suppose this is our first official meeting as well.” He shook Bert’s hand, then Tom’s. “Harold Harper. Welcome to New Mexico. Do you have suitcases?”
“I do.” Bert raised his hand.
“The luggage return is this way.”
The elderly man took off at a quick clip, pointing out which airlines occupied which terminals, and where the restrooms and restaurants were, as if he were giving a tour of the Louvre. Bert’s bags were the first off the carousel, but he insisted on opening them and inspecting the contents before they could move ahead.
“How could anything get damaged in those things?” Roy was referring to Bert’s Samsonite suitcases. “Bet they’re heavy as hell.”
“These are classics. I don’t even know if they make them anymore with a hard shell like this. They’re waterproof, shockproof, and smashproof. Remember the commercial with the gorilla jumping on them?”
Outdoors again, the heat was like a hair dryer. Harold had parked close to the building, in a handicapped spot. He had a wheelchair sticker hanging from his rearview, but Tom couldn’t guess what his ailment might be. The man had more energy that a two-year-old on crack.
The good doctor drove an old Jeep Wrangler with no roof or doors, just a roll bar to protect them from the elements. It was what could charitably be called a four-seater, though the rear two seemed built for embryos. Tom attempted to climb in back but Harold stopped him.
“Please. Do me the honor of sitting up front with me, if you would.”
Roy shot him a look that would fry burgers, but Tom sat up front anyway. Bert played around with a bungee cord for several minutes, strapping in his luggage to the rear rack, while Roy placed his carryon between his feet and carefully positioned his donut. Harold took off before either had a chance to fully settle in. The doctor drove with the same sense of urgency he displayed while on foot. Traffic signals didn’t appear to be applicable to him, and twice he had to swerve to avoid collisions. Tom liked him immediately.
“The ranch is about ten miles out of Albuquerque. Used to be twenty miles out, but the town is growing pretty fast. It’ll reach three quarters of a million within the next few years, at the current rate.”
Tom noted that as America aged, it tended to homogenize.
Albuquerque could have been a suburb of Chicago—complete with strip malls, super markets, chain stores, and apartment buildings. The only difference was that every other vehicle was a 4 x 4. Tom checked the rearview, paranoid about being tailed. Rather than black sedans, he saw Bert sock Roy in the shoulder.
Bert grinned. “Slug bug green, no hit backs.”
“Why did you just hit me, fool?”
“Volkswagon bug, right there. Don’t you play the slug bug game?
Every time you see a VW Beetle, you hit the guy next to you and say the color.”
“You do that again, we play the physics game. I toss you out of the speeding Jeep and see how many times you bounce.”
Bert folded his arms, glaring. “What is your problem? Why can’t you have fun?”
“I have lots of fun.”
“You act like you have a saggy diaper that leaks.”
“Maybe you need to take your Shut-The-Hell-Up pill.”
“I dare you to stop being a grump ass.” Bert challenged.
“Fine—punch Bronco black.”
Roy slugged Bert in the shoulder. Bert’s eyes got wide. “What the hell was that?”
“I saw a black Ford Bronco, so I punched you.”
“That’s not the game. It’s Volkswagon bugs.”
“Now who’s the one that isn’t fun?”
Bert hit him back. “There. You didn’t call no hit-backs.”
“Fine.” Roy scanned for a car, then he smacked Bert in the back of the head.
“Head whack Cadillac yellow, no hit backs.
Bert elbowed Roy in the ribs. “Rib jab Buick Allegra red, no hit backs.”
“Soon as I see a Toyota, I’m gonna break your jaw.”
Harold leaned over and spoke to Tom out of the side of his mouth.
“Are they always like
“I do.” Bert raised his hand.
“The luggage return is this way.”
The elderly man took off at a quick clip, pointing out which airlines occupied which terminals, and where the restrooms and restaurants were, as if he were giving a tour of the Louvre. Bert’s bags were the first off the carousel, but he insisted on opening them and inspecting the contents before they could move ahead.
“How could anything get damaged in those things?” Roy was referring to Bert’s Samsonite suitcases. “Bet they’re heavy as hell.”
“These are classics. I don’t even know if they make them anymore with a hard shell like this. They’re waterproof, shockproof, and smashproof. Remember the commercial with the gorilla jumping on them?”
Outdoors again, the heat was like a hair dryer. Harold had parked close to the building, in a handicapped spot. He had a wheelchair sticker hanging from his rearview, but Tom couldn’t guess what his ailment might be. The man had more energy that a two-year-old on crack.
The good doctor drove an old Jeep Wrangler with no roof or doors, just a roll bar to protect them from the elements. It was what could charitably be called a four-seater, though the rear two seemed built for embryos. Tom attempted to climb in back but Harold stopped him.
“Please. Do me the honor of sitting up front with me, if you would.”
Roy shot him a look that would fry burgers, but Tom sat up front anyway. Bert played around with a bungee cord for several minutes, strapping in his luggage to the rear rack, while Roy placed his carryon between his feet and carefully positioned his donut. Harold took off before either had a chance to fully settle in. The doctor drove with the same sense of urgency he displayed while on foot. Traffic signals didn’t appear to be applicable to him, and twice he had to swerve to avoid collisions. Tom liked him immediately.
“The ranch is about ten miles out of Albuquerque. Used to be twenty miles out, but the town is growing pretty fast. It’ll reach three quarters of a million within the next few years, at the current rate.”
Tom noted that as America aged, it tended to homogenize.
Albuquerque could have been a suburb of Chicago—complete with strip malls, super markets, chain stores, and apartment buildings. The only difference was that every other vehicle was a 4 x 4. Tom checked the rearview, paranoid about being tailed. Rather than black sedans, he saw Bert sock Roy in the shoulder.
Bert grinned. “Slug bug green, no hit backs.”
“Why did you just hit me, fool?”
“Volkswagon bug, right there. Don’t you play the slug bug game?
Every time you see a VW Beetle, you hit the guy next to you and say the color.”
“You do that again, we play the physics game. I toss you out of the speeding Jeep and see how many times you bounce.”
Bert folded his arms, glaring. “What is your problem? Why can’t you have fun?”
“I have lots of fun.”
“You act like you have a saggy diaper that leaks.”
“Maybe you need to take your Shut-The-Hell-Up pill.”
“I dare you to stop being a grump ass.” Bert challenged.
“Fine—punch Bronco black.”
Roy slugged Bert in the shoulder. Bert’s eyes got wide. “What the hell was that?”
“I saw a black Ford Bronco, so I punched you.”
“That’s not the game. It’s Volkswagon bugs.”
“Now who’s the one that isn’t fun?”
Bert hit him back. “There. You didn’t call no hit-backs.”
“Fine.” Roy scanned for a car, then he smacked Bert in the back of the head.
“Head whack Cadillac yellow, no hit backs.
Bert elbowed Roy in the ribs. “Rib jab Buick Allegra red, no hit backs.”
“Soon as I see a Toyota, I’m gonna break your jaw.”
Harold leaned over and spoke to Tom out of the side of his mouth.
“Are they always like
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