Night falls. Pass the bright lights of Tucson. Enter vast, dark middle-of-nowhere that is southeastern Arizona. At some point, under engine's roar, notice the return of the death rattle (see diary entry for Nov. 5 - Minneapolis). Just the heat shield rattling again, right? Pull off for gas at Willcox, Arizona, a lone, glowing outpost of civilization. Rattle pretty much goes away. Get back on the road. Within two miles, death rattle is back, and it's no heat shield -- it's in the stick shift. Eventually spot an exit sign: Gas, Food, Lodging. Slow to exit. As engine roar drops, true volume of death rattle becomes apparent: transmission sounds like it's crushing rocks. This is not good. Can't fix this with duct tape or binder clips. Drive down long, dark road looking for gas, food, lodging. Darkened buildings appear in headlights, houses with cars out front but no lights. Gas station derelict. Cafe looks like it closed two years ago. There is no lodging. Lone woman with toddler on her hip scurries along the side of the road as if hell hounds are after her. Don't want to scare her worse by stopping to ask where the hell the gas, food, lodging went. U-turn back to the interstate, discover that once I force the tranny into second gear with both hands, it takes a break from rock crushing. Crazy, late-night, road-dazed thought: Maybe I can get all the way to Austin in second gear. Decide against it. Turn back toward Willcox, drive 20 miles at 35 miles an hour. On the Willcox exit ramp, stick shift pops out of second and won't go back in. Coast the rest of the way into the Super 8 parking lot. Ask the desk clerk: Do you take pets? Clerk: Not really...uh, what kind of pet? Me: A dog. Clerk: Little dog? Me: (woefully) Nooo, big dog... (more woefully) But I don't think my car's going any farther tonight. Clerk hands me a key and recommends a mechanic a mile up the road. 

Next morning, wrestle stick back into second and eventually wind up at B&J Transmission on the far side of town. John is semi-retired, used to build A-bombs, now rebuilds transmissions, says he can have the Vette back on the road in a week. Doris, his tiny wife, offers to drive me 90 miles to Tucson to rent a car so I can get to my reading in Austin. Rascal, their Chow-shepherd mix, offers to entertain Rosie for the three hours we'll be gone. In the car, driving past rocks and scrub toward Tucson, Doris tells me they do this all the time -- they're the only transmission shop for 90 miles in either direction, and that there are a few closer rental places but they won't let me go out of state. She tells me they have a motor home behind the shop Rosie and I can stay in if we need to. She tells me about her children, about struggles with health and the Veterans Administration. She doesn't like to cook but she has a friend who does. She says, "I could never write a book. I'm not that gifted." I say, "Well I can think of at least one other gift you have." Doris is one of those people who has the comforting gift of presence, of just being with a person. No walls, no judging, nothing to prove. It's like getting a little taste of God. Later, back at the shop where the Vette's already up on the lift over John's head, I pick up Rosie in the rental car and wave goodbye. See you in a week, Vette.