Stuck in Why

We left Tucson that morning feeling good about our trip to the Sea of Cortez in the upper most reaches of the Baja Peninsula. Our destination that day—Puerto Penasco--a sleepy Mexican seaport with a long stretch of white beach and interesting local beer joints.

Heading west along I-10, the desert stretched to the horizon on all sides. Occasionally, tin shacks of the Papago Indian Reservation dotted the side of the highway.

I had made this trip several times before, though never in a beater Chevy. Sure enough, three hours out of Tucson, the engine’s temperature gauge inched upward. 15 minutes later, a loud knocking in the engine; the car heaved like a wounded whale.

We pulled over, and flagged down a passing motorist. The man said he would notify a tower in Ajo to come pick us up. An hour later, Fred Nixon of Fred Nixon towing agency hooked the Chevy onto his truck and we were on our way. We had a look at the Map. The highway diverged in twenty miles at Why Arizona. “Just drop us off in Why. You can have the car,” Phil said. The dust from Fred’s truck lingered in the air a long time as he hightailed it out of Why, which was not exactly a town but rather a crossroads with one general store and gas station.

Dust devils formed a hundred yards out in the desert. Roadrunners skittered around near us as we stood under the sign “270 miles to Tucson.” We stuck out our thumbs at passing motorists. Having no luck, we approached an RV in the General Store parking lot and got the attention of the driver. “Hi there,” Phil said in the most pleasant voice he could muster. “We’re trying to get back to Tucson.”

The driver gave us a cold hard stare and said in a southern drawl, “Well, I don’t right like hitchhikers.” We explained that we're not really hitchhikers, but that our car had broke down. He had a few words with his wife, decided that we were ok, and told us to hop in. His Doberman Pincher kept us company in the back of the RV all the way back to Tucson.

The color of night

Cranial discomfort

I've had this damn headache ever since we warped out of Talos 4. Three Bayer did nothing. Waited 6 hours after that on Bones instructions, then popped two Tylenol. Took a nap and had weird dreams. Woke up with pain in my temples. Now what? Advil, Ibuprofin, green tea with honey?

Sea surface full of clouds (first stanza)

by Wallace Stevens

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And in the morning summer hued the deck

And made one think of rosy chocolate
And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green
Gave suavity to the perplexed machine

Of ocean, which like limpid water lay.
Who, then, in that ambrosial latitude
Out of the light evolved the morning blooms,

Who, then, evolved the sea-blooms from the clouds
Diffusing balm in that Pacific calm?
C’était mon enfant, mon bijou, mon âme.

The sea-clouds whitened far below the calm
And moved, as blooms move, in the swimming green
And in its watery radiance, while the hue

Of heaven in an antique reflection rolled
Round those flotillas. And sometimes the sea
Poured brilliant iris on the glistening blue.

The raid

One evening many years ago, I was playing Go at the Korean Club on Lawrence Avenue. I left the club early that night to go home and watch a White Sox game. The next day, I counted myself a lucky fellow upon hearing that the club was raided by the Chicago police. They hauled away 13 Koreans in a paddy wagon on gambling charges. With no windows to the street, I wondered how the police could make such a claim. Later, it came out that undercover officers had been spying on the gamers through a narrow crank window in the alley.

Go is a game of skill; it involves no luck. Technically, gambling requires an element of luck. In essence, a few dollars wagered on Go is akin to a few dollars bet at a bowling alley. The wife of a physicist, a well known Chicago mystery writer, informed Mike Royko of the incident. He wrote a column questioning why the Chicago cops spent so much time hunting gaming geeks while gangs and thugs ravished nearby neighborhoods. Eventually charges were dropped and the club resumed its gaming activities.

Later, it came to light that a Go widow (the wife of a player who stays out all night playing Go) informed on the club in order to get her husband back.

Artist and artist

Author Ames and illustrator Haspiel discuss the fine points of graphic novel collaboration.

From the collection of David Lade, Chicago IL

"Toy Soldier"

Artist: Martin Soto

Medium: Oil on canvas