A Carwash Dream

BY LARRY HALL
1 WALKAWAY LOAN

Polo watched the desert floor rise beneath the great silver bird. The earth was dusty and

striated and red and brown. It was white and bald and getting closer with each passing moment.

The plane settled stolidly down on the runway. It was a smooth landing, evoking a few

rounds of fl from appreciative passengers. Polo stayed seated until the line had moved well forward.

Possessing a constitutional opposition to haste, he let the rushers rush. Let the fleers flee.

He had not come for the glitter and the shows. He did not aim to spend idle hours in casinos.

This was strictly business, and with business Polo was strict and parsimonious.

Thad Germail, Polo’s representative in Vegas, greeted him at the arrival gate. Germail stood

with weight shifted to one side and arms crossed. He was tall and tan and wore cowboy boots, blue

jeans, and a lime shirt with an Indian design.

“Hello, boss,” he said as Polo approached him.

“I trust the flight met your minimal expectations.”

“A flight well-ended is a good flight. None of the rest really rates.”

“Well, you’re here. That’s a good thing.”

“If you say so. We need to talk.”

“Sure, boss. We’ll get you settled in your suite, you have your beauty sleep, and we’ll go grab

some dinner.”

“Talk. Now.

Germail looked discomfited. He shrugged.

“I know a deli in the main concourse. Serves Reubens on New York rye. Honest-to-goodness

sauerkraut too.”

“I ate on the plane. We’ll go to my hotel and talk in the lobby.”

“Here, now. In the airport.”

“What about your bags?”

“They’ll wait.”
 They found two plastic chairs in a plastic lounge in a plastic concourse restaurant.

“Unauthorized loans,” Polo began, “do not pass muster.”

Germail thought he heard, ‘pass the mustard’ at first. There were chips and salsa on the table

between them, a lemon water and a Coke; but there was no mustard – none at all.

“I thought he was a good risk.”

“First mistake. You were not asked to think, but to execute. We have policies; loan rates and

schedules, risk assessments and more.”

“He was persuasive. The guy can spin a yarn. I forgot protocol.”

“You violated protocol. I have to assume such actions are willful, even if committed in the

presence of persuasive yarn-spinners. Or not.”

“I hear you, Polo.”

“Do you? I’ve lost a considerable chunk of faith in you and your hearing abilities, Thad.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find him. Find this carwash dreamer, this buffing-and-polishing visionary. Retrieve my

funds. Use Morro Abreu.”

“The Chilean midget?”

“I’m guessing you don’t call him that to his face.”

“Maybe not.”

“Sure. You wouldn’t. I’m telling you to hire Morro Abreu; he could find a snowflake in Vail,

in January.”

“I head he’s working with the Mexcians. They won’t let him just walk.”

“Poppycock.”

“If you say so, Polo.”

“I say. So. Got it? Get it.”

“Get Morro Abreu.”

“Yup. You’re catching on.”

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 Gene Basalt’s dream was a carwash miracle. He saw a great dome rise out of the desert, sure

and looming and hospitable. It would be the sudsing, rinsing, waxing home to vehicles of all kinds –

from tiny minis to compacts, to sedans and trucks and SUVs. They would enter in various states of

disrepair, laden with dust and malevolent spirits. They would depart in happy restoration, blessed

by hand and machine, and renewed for the road ahead.

Basalt was a draftsman by trade, and had sketched the dome frequently. He drew the great

curved support geodesic support beams, and the thin half-circle skin over them. He sketched the

various stations of the wash, the dry, and the buffing. Basalt filled in the play areas, complete with

picnic bench cut-outs, slides and sandboxes for the kids. He drew coffee bars and a full-service

restaurant (it was to be a big dome).

The dome made the draftsman’s eyes gleam. The vision of vehicles lined up for hygienic

treatment pushed his soul to overflowing. The scent of the flow of green from the making of the

clean machines set his eyes rolling.

The key meeting took place in an ornate lobby of a second-tier gambling palace just off The

Strip. It occurred between giant ferns and in the midst of great padded chairs and humans. Muzak

spun and floated through the carefully modulated air. Bits of conversation were spliced between the

notes, something like this:

“I see a huge and useful edifice (soaring melody), a functional paradise (guitar riff). It’s my

dream. I want you to help me realize it.”

Germail was a fan of realization and realizations. He had a practical hankering for the next

accomplishment. He certainly heard the passion in Basalt’s pitch.

“Have you crunched the numbers?”

It was Basalt’s detailed, splayed-number spreadsheet that did the trick. Never mind that

revenues and earnings, business costs and projected tax write-offs were all conjecture. Germail

wilted in the shadow of the great ferns, and shelled out cash, fast.

A day later, Basalt met the owners of the intended land, and handed them 50,000, a

downpayment on the agreed half million dollar price. They were happy men, nattily attired, and
glad to buy Eugene Cartwright Basalt a fine dinner at Cangelosi’s (renowned for its prime ribs, king-

sized salads and expansive dessert menu).

The purported entrepreneur ate heartily, and outlined his plans to Jeff Cubbins and Milt

Stanger from Heavenwood Properties. How many visions of his clean paradise had crossed his

mind-screen? (Too many to count, to be sure.) There were drinks and appetizers, and slabs of beef,

baked potatoes topped in sour cream and chives, jellied carrots and peas, more drinks and slices of

cakes and pie. Cash made camraderie flow, it surely did.

It was mere weeks later that the dream-crushing salamander appeared, a lime-skinned darter

with a twitchy tail who appeared one fine afternoon on the picnic blanket of some lovey-dovey grad

students from UNLV. He perched by a picnic basket, was snared and dropped into a handy bottle.

The salamander acquired a name (‘Limey’), an aquarium to himself, and fame. He was a

genus unto himself, a colorful subspecies. The wheels of bureaucracy turned, once the students

reported their find to the zoologists over in the Biology Hall. A Professor Emeritus with a lifelong

attachment to all creatures amphibian contacted a certain Congressman with a passion for the

preservation of the natural world.

Soon, Gene Basalt was informed that no construction would be allowed on his land. He

protested, hired an attorney, and petitioned a Federal court. His claim was discarded, rudely. Things

got worse from there, as the government soon bought the land, paying modest compensation. The

dream died, the dreamer grew small and tired, and the loan walked away.

Germail dutifully hired the Chilean-Vegan miniature man, Morro Abreu, who was a hound to

the hunt.

The miniscule Chilean set to work in pursuit of his quarry. He located the Basalt financial

records, and then went to Basalt’s home in a small, quiet neighborhood on the city’s west side. A tall

freckled woman with high cheekbones answered the door.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Yes. We’re missing your husband.”

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 “What? Who are you?”

“My name is Abreu. I was asked to find your husband. He owes these people - the ones who

asked me to find him – a large sum of money.”

“Well, you’re certainly direct.”

“Thank you. I always find it to be the best policy.”

“Good for you. I don’t know where my husband is. He disappeared a few days ago. I’ve even

contacted the police: you can check with them.”

“I believe you. You seem a credible woman.”

“Again, thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes, you can help me find your husband.”

“I don’t know where he is. I filed a Missing Persons report with the Las Vegas Police. Okay?”

“I have no problem with that.”

“You’re a confident little man.”

Morro smiled.

“I find it the most helpful approach.”

“I don’t know where my husband is. I can’t help you.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

Mary Ann Basalt bid her interrogator goodbye. Morro Abreu returned to his car and moved it

around the corner. Fifteen minutes later, Mary Ann came wheeling by in a battered yellow Malibu.

She headed east out of the city, then north into the great red emptiness, that burnished dominion

where birds of prey glided on powerful thermals and time and space assumed different natures.

She turned off at Albeen, moving east towards the Cleesdale and its watercourse, the

Descopies. Soon she reached McRudder’s Desert Eats, the finest hamburger-and-milkshake joint

between Sin City and Salt Lake. This was a local landmark, a destination point for urban dwellers

addicted to ‘sauce as thick as your thumb’ and ‘home-churned malts with bite.’ The tiled floor was

alternate black-and-white, the jukebox was ancient and full of tunes, and ceiling fans whirred above

teams of satisfied diners.

 Mary Ann took a booth by the window. It was a big booth and a big window. The view

through it was to the parking lot and the desert beyond. She saw buttes rising, two in particular, and

fixed her eyes on the second one.

“How are you today, Ma’am?”

A young waitress, nicely turned out in a white dress with blue trim on the sleeves, spoke

calmly and pleasantly.

“I’m okay. Fine, really. Came out to see the countryside. It’s so pretty out here.”

The waitress nodded.

“Would you like to hear our specials? We have the McRudderBurger with fries and a medium

drink, five-ninety-nine. There’s a mesquite grilled chicken sandwich with our special barbeque sauce

and onion rings. And the drink.”

“That sounds good.”

“Which one.”

“Both, but I’m gravitating towards the chicken sandwich.”

“Good choice. Would you like Coke, lemonade or 7-up with that?”

“Coke. I’m a Coke addict from way back.”

“Good one. So I’ve got mesquite chicken, fries and a Coke.”

Mary Ann said ‘yes.’

When the waitress had gone, she got up to put some quarters in the jukebox.

Out in his car, the minute Chilean watched Mary Ann’s profile through the window. He

turned the salsa sounds up, tapped his leg, and waited.

Gene Basalt stood square in the center of the butte and stretched out his arms and face to the

gathering sky. It was big up there, and very blue. He pictured a wind seizing him from below and

raising him right up to the closest piece of heaven.

Basalt was well dressed for a flight man, wearing sole-molded sandals, stonewashed jeans and

a yellow polo shirt. When his moment of exaltation left him, he remained in fine cut. The pain he felt

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was genuine, but it was rounded and full, not sloppy at all.

The developer had left his ancient Saab on a gravel turnout by the butte’s base, then trekked

up the steep switchback trail bearing backpack, canteen, and sleeping bag. He had tucked his nine

millimeter Browning in his pants before he began to climb. Despite the sorrow and the fear, Basalt

felt a little like Butch Cassidy on the ascent.

The backpack was stocked with all manner of useful foodstuff: jerky, hard-boiled eggs, salt

crackers, dried apricots and sardines in a pop-top can. It held toilet paper, a transistor radio, long

johns, a wool sweater, a compass and a soft-cover King James Bible tattered and frayed around the

edges. This holy book had a cavity that started in Deuteronomy and reached to Ecclesiastes, and

folded within it were the remnants of that provocative loan, $11,700 in pressed hundred dollar bills.

Basalt found a smooth stretch of earth next to a natural mound and settled down to lunch. He

peeled a pair of boiled eggs and smooshed them onto a Saltine. It was a simple and austere meal, the

right kind for a man sitting on the edge of his own doom.
2 SING A HAPPY TUNE

Charles Lefferwaite clambered up the switchback trail, gulping the yards with his long strides,

his head up high and his eyes on the expanding sky. Mersy was right behind him, her strong legs

working as she sang a happy tune.

Charles loved to hike the wilderness, but in particular he loved to hike the buttes. In his heart,

he was a Hopi or some of Pueblo person, meant to move among the stars. In real life, he was a math

grad student at UNLV. In real life, Charles studied Discrete Probability Theory.

That made him a student of randomness, and the patterns that populated it. He was a

theoretician at heart, loving to read about mathematical models and their connection to physical

laws and the natural world. Still, he did not abandon the practical realm, and spent well-earned

hours in casino lounges, trying out his theories in the empirical realm.

Charles believed in moderation and attempted to live by this principle. In love, he was prone

to a lack of discipline bordering on recklessness. This was part of why he adored Mersy so; she was

not like his previous girlfriends, they with the wild hearts and abrupt endings.

He had a hard time anchoring his own heart at times. It could float up into dream-land and

cause no end of mischief. Once, Charles had loved a girl called Rula Adcock, a big-boned rancher’s

daughter from northern Nevada. Rula had great green eyes and active nocturnal habits. She worked

the tables at a popular casino and wrote quasi-melodic poetry in her kitchen at three a.m.

Rula Adcock had captured his floating heart, and then her father died, and she returned to

manage the family ranch. Heart gone, lost love song, high desert longing – it all added up to a

drawn-out, dry-aired sorrow.

Danielle was a French anthropology student transfixed with the role of leisure in American

popular culture. She had been weaned on Jerry Lewis movies, in typical Gallic fashion, and found

every odd twist of Americana fascinating. Danielle wrote her Master’s Thesis on “The Role of

Disney World Sovereignties Within The American Continental Polyglot.”

Charles found her quietly thrilling, especially her sideways smile and her habit of walking

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around his apartment in lingerie and tennis shoes. She was chronically averse to ‘unnecessary

accessories,’ a phrase, which, she pronounced it, carried a mellifluous confidence all its own. So

when Danielle collected her diploma and returned to Bordeaux, he sunk into a claiming funk.

The things that save us, the things that don’t, the hardened heart, taking yet another shot…

It was a third year grad student, plagued by questions about the inherent contradictions in

certain famous mathematical models, who broke Charles’ gloom-spell. This was Mersy, who was

merciful, a strong-legged package of spunk with chestnut hair and a face that called the sunlight to

dance upon its surface.

Mersy was a woman of ideas. She expressed those ideas. Her mind was very active, and her

thoughts rose and spun into the ether. There they could linger or vanish without a trace.

In his gratitude he found places for them to explore and buttes for them to climb. His favorite

was this formation outside of Albeen with its pentagon shape and its top eroded nearly to perfection

by bouts of wind and rain. It offered wonderful views of the Cleesdale Valley, a long sliver of green

cut by the winding Descopies River. The Cleesdale was home to colonies of brilliant spring

wildflowers. Red-winged hawks often soared on the thermals overhead.

Before they reached the mesa, they stopped at a small escarpment overlooking the Cleesdale

and watched the Descopies blaze with a million points of sun. Cattle grazed along its banks while a

pair of attending cowboys watched while their horses grazed.

Mersy had made her usual healthful sandwiches, which she broke out just in time. They were

hungry. There was cream cheese and blackberry jam, tuna and sweet tomatoes, roast beef and a

medley of greens. She pushed her hip up against Charles’ while they ate, and listened as he

explained how the present distribution of cows reflected laws of discrete probability.

The pint-sized Chilean paid for Mary Ann’s meal.

“The rings were delicious,” he said.”

“Then you won’t kill Gene out of gratitude?”

“You worry too much. Tell me where you were going – we can go there together.”
 “I actually sort of believe you. Anyhow I am afraid he’s going to suicide. He goes to a butte

near here when he needs to get away.”

She sat in the front passenger seat of Morro’s car, staring blankly at the asphalt and the white

stripes and praying for Gene. He was such a tender soul. She loved him in spite of himself.

Mary Ann feared he might have fallen for good.

Morro had flipped the radio on, and Spanish ballads came from twin speakers in the space

behind the back seat. I am but a foolish lover with a heart for hurting; if I knew where the exit was, I’d be

there by now…

“Is that okay, the music?”

“It is okay, the music.”

I can’t see the sky for the sorrow, it blocks the sun. I am captive to this love and this pain…

I try to run but am trapped again…

“What do the words mean?”

The Chilean told her. Mary Ann nodded, and hugged herself. They were close now, on the

verge of the Cleesdale. She pointed at the butte in the distance.

“There.”

Morro nodded, and pressed the extended accelerator down hard.

The sun was on a downward path when the students reached the butte top. The wind blew

against hard their skin. They could feel the sky opening up above them. Mersy let out a little cry at

the sight and pressed her lips against the nape of Charles’ neck.

“What a slice of heaven.”

She saw the goose bumps on Charles’ arms, so stroked his skin with her two palms.

Basalt watched them from his spot behind the mound. He lay on his belly with the Good Book

open to Jeremiah set right next to him. His pistol lay on the open pages, six cartridges in the

magazine and the magazine in its chamber.

Charles opened his eyes and smiled, then quickly narrowed them.

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 “What’s wrong?”

“I saw something,” he said in a whisper.

Basalt placed the hostages on a comfortable spot. He explained the rules that he had, then

offered them sardines, apricots and water from his stocks.

“No reason for you to be hungry or thirsty.”

“We just ate,” Charles said. “Thanks anyhow.”

“We’re only graduate students,” he added. “You don’t have anything to fear from us.”

“You could just let us go?”

“He’s a grad student,” Mersy said. “I’m only an undergrad.”

Basalt thought about this, looking at the pistol barrel and wiping some dust away.

“How are your grade point averages?”

“Mine is…”

“Mersy!”

“What?”

“He doesn’t care about your grade point average…”

Basalt pulled at his lip with his left hand.

“It’s wrong, it’s just wrong.”

Charles put his arm around his girlfriend and pulled her close.

“What’s wrong?” Mersy asked.

Gene Basalt now shook his head.

“It’s too late. I owe money to a loan shark. I borrowed it to build a great edifice in the desert, a

place for people to bring their vehicles. A pleasure palace for the four-wheeled…”

“A carwash?”

“Yes, a carwash. But much more than a carwash, something else.”

He scratched in the dirt with the tip of the barrel.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

 “What happened?”

“A salamander.”

“A salamander?”

“A little orange salamander, supposed to be one of the last remaining members of his species.

Found at a spring on my land by a couple of students just like you. From Utah.”

“Utah.”

“Yes. They were zoology students and very precocious. They caught one of the little newts

and carted him back to Ogden. Took him to a lab and had him identified. Found a Congressman – a

bleeding heart – to extend Federal protection to Mr. Newt.”

He smiled.

“It’s a sad story. But I’m sure you’ve heard worse.”

“No, that does sound bad,” Mersy said.

Basalt laughed.

“A sense of humor. That’s good. That’s very good.”

“All I ever wanted was to build the perfect carwash in the desert. My own vision of paradise –

a place to spoil your car and spoil your kids. Fun for the whole family.”

“A salamander’s life is worth more than a human beings? The crawling creatures of the earth

are sacred and we are but blasphemy?”

He patted the Bible that he always kept in reach.

“Right here are the basic truths,” he said. “They never change.”

“Gideon’s Bible?” Charles asked.

“No, King James.”

Mersy said that every problem could be solved by the proper application of logic and

imagination. An impasse need not lead to permanent despair.

“Do you have some experience with impasses then?”

She said she did, then offered some specific advice.

“Sink into the moment. Wash your mind of occluding thoughts. Wait for new ones to

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emerge.”

“I bet I should close my eyes too,” Basalt said, smiling, patting his pistol.

“You can try it with your eyes open. It’s the intent that counts.”

They meditated together. Mersy took Basalt’s hand. He feared the vacuum that he knew must

be beyond letting go, but he was brave and did so anyhow. It felt like falling at first, no safety net

below and his stomach knotting up. Then he pushed through and felt like floating. A smile came to

his lips and to the girl’s.

“You gonna let us go?” Charles asked.

“Not a chance, kid, not a chance.”

3 HUMMING MIDGETS, LEVEL EARTH

Mary Ann wished a hang-glider would carry her the rest of the way to the mesa. She was

down to her last stores of energy and a gathering dread was filling in the spaces within.

She had always known Gene was prone to bouts of recklessness. He aimed for the sky; now

that he’d fallen he had returned to the literal heights.

Near the spot where Charles and Mersy had stopped to eat, they had rested. The midget was

humming and the wind was in its afternoon strength. Long shadows had taken over the banks of the

Descopies, wrapping the sweet grasses in their fullness. The cows and the cowboys were gone back

down the valley to their home range.

She remembered the glow and tingle of courting then. Gene had been an attentive suitor,

ready with surprises and jokes. Even then he had spun his dreams like silk into white space.

The Chilean was in front, pushing forward and whistling a happy tune. He was a tiny form in

a powder blue suit. Morro had exchanged his dress shoes for some tennis shoes back in the car, and

climbed like a veteran hiker.

They were getting close now, right up to where the trail ran to its end at the table’s edge.

Morro’s head popped up above the mesa floor. It moved to the right, to the left and back to

still center again.

“What do you see?”

From where Mary Ann stood, the Chilean’s head had moved like a tortoise. He reminded her

a bit of the plodding reptile with his steadfast persistence.

Slowly, he slid down again to her elevation.

“Three people. Looks like Mr. Gene Basalt and two young friends.”

“Friends?”

“Seems to be. They sit there together. Very quietly.”

“Did he have his gun?”

“This I could not see. Do you know the make of his weapon?”

1/13/10 15
 “Browning nine millimeter semi-auto.”

Morro nodded.

“Very good knowledge. That is a respectable weapon.”

“What do we do now?”

“Make a plan.”

Morro made a plan. He sat down on the trail and sketched the whole thing out in the dirt with

his fingers. He drew the mesa, the round middle mound and the three sitters – Basalt, Charles and

Mersy.

“Rub dub-a-dub dub,” he said. “Three men in the tub.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“Never mind.”

“That doesn’t look like much of a plan.”

“It’s a skeleton of a plan,” the Chilean said.

He tapped his head.

“The rest is in here. The repository.”

She had to admit he had an impressive vocabulary.

“I wish you would flesh it out a little more.”

“Here it is - we have three people in the midst of a mesa. We are speaking of a captor and his

hostages. Two hostages, young people it seems. We have a flat area, three seated persons, a fair

amount of wind – much more up there – and a setting sun. I must imagine they are cold, uncertain.

Including your husband.”

“How did they look though? You said they looked calm?”

“Quiet. I said ‘quiet.’ You can be frightened yet still.”

“I see your point but not your plan.”

“You are one tough lady.”

“This is one tough world.”

 Morro nodded.

“My plan is simple. I approach from the front, no attempt at stealth or concealment. I have my

hands up. My pistol is in the back of my pants. I speak loudly and clearly on the path of friendship. I

indicate no ill will…”

“Sounds like a peace parley.”

“That would be the first option.”

“And the second?”

The Chilean pulled out his pistol and laid it on the ground. He patted the barrel.

“Only if necessary,” he said. “And then only to wound.”

Morro scampered up to the tabletop. Mary Ann could hear his charmingly accented voice

clearly as he walked slowly forward.

“Hello and greetings,” he said.

“It is a beautiful evening, no? Or should I say ‘sunset’? The desert is most beautiful this time

of day.”

“Stop right there, you little midget!”

Mary Ann recognized her husband’s voice immediately.

“Stop and stand absolutely stock-still or I am going to put a hole in your runt frame.”

“There is no need for threats, Eugene Basalt. I am unarmed.”

“There is a need for threats, there is always a need for threats. If you’re unarmed, I’m the fairy

princess.”

“Show me your weapon, small man…take it out and put it on the ground and kick it

forward.”

“I said I was unarmed.”

There was a pop and the trail of a whistle.

“Take your effing gun out and kick it forward or the next one will tear flesh.”

Mary Ann poked her head up over the tabletop. The wind greeted her right away, pushing

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her hair back and tickling the thin tip of her pretty nose.

The Chilean was prone ahead of her. His head was turned to one side and he was mumbling

curses in Spanish. He twisted his head back towards Mary Ann and shook it.

“Stay,” he hissed. “He’s crazy, your husband. Stay.”

“What’s that?”

Gene waved at Mary Ann.

“Hi, honey. Glad you could make our party.”

“Gene, you’re not rational,” she said. “I’m worried about you, sweetness.”

“Next time, come alone. Don’t bring along a midget. I’ll bet he plied you with tiny serenades

and told you how beautiful those Nebraska green eyes really are.”

“We can fix this, honey. Put the gun down. Let the man up and put the gun down.”

The Descopies had turned silvery, down in the Cleesdale where the cows did graze and the

grasses waved. It was a fantastic light, cut and polished and turning to black.

The wind seemed to follow the river’s course. It was odd but it was true. The wind chased the

water and the water kicked up its head.

The hikers came down single-file. Mersy led the way, singing in a clear voice that lifted and

carried into space.

Truth was, space was all around them. Mersy held her flashlight on the declining path in front

of her. She held her voice to the notes of the song, and her strength out to those who walked behind.

They were all alive, which was a miracle.

Her mother said that life was a gift, or a piece of pottery.

“It looks a lot better whole than in shards,” Claire Hardesty would say, and stitch another

thread of yarn to a sweater.

Mersy could feel Charles’ breath on her neck. He was staying close; she sensed he always

would. Behind him came the sound of the carwash dreamer, sobbing.

The minute Chilean was singing some sort of ballad. Every once in a while he would interrupt
himself and shout, ‘yeah, baby.’

The wind came strongly against the mountain, bringing tears to Mersy’s eyes. Soon she could

hear nothing else, though the trail was sharpening before her, leading them down to level earth

again.

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