car in order to avoid the large drop-off charge.  This was vetoed almost immediately.  He would probably fix the poor machine to death.

It was unanimously agreed that it's a shame Greg has picked up a modicum of mechanical knowledge somewhere.  Joe said it's like knowing how to dog paddle and then trying to swim 10,000 miles.

Regardless of everything that has happened to us, perhaps because of it, we've all had some pretty good laughs out of this.  There's not much else we can do.

We drank a few beers and caught a cab to the movie in Shawnee.  The same cab driver took us back to the bus station and the son of a bitch charged us a dollar more for the return trip.  And we even specifically requested he be the one sent to get us.  Bastard.

"I'm going to quit trying to think," Joe said.  An excellent suggestion.

We got to the bus station in Shawnee, which was of course closed.  We bedded down on the concrete about midnight to await our grey steed [the Greyhound bus.]  A policeman pulled up to examine our credentials.  He called in our names, addresses, etc., and received an all-clear.  What they don't know won't hurt us, I thought.

Considering the history of this trip so far, Joe and I have decided the Budget Rent A Car we've ordered in Oklahoma City will blow up when we get back to Cromwell.  Greg will try to fix it and we'll end up having to buy the damn thing. And it still won't run. 

Sunday, July 11, 1982; Oklahoma City and Guthrie, Oklahoma

Tom's journal:

We got to OKC at 4:50 am and had several pots of coffee.  We contacted the Budget people, and got one of their cars, costing $20.  What ensued was the longest day of my life.

Our rental car and the Oklahoma City bus station 

About 10 in the morning, we collected our maroon Lynx.  We drove it back to Cromwell to get Greg with the idea of towing the Subaru at least as far as Shawnee, where there was a Subaru dealership.  When we got to the Exxon station, Greg was nowhere to be found.  We waited around for an hour or so and then drove back to OKC's Will Rogers World Airport, intending to rent a Hertz to take us to Denver.  They wouldn't let us rent one because none of us had a "major credit card."  Screw you, but it figured.  Doug said the hell with it and caught a flight to Denver.  Joe and I returned the Lynx and walked back to the bus station.  To be safe, we double checked to make sure which bus was ours.  (We were getting wary of The Fates by this time.)

Our baggage was aboard - we made sure of that - and moments later we were standing in line to board the bus when I decided to call Mrs. Carl Starr, the wife of one of the mechanics at the Exxon station in Cromwell.  All of this would have been much simpler, but of course the phone at the service station was out of order, so we couldn't get in touch with Greg directly.

I got on the [pay] phone and billed it to my Tennessee number.  While the operator was checking the billing, the boarding call came for our bus.  I finally got Mrs. Starr on the phone.  She was very excited and said Greg had gotten the car is running and intended to pick us up at the bus station in Oklahoma City."

I went back and boarded the bus and found Joe.  "We've got to get off the bus.  Greg got the car running."
He jumped up, we grabbed our on-board baggage, and headed for the exit.  Just as we reached the door, the driver jumped out before us and slammed the door in our faces.  It was locked.  

"Do you think the Gods are trying to tell us something?" I asked Joe.

We finally got the door unlocked and barreled into the station.  Joe's ticket had already been punched.  He asked the driver to initial it so we could use it on the next bus if need be.  The driver, obviously disapproving of our appearance, would not do so.  We were in a quandary.  Most of our gear was already on the bus.  We didn't know for certain that Greg really had the car fixed.  Mrs. Starr seemed all excited to be involved in such intrigue and could have babbled anything.  We jumped back on the bus.

The bus left the station.  We sat there for a while and realized how awful it would be if Mrs. Starr was right and Greg really did have the car going.  So I jumped off the bus at the next stop: Guthrie, Oklahoma.

I figured everything would be alright if I could catch Greg at the bus station.  Joe stayed on the bus.  As I jumped off, he yelled that he would get off in Wichita, Kansas.

[Editor's note:  At this point, Tom is in Guthrie, Oklahoma, Joe is on a bus to Wichita, Doug is in Denver, and Greg is who-knows-where.]  

I crossed the street to a Safeway store, where there was a pay phone outside on the wall.  I called Jack Grace's house in Denver, and Mrs. Starr twice in Cromwell, and left the pay phone number for the Guthrie Oklahoma Safeway.  I also called the bus station in Oklahoma City.  Yes, they had seen Greg at the station, but no, he wasn't there now, and he had not left a message.  I didn't know whether he'd gotten the message of my whereabouts or not.  I was in a mess.  Couldn't figure out what to do.  I thought the best thing would be to stay put and hope Greg would hear from somebody where I was.  But since everything I figured that day had been wrong, when a truck driver offered me a lift back to Oklahoma City, I took it.

Still hoping to prevent Greg any further grief, I went barreling down the street in search of a phone.  I found one almost immediately, but of course it was out of order.

I got back to the OKC bus station and called Wichita.  They paged Joe, and he came to the phone.  It was the first person to answer me in the 347 calls I'd made in the last two hours.

There's no place to sleep in the Wichita Kansas bus station

"Where the hell are you?" he wanted to know.  He had gotten the number for the Guthrie Safeway from Sarah Grace, and had just tried to call me there.  But instead of reaching me there, guess who answered the phone?  Greg, of course.  

So I called the Safeway, and Greg was still there.  Turns out he had spoken with Mrs. Starr, but she had misunderstood the phone number I gave him.  Figures. 

Greg drove back to OKC, picked me up, and we headed for Wichita.

Monday, July 12, 1982

Tom's journal:

We got to the Wichita Kansas bus station shortly before three in the morning, almost 24 full hours of miscommunication and worry after we arrive in Oklahoma City.  We collected a very tired, bone-weary Joe.

"The next bus to Denver is due here in 15 minutes," he told us.  "I was going to take it just so I'd have a place to sleep."

Back in the Subaru!  Yay!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Friday, July 16, 1982; Denver, Colorado

Tom's journal:

I would say that the trip from Wichita to Denver was uneventful, except for one thing:  After averaging about 75 miles a day for four days, to be moving at all was an event.

All that was wrong with the Subaru, it turned out, was a worn rotor.  Greg had stayed at the Exxon station until another Subaru drove up.  He borrowed the guy's rotor and knew he'd discovered the problem.  Had the bus station in Shawnee not been closed on Saturday, he could have called us there.  Had the bar in Shawnee not closed early, he could have called us.   In fact, as we lay trying to sleep on the sidewalk at the Shawnee bus stop, Greg had been in town looking for us.  Oh well.

The Colorado state line!