Read While Drowning in the Desert for Free Online Page B

I—”
    “Well, you can forget it, because you’re out of the will!” He turned to the stewardess. “You’re my witness!”
    The stewardess was down the jetway in a shot. After snake-eyes, the word witness might be the least popular word in Nevada.
    Without removing his gaze from the stewardess’s rear end Nate said, “See what you did?”
    “Gee, I guess we’ll drive,” I said.
    “Driving is better,” Nate agreed.
    Yeah right, I thought. Five hours there, two hours to get Nate settled, then another ten hours’ drive back to Austin. Oh yeah, driving is much better.
    As we were walking out to get a cab back to the Mirage to pick up the car, the thought finally occurred to me.
    “Mr. Silverstein?” I asked.
    “Yeeess?” he warbled in the stylized tone of a burlesque top banana.
    “How did you get to Las Vegas?”
    “I flew,” he said.
    Of course.
    Then Nate said happily, “This guy with a wooden eye goes to a dance …”
    The valet pulled up the Jeep and I gave him a five. He trotted around and opened the door for Nate.
    Nate just stood there and stared at the Jeep.
    “What?” I asked.
    “An army truck?” he said.
    “A Jeep.”
    “You want me to ride all the way to Palm Springs in an army truck?”
    “Actually, I wanted you to fly all the way to Palm Springs in a civilian aircraft,” I said. “But you wanted to drive.”
    “Not in an army truck.”
    “You’re a Quaker now?”
    “Bouncing,” Nate said.
    “Bouncing?”
    “You think my kidneys are made of steel?!” he hollered. “My bladder is what, a rock? My back, my spine, my neck? You want from the bouncing they should snap?”
    Yes.
    “I’m not riding in that,” he said.
    “How about if we get a rope and I tow you behind?”
    “Funny guy.”
    “Get in,” I said.
    “Forget it.”
    “Please.”
    “No.”
    “Just get in,” I whined.
    “No.”
    “I’ll give you money.”
    “Money I got,” Nate said. “But you can never replace your health.”
    So I tried one of the things I’d seen parents do with four-year-olds. I got into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and said, “Okay, I’m leaving.”
    “So go.”
    “I’m leaving now,” I said in the same singsong tone I’d heard send the little rug-rats sprinting for Mommy and Daddy’s departing heels.
    “So leave already,” Nate said.
    I put the Jeep into drive and started to ease out of the parking circle. I could see Nate in the rearview mirror leaning on his cane, staring resolutely into space, his little knees wobbling.
    “Good-bye!” I yelled.
    He didn’t answer.
    After a pleasant hour in the rent-a-car line I was rewarded with the keys, unlimited mileage and a full tank of gas. I grabbed Nate from the lounge where he was … well, lounging, and dragged him out to the parking lot.
    “So what kind of car did you get?” he asked.
    “Blue.”
    We walked out to slot A-16, where was parked a lovely blue sedan with big cushioned seats. “This is a Japanese car,” Nate said.
    “I guess so.”
    “What?” he snapped. “You never heard of Pearl Harbor?”
    The nice girl behind the counter said, “Back already?”
    I nodded.
    “Don’t you like the car?” she asked. “I can upgrade you to a BMW for only eighteen extra dollars a day.”
    “BMW,” I mulled aloud. “That stands for Bavarian Motor Works, right?”
    “You want it?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “A Lexus?”
    “No Japanese cars,” I said. “No German cars.”
    “Huh?”
    “I cannot rent any car made in the former Axis powers.
    She looked on her computer screen.
    “How about a nice Jeep?” she asked.
    An hour later I walked Nate out to a Chevy Cavalier and said, “Sit in it.”
    “What did you think, I was going to stand?”
    “No,” I said. “Sit in it now.”
    He sat down.
    “Do you like the seat?” I asked. “Are you comfortable?”
    “It’s nice.”
    “Made in Detroit,” I said. “Any problems with its city of origin? No beef with the General Motors corporation? The