Chapter 1: The Camper Special

I've loved Dodge pickups since I was a kid. They're ugly, strong and slow. I've always thought, 'If you want a pickup to ride around in, get in a few days groceries, meet the ladies and do a little work, get a Chevy, they're pretty.

'If you want a truck to explore the back trails, impress a tomboy, shop once every two weeks and do some hauling to and from wherever, buy a Ford, they look OK and they're pretty stout.

'However, if you want a pickup to climb mountains, go off road, bring the trophy elk up from the bottom of the canyon, haul concrete, sand and the mixer to the back 40, get yourself a woman and maybe bounce along on a highway once in a while, get a Dodge, they might be ugly but they're damn hard to break.'

I had a degree in anthropology, that and a buck will get you a cuppa coffee. But I did have a job. "Would you like fries with that?" That's about what you can expect with one of the 'soft sciences.'

I'll admit I'd spent more time with a trowel, meter stick and tape measure than I did asking old folks what it was like in the old days. Jobs talking to tribes of assorted aborigines were getting scarce, the tribes were sending their own kids to school and being born in it trumps ethnocentrism any day of the week. Nothing like experience to get the information straight.

I liked digging in the dirt. Most government jobs in archaeology were spent digging in a desk drawer looking for another pencil ... and they wanted a whole hell of a lot of experience before you could take Uncle Sam's dime.

No, I needed a Masters to even begin to think about Archaeology (with the capitol A) for a living. For a Masters you need a sponsor, (read Ph.D.), and funding. If you want to teach, you need your own Ph.D. and politics. If you want to be 'Principal Investigator, ' he who runs the show and can actually collect artifacts, the Doc title isn't just necessary, it's required by law. And you still have to find funding.

I could work summer season digging holes for 9 bucks an hour but I was already making $8.25 and insurance working for the big M. I needed something better than Nine. If I excavated I'd have to quit my food service executive position and lose my insurance by having to start over in the fall.

I kept looking, though. My principal investigator wanted me to work the digs but couldn't hire me for collections the rest of the year. Generally, a busty blonde got hired to work collections. I'm blond, but burly.

I still looked at the want ads. I wanted a Dodge ... just in case.

I read the newspaper on my break. Some kind soul always leaves one in the dining area. Just something else I don't have to spend money on. We're not a really big town ... the paper isn't all that much of a paper. I usually read the classified ads from page 11 to page 12 ... because two pages of ads is it. Sometimes there's an auction or an estate sale and they might be selling a Dodge ... cheap.

I always took the copy home ... I could read the whole thing at home.

The classified read. 'House for sale. Four bedrooms, Three baths. $20,000. Call 555-5567' Yeah, right. A disaster house. Houses in the two hundred thousand range are bottom line shacks in this economy.

I pretty much skipped that right away. I kept perusing the ads. Two pages later I came on one that caught my eye, 'Old Dodge pickup. $200. Must take all. 555-5567' I love old Dodge pickups. This one sounded like a basket case ... right up my alley.

I called. A lovely Hispanic voice answered. I conceived images of dark tans, bikini beaches, Spring Break in Cancun.

"Hola?" She spoke.

"Answering an ad..." I said.

"Si," she interrupted, and rattled off an address in a pretty posh neighborhood. "Come now, Señor," and hung up.

I was wheel-less ... except for my bike. It was only 6 miles ... uphill. I lived in the valley, along with most, no, 98% of the population of this college town. The address, using my city map, was where the 2% lived. The ride was nice and I'd been biking since I was a kid.

'It's all down hill when you're done looking, David, ' thinking about getting home. 'Whee, what fun!'

The huge house was at the top of the tallest hill. 'I'd hate to try driving that road in the snow.' I did a double take, remembering the ad for the house ... same phone number. '20K for this?'

There was a big Acme Moving and Storage van parked on the perfect lawn, hefty guys hauling priceless antiques out of the house and wrapping them in moving rugs and going back for more. Another group was carefully packing the van.

A head stuck out the window. "You here about the cars?" she asked.

She looked about 40, maybe a hard rode and put away wet 35, but pleasant looking for all of that.

"The truck."

"I'll be right down, meet me in the back."

"Yes, ma'am."

At the back door, a harried Mexican couple was loading stainless pots and pans in the back of a nearly new Ford F-250 cab and a half already over loaded with stainless gas range, refrigerator and boxes and boxes of canned goods.

The lady from the window stepped out the back door. "Maria? Did you get everything?"

The lovely voice from the phone was a short heavy woman about fifty. So much for preconceived perceptions.

"Si, Señora. Thank you so very much," she started crying. "Señora, where will you go?"

"Colorado. I'm going to Colorado, Maria. I have land there. I want to explore the ruins on my land."

Ruins? My mind wrapped around that like a noose at the end of the drop. Ruins?

The Mexican couple finished tying down the load, the husband drummed his fingers on the hood of the truck as the lady of the house and the servant hugged and sobbed a little. The man helped the woman into the fairly tall F-250, walked to the drivers side and mounted.

I watched Maria and her husband drive down the driveway, well overloaded. The lady bumped me with a hip ... nice soft hip it was, too.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, young man."

I looked down, all I saw was the top of her head. I'm not tall, I'm only 6 foot 0 inches but she was SHORT. She couldn't be 5'4" and maybe 90 pounds ... if she was soaking wet. I was immediately distracted, this time by big blue eyes and a straight nose over pouty lips. She stepped a half step back and my eyes were drawn to a very nice cleavage wrapped in a peasant blouse.

"NICE."

I thought I thought it but instead I said it.

I shook my head and brought my eyes up to hers.

She began to cry, huge salty tears ran down her cheeks and dripped on her shelf ... I mean shirt. She didn't make a sound, just cried. Slowly her arms went around my waist and she hugged me.

I didn't know what to do. Crying women defeat me. I reached out with one hand and hesitantly touched her strawberry blond hair.

She cried harder and burrowed into me, holding on like it was the end of the world.

I was getting wet. "Nice," I said again. She cried harder. Big, shuddering but soundless, gasps. I was getting real wet. She stopped. She stepped back.

In a completely controlled voice, she looked up at me and said, "Wanna fuck?" She looked shocked, "I mean, do you want a truck?"

Then she turned bright red... "I'll just get the keys."

She fled into the house, the truck keys jangling in her hand. I followed her in the back door.

There was a crew unscrewing the empty cabinets from the wall and another removing the center island.