When the rental car died at the rest stop outside Winslow, Arizona, Manuel found himself too introspective to care. The idea he’d been toying with had grown stronger with each mile. Maybe it was time to quit and use that education degree he’d acquired. When his agent had told him he hadn’t gotten the recording deal they were both so sure would happen, he’d also recommended that Manuel go home and reflect on his next career move.
Homing to Austin sounded good. Manuel was sick of Hollywood and the air of desperation that clung to so many people he’d encountered. He’d known the music industry was tough, but he’d been so buoyed by the fans he’d acquired; they had countered and kept his loathing of California to a healthy minimum.
But now, with the Taurus broken down, money limited, and income unsure, getting home to Texas felt problematic. Manuel had been proud of the fact that he hadn’t let the first four years of success go to his head and bought an expensive car. The shiny red Ford was only a few years old. Having it break down so suddenly came as a shock, interrupting his fractured thinking. Luckily, he was within the city’s limit, but, alas, no service station or truck stop was in sight.
Vaguely, he spotted a boy walking a battered bicycle through the parking lot. Manuel got out of the car and waved his Stetson at the kid. He obligingly wheeled his bike over to stand next to Manuel. “Car broke down, Mister?”
“Yeah. Do you know where I can get a tow and a garage to repair it? I think it’s a transmission problem.”
“Sure do. It’s about a half mile walk. Jose’s Exxon, they’ll fix it alright.”
Manuel found himself joining the kid and they cut through a lot to a local road. He could see a cluster of commercial buildings ahead, and thanked his lucky stars for the meeting. The boy beside him had dark good looks. “Are you an Indian?” Manuel asked.
“Apache,” the boy grinned. “Dad’s great-grandpa was one of Geronimo’s scouts.”
Manuel thought that was rather a nice pedigree. “What’s your dad do for a living?”
The boy’s face darkened. “He’s a musician. When he can get a gig.”
“Oh, yeah? I’m a musician, too.” Manuel wondered if he should change his line of conversation. The world was filled with failed artists and contemporary versions of Billy Joel’s Piano Man.
“Maybe you can talk to him,” the kid said slowly. Then he smiled. “My name is Errol and my father’s name is Mandragon. I think I remember seeing you on tee-vee once.”
Manuel grimaced. He’d played guitar on a commercial during the Super Bowl last year. It had gone viral and had millions of hits on YouTube. Sometimes Manuel thought that commercial was the only reason why his agent kept him on. Until now.
They reached the garage and there was a flurry of explanations, credit card location, and forms to fill out. Jose, a lanky fellow, rubbed his chin all the while as he dispatched a tow truck and ordered an employee to clear a bay for inspection of Manuel’s car. Manuel bought sodas from the vending machine for the kid and himself. Despite his expectations, Errol did not leave for his house, but stayed with Manuel as if he, too, wished to hear the verdict.
The car was towed in, hoisted on a lift, and Jose joined his mechanics to supervise an inspection.
“I hope this won’t cost me a fortune,” Manuel muttered out loud, forgetting he had an audience. “Don’t worry,” Errol consoled, “Jose can fix anything and he never overcharges.”
After what seemed like a small eternity, Jose returned to the office. There’d been a break in the transmission system. The good news was it was fixable, the bad news was that a part needed to be obtained from either Flagstaff or Holbrook. It was already early afternoon. Jose promised Manuel that the car would be fixed by tomorrow morning. Resigned, Manuel dialed the number Jose gave him for the hotel and reserved a room for the night.
When he’d finished this action and retrieved his duffel bag from the car, Manuel found Errol waiting for him with a determined grin. “My house is down this block. Would you come and meet my dad? He’d like to talk to a successful musician.” Manuel wondered if that was really the case, but he was intrigued despite his reservation. A memory, dim but slowly forming, suggested he’d actually heard of Errol’s dad. Manuel wondered if his recollection was right.
The house was two-story and showed signs of wear. Manuel followed the boy inside to find himself in a large living room dominated by a series of electric guitars that hung on the walls. A man sat on a large deep leather couch, a wooden flute in his lap. Staring at him, Manuel discovered that his memory hadn’t played him false. Slowly the man rose and held out his hand for a soft handshake as Errol rushed into an introduction and explanation of Manuel’s predicament.
(to be continued)
