Of Pisco and Peru

I kick my travel gear to keep the blood nourishing numb toes. Steamed breath whorls from my frozen lips. An early winter morning in Portland, Oregon.

How do they say winter en espanol? El invierno? Damn memory. When will you

speak to me, fluently?

A glance at my phone. Gus is a no show. Again.

Maybe there's still time to turn tail and head to work? If I’m late, tell my asshole manager I woke up to the smell of rotting eggs. No sense having my condo blown to smithereens from stove gas.

Grabbing the handle of my Rockland wheeled suitcase, bite my lips, and turn towards my faded-blue apartment building. Back to my bummer of a job.

Aaaaaahhhhht. Aaaaahhhht. Aaaaaaaahhhhhhht.

Down the row of yellow streetlights, a scarlet convertible MINI Cooper hurtles my way, blasting its car horn and waking the entire neighborhood. The driver races like some Patagonian wild man caught in a tornado, confirming my deepest hopes. It’s Gus, dressed in a half-assed gaucho Red Baron getup, waving and smiling like he’s driving a parade float on Thanksgiving.

My bags fall to my side as the convertible twists into the parking lot, brakes screeching. “Duck. You’re here? I didn’t think you’d show.”

“What?” Annoyed, I toss in my lightweight backpack.

“Whaddya think?” Gus snickers as he looks through the rearview mirror at my struggle heaving my heftiest luggage into the back seat.

“Think?”

“This brand new two-thousand-twelve flaming diarrhea red MINI. Splitting image of the ones you own.”

My face puckers as I wedge in my last suitcase with a good shove. “Imagine that.”

I sag into the suicide seat. Gus wipes his glasses, then stares at me, hunched over, gripping the full backpack on my lap like a small child clutching his favorite blanket. “You okay, Duck?”

A big sigh. “Rough night.”

The MINI lurches through Portlandia’s neo-workweek gridlock, severely overloaded with the top down. I pack too much when I travel. It’s the raw, pre-airport jitters and lack of organizational skills.

My voice yells over the wind scream. “I still think we should try putting the top up. I can see my breath.”

Ignoring me, Gus fidgets with the radio dials and pounds the horn at the traffic horde brawling its way through the Monday morning commute. Xerxes had better odds fighting the ocean.

“Gus?”

“Aye.”

I press my ‘I No Hablo Stupid’ ball cap tight, trying to warm my ears. “My face is frozen and everybody’s staring at us. We look like assholes.”

“Duck?”

“Yeah.”

“Pffffththththahh!”

So we’re locked in traffic with the Mini’s top down in December. My teeth rattle as I wipe frost off the windshield.

My first thought is that Gus has given in to his usual eccentricities, but after we fumble through the Mini’s user manual, he blathers about how the roof’s motor sensor jammed because of too much damn luggage.

Best to just play it out. We both smile, pretending we’re two middle-aged morons tooling around on a seventy degree spring day before Gus turns to me. “I hates driving on Mondays, but before I blacked out at the bar last night, I remembered our solemn oath over cheap beers."

“Thanks?”

He takes a big cigarillo drag and blows the smoke my way. “I am unemployable, Duck, not irresponsible.” Satisfied, he cocks his head and grins. “Besides, is only a little cold and no rain.”

I look up at the blackening storm clouds, then back at the dashboard clock. Not much time. In my mind I’ve already detonated this charade. We can still take the next off-ramp and dart through the warren of back roads to my work. Sure, I’d look like a rube showing up dressed as a fashion-addled gringo on vacation in Puerto Rico, but I can deal with that. Small harm, small foul.

It’s right after the I-205 Freeway off ramp that the stench hits me. At first I can’t place it. Like there’s some big pig shit farm, hidden away just over the horizon.

A few seconds later, Gus' nostrils flair up. “Carajo.”

“What is that smell? Is something rotting?”

“Ohh jayy. I think some squirrels or a rat or one of them dogdamn nutria thingees crawled insides the engine to keep warm and maybe died. Is been making smells like this for two weeks now.”

“Two weeks? Did you check under the hood?”

“Na. Is bad for my kundalini,” Gus replies with a shrug.

“Christ, I can taste it. What if it’s still alive? It’s probably chewing through the timing belt right now? We’ll be stuck out here?”

“Pffffththththahh!”

Gus tightens his steering wheel grip, spinning the MINI out of traffic and accelerating onto the right shoulder, mere inches from a concrete wall.

My fingernails dig into the backpack’s straps. Visions of using it as some sort of an airbag/parachute combo plate dance through my mind. “What the fuck is this?”

Gus cranes his neck and squints. Assessing. Honking. Blasé. “A passing lane, I guessed?”

“You guessed?”

“No worries.” Gus shrugs, completely disinterested, casually smoking his Swisher Sweet and flipping the bird at the honking traffic. I’m silent as a stone, feeling at my numb ears while taking in big gulps of stinking, icy air.

Finally, after the honking has crescendoed to a deafening roar, he clutches the wheel with both hands and violently jabs the MINI in front of a Peterbilt, forcing it to lock its brakes to keep from rear-ending us into a Goth soccer mom driving a Volvo with a rainbow-colored ‘KEEP PORTLAND NORML’ bumper sticker.