Breakdown in Barstow

by Dennis Goza

"Hi-ho, the glamorous life."

So goes a line from a song in Stephen Sondheim's musical "A Little Night Music" that describes the mixed glories of life as a touring thespian. The song is tinged heavily with irony, as well it should be. Life on the road, especially for an itinerant performer, does have its rewards, but sometimes it's about as glamorous as day-old oatmeal.

Most of the time, when we talk about our travels, we focus on the good times, because we figure it's our duty to be as upbeat as possible, especially with the world being in the condition it's in these days. But it would be less than honest to let you think our life is all one big picnic. To be fair, and perhaps to avoid encouraging the kiddies to become performers themselves without realizing what they're in for, we feel it's also our duty to provide a bit of balance now and then. So brace yourself for a dose of balance.

Barstow, California is not (forgive me, Bartsonians---or whatever you call yourselves) a place that I would choose to be on a Sunday night---particularly when I didn't choose to be there in the first place. I'm sure the town must have its charms, but they were not very apparent to us under the circumstances in which we found it.

We'd just finished our annual week in Las Vegas, and a rather enjoyable week it was this time. Our performance schedule was lighter than usual, and so for once we actually had a little time to play tourist. Normally, we stay at a hotel, and even when we aren't performing we tend to spend our time in our room working, with a daily swimming break. But this time we stayed at Circusland RV Park, so there was more of an incentive to get out and walk.

As Zephyr is still very much obsessed with rollercoasters, I took him next door to the indoor amusement park at Circus Circus, and also to the Sahara for the new rollercoaster there (which he rode 24 times). We all even went to the MGM to watch a performance by a well-known standup comic. And on the way out of town, we had to make one more rollercoaster pit stop---at Buffalo Bill's casino at the California state line. This is the home of the Desperado, one of the tallest (209 feet) and fastest (85 mph) in the world---at least until very recently when all the amusement parks began trying to outdo each other in the terror department. (Even bungee jumping is ho-hum these days; and now, Las Vegas has a facility for INDOOR skydiving!) Well, the good ole Desperado is still too steep for my blood, but Zephyr absolutely loved it, and was eager to do it all again. At 6 bucks a whack, he's going to have to wait until next year.

So far, so great. But as we motored through the desert on our way to a couple of engagements the following day in the San Francisco Bay Area, we noticed that a gremlin knocking under the hood was getting louder and harder to ignore. Finally, when we were a few miles past Barstow, I realized that the oil pressure indicator had dropped to zero. There are several perfectly good numbers that oil pressure can have, but zero is not one of them. So we pulled over and pondered our options. And there really weren't any. I was afraid of driving even a mile farther until we had the contraption examined, for fear of doing irreparable damage. (I didn't know it was already too late, although I feared so.)

So we called a tow truck on our cell phone (how did we ever make it without one?) but it took about an hour for the truck to arrive. they'd had difficulty finding us because I had been unable to give them specific landmarks. How do you distinguish one cactus from another? I'd even taken a walk about a half-mile down the road, walkie-talkie in hand, in an effort to spot a road sign, or a road, or a structure, or a bleached cow skull, or something. But nada. I was just counting my blessings that this was early March instead of mid-August.

We had a choice between being towed to Boron or Barstow. I knew that Boron, though an extremely tiny burg, had considerable historical significance, and so it was tempting to be stranded there just for that reason. But knowing that time was precious in order to get to our shows, we figured we'd have a better chance of getting on the road again the following day if we went to Barstow---not to mention a better chance of finding a branch of our bank and a decent motel.

It was about 5 o'clock that Sunday afternoon when we pulled up---or rather were pulled up---in front of the garage in Barstow. And it was still open! And even the fact that it was open on Sunday at all was, we figured, a very good omen.

We spoke to a young man in the office who assured us that our vehicle would be seen "first thing in the morning". (That, we've learned, is a phrase mechanics deliver on autopilot, much as politicians say "it's time for a change" ). So, with nothing more to be done until the following morning, we started strolling down the street toward downtown Barstow. Along the way, we stopped at a used car dealership (which was closed) and examined a couple of vans that were almost but not quite what we might be interested in buying. We weren't kidding ourselves but what this just might be the end of the road for the machine we'd been navigating the past two and a half years.

We didn't see many signs of life in town except the activity around a few bars. And, wonder of wonders, there was a walk-in clinic that was open 24 hours. So you're in luck if you get sick or have engine problems on a Sunday, but as far as recreational opportunities go, they seem rather limited.

We did find a bowling alley that was open, and since we hadn't been bowling in some time, we stepped on in. We discovered that billiards tables also were on hand, and since Kimberly has become rather fascinated by that pastime, we decided to shoot a couple of games. Then we were ready to bowl; but we were informed that it was almost 8:00, so the facility was about to close for the night. Oh well.

Next morning, we were in the garage waiting room at 8:00.---for all the good it did us. It was nearly noon before the boys in the back finally got around even to lifting our hood. By then, we'd called to cancel our show that had been scheduled that day---and it was looking like a long shot to make one scheduled at a Bay Area school the following morning. We moved our "office" into their waiting room, getting packets of mail ready rather than just spend the time chewing our nails. But at the same time, we did our best to look impatient (no great performance skill needed there) and anxious to be underway. I made a point of pacing around frantically from time to time, hoping they'd get tired of seeing me and speed up the process. I don't think it worked.

Now I don't mean to suggest that there was anything shady or slipshod about this garage. Believe me, I've seen my share of putrid businesses lately, and this wasn't one of them. In fact, it's amazing that they were open seven days, and that some of the mechanics stayed (as we were about to learn) past 9:00 p.m. at least on occasion. But that being said, I also have to say that dealing with them was extremely frustrating. If one can gauge the quality of service at a garage by how busy it stays, then this is probably the best in the country. But because of that, they seem to be consistently behind schedule, and to operate under a heavy cloud of confusion.

Around mid-afternoon, the man working at the desk informed me that the van was ready to go. This sounded very suspicious indeed, considering how late in the day they got around to looking at it. He told me it only had needed an ignition coil. I'm no mechanical whiz but I know that ignition coils don't play a mambo when they go bad. So I asked him about the noise, and he said, what noise. Somehow the symptoms I described after being towed in didn't get written down and transmitted properly. This gentleman went outside with me to start the van and listen, and then of course he heard the racket too. The prognosis was not good, he said. It was a loose rod, and it meant that the engine needed to be rebuilt.

I had them do an estimate, and the news got even worse: 3300 dollars, at the least. And they figured the job would take at least a couple of days. The way things were going, I knew that translated into English as no less than a week. And we didn't want to spend that much time bowling, shooting pool, and getting examined at the clinic---particularly since it would mean missing several performances.

I told the man that, rather than spend that much having the van repaired, I'd prefer just to buy another one; and I asked if he had any leads. It turns out he did. They happened to have a Ford van, similar to ours, sitting on the lot. they'd recently installed a new engine in it, and, for whatever reason---perhaps the chap who brought it in just couldn't pay the bill---they now owned it and were looking to unload it.

It was newer than ours, but rather shorter, leaving not as much room to cart around our goodies. And it was a cargo van as opposed to a passenger van---meaning there were no seats in back. But we figured we could make do with it for a couple of weeks and perhaps trade it in for a better one during our upcoming week in Reno.

I offered him two grand for it (plus our old van, of course) and he said the offer would have to be approved by the boss, but he thought it would be reasonable enough. Trouble is, the boss was harder to pin down than Ari Fleischer at a press conference. Everybody needed his attention immediately, and he flitted around from crisis to crisis with eyes that appeared bloodshot from overwork. Get his attention for a moment, and before you can finish your sentence, someone will interrupt you, and before you can point out that you were talking to him first, he's off in a cloud of dust.

And so we spent perhaps a couple of more hours in the cozy waiting room, not even knowing whether we'd be able to buy the van or not. We made the acquaintance of a young couple from Los Angeles who were similarly frustrated---and ended up being stuck in Barstow even longer than we were. They had taken off for what was supposed to be a spontaneous weekend getaway in Vegas with no stress. Now they were commiserating with us in Barstow, missing work while the kids were missing school.

Finally, we decided that we'd better assume the deal would come through, and start preparing our "new" van. It needed serious cleaning inside, so we did the best we could in an hour or so (I'd bought a bottle of pine cleaner and a bag of rags at the nearby truck stop) and then we figured that in the interest of time, we'd better start transferring our many, many belongings. Well, the boss agreed to sell the van for 2100. So then I had to have one of the mechanics give me a ride to the bank to withdraw the money. He was playing his truck radio the whole time, and if you were given to stereotyping, you might expect that a mechanic in Barstow would listen to country-western or maybe hard rock. But nope. I was pleased to hear classic jazz coming from his speakers, and I was impressed by how knowledgeable he seemed to be about music in general.

Meanwhile, there was another hurdle to overcome. The new van didn't have a hitch on it, and so the boys drove it around back to see if they could fit it with a hitch they had on hand. Like every other step of the process, this took an excruciatingly long time, even though they seem to have had 3 or 4 fellows working on it at one time. And while this was going on, we were delayed from our task of loading our possessions aboard.

It was about 6:00 p.m., and many of the hired help either had gone home for the day or were preparing to, when we noticed yet another problem: the new hitch had no wiring harness. Since we definitely needed to spend part (if not all) of the night driving, we definitely would need lights on the trailer before we left. So they were good enough to tackle this problem even though it was officially past closing time---and by the time all the electrical bugs had been (we thought) ironed out, it was dark enough that proper lighting certainly was in order.

It was about 9:00 p.m. when we at last hitched up our trailer and took off into the long, dark night, bound for an early morning gig in the Bay Area, more than 400 miles to the north.

We made it about one block. And then the brand-new engine sputtered and died. And wouldn't restart.

I ran back to the garage, where, fortunately the same mechanic who had rigged up the wiring harness was still on the premises. (I hope these guys get good overtime compensation.) He came to tinker with the van, and finally got it running. He pointed out to me a couple of sensors (don't you just love these modern computers on wheels that can leave you stranded because a chip burns out?) and suggested that I replace them at the next opportunity. As they simply plugged in, I'd have no trouble doing it myself.

There was a Ford dealership just down the road where we could obtain these parts first thing in the morning, but we really wanted to get rolling, so we just decided we'd make the repair after our show tomorrow, assuming we made it that far. So we were off again.

We made it about one block. And then the brand-new engine sputtered and died. And wouldn't restart.

Fortunately, we made it into the lot of the TA truck stop, so we just decided to spend the night there. After all, it was painfully clear that we weren't going any farther without replacing those sensors---and thus, we were going to have to cancel our morning show. We went into the truck stop to take showers, then came back out and went to sleep in the van.

I was up at 7:00 to rush down to the dealership and purchase the sensors (total cost $41), then rushed back to the van to install them. The engine fired up and we started to drive away.

We made it about one foot. And then the brand-new engine sputtered and died. And wouldn't restart. So then I dashed back to the garage, and saw the same mechanic who had helped us the night before, already back at work. (I REALLY hope these guys get decent overtime pay.) He came to the truck stop, monkeyed with some wires for about half an hour, and then decided the diagnosis was more severe than he thought. So we were towed right back to the shop, and started the whole process all over again. It was one of those times, and they do come up occasionally, when the family discussion centers on whether it's really all worth it. Wouldn't we be happier back in our little seaside cottage in San Francisco, collecting a regular paycheck and maybe performing in real theatres? Or back in L.A. working in films again? How many seemingly insurmountable contingencies do we have to face before we start to take a hint? There have been too many such episodes to count over the years (a great many of them involving our vehicle du jour), incidents that seem amusing in retrospect, though at the time they were anything but. Some of these misadventures are worth writing about, and I guess I just might get around to it, if we ever do stop touring. But so far, no matter how discouraged we might have been initially, we always ultimately reached the conclusion that we're in this for the kids, and they are indeed worth every bit of it. This time was no different.

The van was rewired by about 2:00 p.m. on Tuesday, and we once again were on our less-than-merry way. We shot out of Barstow so hurriedly that I don't think I even remembered to say thank you. (But I do appreciate all your work, fellows.) And this time it didn't die.

Passing through the desert again, we began to take inventory of the performances we've been forced to cancel in the past few years. On this occasion, we had missed three, but two of those rescheduled. This makes, in the past 10 years, a total of only two performances that were cancelled altogether---there have been five more that rescheduled. Considering that we have scheduled nearly 200 shows per year during that time---over 1900 in all, in virtually every state in the union---that's a batting average that astounds even us.

Wednesday morning, we pulled into Berkeley, on time for our performance scheduled there. How refreshing it was to feel the cool air from the Bay, smell the rich aroma of Peet's Coffee, and see the hippies lounging on the sidewalk. It was great to be back "home", after an absence from the Bay Area of a year. Of course, by then we were grateful to be just about anywhere outside of Barstow.

(5/27/03 POSTSCRIPT: We received our title and registration in the mail a month later, after making a couple of phone calls to the shop in Barstow and asking them what the holdup was. They said they didn't understand either; they'd carried out this type of transaction many times before, and had never had any problems. Lucky us to be their first. I even visited a DMV office, explained the situation to the lady there, and learned---I thought---that I didn't legally own the vehicle yet. So I called Barstow on the spot, gave the cell phone to the DMV lady, and let them explain things to each other; but when I left, we all seemed more confused than ever. Anyway, the papers finally arrived. And two months after the breakdown, we're still driving our temporary van.)