Just because this is the way I remember it doesn’t mean this is exactly the way it happened. When things like this occur, it is so out of the ordinary it’s almost as if you are operating on instinct. The mind goes on autopilot so details fly by at light speed, through the web that normally traps the most interesting minutiae. For example, I can tell you exactly what I did as my son was brought from the womb to the drying table, and what I was thinking as I looked upon him the first time. But I can’t tell you what items may have been scattered about the freeway near the overturned car, or where the guy with the badge came from. I’m not even sure when he arrived, if he was there before me and I never noticed.

But I do remember how it started.

I was driving north on Interstate 17 toward Sedona, where my son and I were going to stay the night, taking a jeep tour the next day through the back trails amid the red rocks. Bryson was in the back seat playing on the Playstation Portable. I was listening to talk radio because it reported on traffic conditions about every 15 minutes, not bad for the middle of the afternoon. It was a little after 1 o’clock.

We were somewhere near Anthem, a huge subdivision built in New River, about 30 miles north of Phoenix. I remember looking at the temperature gauge in my Toyota, wondering if it was getting colder as the storm moved in. There were thick gray clouds to the northwest, which thinned into the desert. The readout said it was 54, about the same as when we left Gilbert about an hour before.

My eye caught on a large cloud of dust spouting from the median about 200 feet up ahead. Maybe it was 300 feet. Or 100 feet. It was suddenly just there in the strip of desert, about 50 feet wide, separating the northbound and southbound lanes.

How odd, I remember thinking in the split second it took to realize what had really formed the plume. It must be a dust devil, a random whirlwind that kicks up dust every now and then. But those usually only happen in summer as hot air swirls together as it rises, but maybe the storm—

A car emerged from the cloud. A white car. A sedan. It was spinning in mid-air. Then it hit the ground. More dust and I can’t see it, then a glimpse. It landed on the pavement, dead center of the freeway.

Somewhere during this timeframe I screamed, “Bryson, call 911, call 911.” He had a brand new cellphone and had been programming it earlier in the trip, so I knew it was close by. My own phone was in the suitcase in the trunk, put there because I couldn’t think of a reason I would need it in the car.

I am sure Bryson said, “What is it?” and I said, “A car crash just up ahead” before screaming “Call 911” again, but I don’t know. It would make sense, but nothing makes sense when there is an upside-down car laying in the middle of the freeway. Did I tell you it was upside down? Because it was. It was white. It was a sedan.

I looked in the rearview mirror because I knew I had to stop and when I have to stop abruptly, I always look in the rearview mirror to make sure cars behind me are slowing too. If not I will make allowances, stopping just short of the guy in front of me to give them a few more feet. I was also in the left lane and needed to be in the center lane. There was an upside-down car in the center lane up ahead, laying perpendicular to the road and partially in the lane to each side, and I wanted to move into the center lane so I wouldn’t block traffic. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure there was room to pull over and did so. I did not put on my blinker. I remember that.

I stopped, switched off the ignition, set the parking brake (these are all instinctual things for me) and opened the door. There was one car ahead of me, then about 20 feet of nothing, then the upside-down car. When I got out of my car, I could hear her. She was screaming “Oh my God” over and over and over. Then I saw her, and she was wriggling out of the car on the driver’s side, the side closest to us. The man in the car in front of me was already there. I can’t remember if he helped her out, but when I got here she was laying on the freeway, her head, shoulders, torso, hips and upper legs on pavement. Her knees and lower legs were laying on the car’s ceiling. She was still screaming.

“Is there anybody else in the car?” I said it loudly, trying to be heard over her screams. “No, it’s just me, just me,” and thinking back how odd it was that for a moment, she was pretty lucid, answering that question without being asked over and over. Right after she answered, she went back to screaming.

She moved herself out of the car. That’s good, I thought. Not paralyzed. I didn’t see a lot of blood. Any, in fact. Then I looked closer and I have no idea why because blood is not something I like to see, but now it seemed really important. I had to see if she was injured, that way maybe I could … I don’t know what I could do.

I saw blood. It was splashed across the back of her left hand. The nail on her pinky was partially missing. What was left was long, shiny and perfectly curved at the tip before it stopped, then there was blood. I remember thinking that’s OK, that’s not bad for rolling your car into oncoming traffic.

“Dad, I can’t get anyone, it just says to wait my turn.” Bryson was right behind me. He’s got a look in his face. Not scared. Well, maybe. Scared and really worried. He pushed the phone toward me, and now I can understand why. This was an adult thing, not a kid thing.

I took the phone and listened to the recording. It went something like, “We’re sorry, but all available operators are busy, please hold on” and your call will be answered in the order it was received, as if I was phoning for tech support instead of trying to tell someone who can help that a woman screaming “Oh my God” is lying in the middle of the freeway next to her upside-down car.

I looked over and there is another woman on a cellphone and she looked at me and said she couldn’t get through, and I shook my head. I held the phone near Bryson and told him to hang on and see if anyone answered. Then I wasn’t holding the phone anymore.

That’s when the guy holding the badge appeared. Or maybe he heard me asking the woman if anyone else was in the car. Or was he the first guy and he just pulled the badge to identify himself. This much was clear: A man brandishing a gold badge in a leather case now stood by the upside-down car and he was telling everyone to get back.

Everyone? I turned around. Not one car in each of the three lanes was moving. Lots of people were standing around, nearly all of them with a cellphone to their ears. I couldn’t see more than five or six car-lengths away, but this thought hit me, “No one is going to be on time today.”

The guy with the badge was still screaming for everyone to get away. Perhaps one of us should have said something. Who are you, who are you with? What if he was just a prison guard or something?

But at the time there was a screaming woman, an upside-down car and a guy with a badge. A guy with a badge gets a lot of respect in that situation.

“Right now I just need everyone to get back to their cars,” he told people who only wanted to help. After all, we had been there first. Hadn’t we? But we didn’t have a badge.

And there was only a handful of us. Most people we’re waiting in their cars. But the few of us standing there, we saw a car flipping through the median. We saw it roll to a stop. Everyone else, all they knew was that everyone was stopping. Perhaps even a few noticed an upside-down car in the middle of the freeway. But we had seen what happened. We were part of this. Or so it seemed at the time, until the guy with the badge told us we were doing nothing but getting in the way.

He said help was on the way, that everyone dialing 911 should hang up. He probably said, “The situation is under control” because that is what people with badges say in the movies as they shoo everyone away.

The guy with the badge said,” Does anyone have any blankets?” I had a coat in my car. I was planning on wearing it during the jeep tour in Sedona. I’d need that coat. A coat was not a blanket. But should I offer it anyway? It seemed so important at the time. But I never said, “I have a coat.”

The guy with the badge was talking to someone. The conversation was loud, but that’s all I remember. It seemed the guy without the badge was angry about not being allowed to help. The guy with the badge was pretty adamant about everyone staying away. I don’t recall the guy with the badge ever talking with the woman laying outside the upside-down car. I wanted to tell her that help was on its way, that everyone was dialing 911, that she won’t be alone. But the guy with the badge had her sealed off pretty well. Maybe that was the thing to do. She may have had terrible internal injuries or broken bones, and if she tried to move or talk, it would only make it worse. Only she was still screaming “Oh my God.” I could still hear her as I walked back to my car.

Bryson asked me what was going on. I told him about the woman, that she was hurt but that she was going to be OK, and the guy with the badge keeping everyone away. And it struck me – why are we staying here?

I needed the approval from the guy with the badge. It seemed right. I went back and even though he was still talking loudly with the guy without a badge, I asked him if it was OK to be on our way. Or something like that.

I’m not sure what he said, but it was something to the effect of staying in our cars and keeping away from “the area,” which I assumed was anywhere near him. So I decided we were going to leave.

I walked back to my car and told Bryson to get back in and buckle up. I spoke to a few of the people waiting by their cars. “There’s a cop (any guy who shows a badge at an accident is a cop, I’d decided) who says he wants us out of here.” I noticed some cars were already starting to move, using the shoulder to pass on the right. I got into my car, started the engine, released the emergency brake, reversed a few feet to get around the car in front of me, and turned to the left, intending to ease into the median and go around the upside-down car. As I did, a woman in a Lincoln (old woman, new Lincoln) trying to do the same. I had nosed in front of her, and she gave me a look as if there had never been a woman lying next to an upside-down car in the middle of the freeway.

Some things never change.

It was odd enough at this Phoenix bar that when you stand there in the bathroom with tool in hand you are looking out at the many patrons and they, if they care to, are looking at you, thanks to a window that probably seemed cutting edge socially in 1993 but now was just a design flaw (“If you see me, forgive me if I don’t wave”).

But it wasn’t the “Look who’s peeing” feature that bugged me the most. There, in the corner between the last sink and the first stall, was a man selling cologne, cigarettes and condoms. He also had a tall stack of paper towels balancing carefully on the counter. For some reason this bar with $5 beers and everyone dressed as if they belonged in an Old Navy commercial decided it needed a restroom attendant. I can see this happening in Scottsdale’s pretentious bars (which is all of them save for the one Applebee’s that got in before the city council passed various zoning ordinances prohibiting establishments that allowed everybody in). But here in downtown Phoenix, where a Suns jersey is an essential part of a refined wardrobe, it just didn’t make sense.

And as soon as I walked in, I knew I was hosed. Normally I don’t check my wallet before entering the men’s room. It’s just not a place you worry about cash on hand unless you’re one of those losers who actually need those breath drops that sell for about 50 cents per drop (and if you have ever put money in one of those machines, no, it wasn’t your imagination, everyone was watching you thinking, “What a loser”). But now I was mentally going through the contents of my wallet because those paper towels were hardly going to be free. According to the Universal Guide to Acceptable Tipping, anyone handing out paper towels gets a buck. Which is right up there with the porter at the airport who gets a buck for lugging one of your overstuffed bags to a conveyor belt. No problem, that guy earns it. But a buck for a paper towel?

I did the math very quickly. If six guys take a whiz every hour, this guy is making more than management at Wal-Mart (that makes sense because the attendant is obviously smarter than anyone who chooses to work at Wal-Mart). If 12 guys need to use the restroom per hour, he’s up with secretaries and junior accountants. But this bar had more than 20 beers on tap. The attendant had to raking in at least $60 an hour. For paper towels. And if anyone used that stall right next to the dude, he’s probably paying $5 as an apology. Then there was the profit from the cigs, cologne and condoms. Not that I would trust condoms purchased from a guy who spends eight hours in a men’s room, but that’s me.

When I stepped to the urinal, the only other guy in the restroom left, handing the attendant a buck after the attendant handed out a paper towel. For a guy working about as hard as someone writing dialogue for Robin Williams (“OK, right here you just adlib again”), he was making pretty decent coin.

I went through the options. I could zip up and head out, bypassing the sinks and the towel guy altogether. That, however, would violate the most important Man Bathroom Commandment: Thou shalt feel free not to wash your hands only if you are alone, or if the only other men are in stalls and cannot see you; otherwise, lather up.

I could linger at the urinal enjoying the view and hope someone else will come in. Then I could follow them to the sink and as they head over for the towel-dollar exchange, I can duck out, wiping my hands on my pants (yeah, I could live with that). This was a viable option until, about three minutes later, no one had yet come in and my stream was long gone. The attendant probably was thinking, “That boy either has major prostate problems or suffers from performance anxiety, so maybe if I look away he can finish his business and I can get his dollar.”

OK, I was out of options. It’s not like you have a lot of choices in this kind of situation. I zipped up, headed to the sink and longed for a bathroom where paper dispensers were not human. Come on, am I alone here? Aren’t we a society accustomed to getting out own paper towels? Over the years I’ve figured out even the most intricate of dispensing systems, even the ones that malfunction and you have to reach up very carefully, fingers disappearing inside as they search for a bit of paper to extract. I’ve even overcome situations in which there was no paper to be had at all, grabbing a few paper seat covers (surprisingly absorbent but they disintegrate when wet, so make sure you grab a lot of you need them).

Bottom line: I can figure out a way to dry off my hands without paying a buck, thank you very much. As I washed my hands, I glanced at the attendant who had by now taken a towel off the top of the stack and was holding it on his lap, his body language saying, “If you want a towel you’re going to have to get it from me, and it will cost you a buck because it is only right and it beats working at Wal-Mart.”

I turn off the faucet, turn to the attendant and hold out my hand. He gives me the paper towel. I thank him, turn, dry off my hands, toss the towel and walk away without looking back. For a guy who just handed me a paper towel, Mr. Attendant can go ahead and bore a hole in my back with his stare.

Besides, what kind of businessman is he anyway? If he really wants to make a killing, he should go into the toilet paper business.

OK, so Rev. Ted Haggard, head honcho of a very large group of people who agree there really isn’t much to do on Sunday mornings so why not go to church, admits he bought methamphetamine but didn’t use it.

At this point the only folks who are going to believe that are the same who are convinced that one unearthly being can see everything they are doing and yet not be totally freaked out. However, I can see where Haggard is coming from. I can’t count the number of times I have returned from the grocery store to find a large box of Cookie Crisp in my bag. What the hell is this sugary kids’ cereal doing here? If I may make an outdated reference to a regrettable film series, that’s not mine, baby, I swear it. So I put it in the pantry should those who prefer that sort of thing drop by. And usually within a week or so, that box of Cookie Crisp is gone.

Bill Clinton started this whole “That’s not mine, baby” excuse when he said he didn’t inhale. Not quite grasping the concept, I can see Clinton putting the joint to his mouth and blowing out each time the doobie came to him. It puts him in the same intelligence class as those who kill themselves while cleaning their own guns, but it didn’t stop him from being president.

That’s proof that the Austin Powers defense (which I just coined) can be successful. Others might want to think about using it.

President Bush: “I did send troops to Iraq, but it was to sell cookie dough for our annual Armor for Hummers fundraiser.”

John Kerry: “I did say stupid kids wind up in Iraq, but only because admission standards at Baghdad U are slightly less stringent than at Arizona State.”

Wal-Mart: “We don’t pay our employees a living wage, but, uh … hey look, lower prices on plasma TVs!”

For now, I’m giving the benefit of the doubt to Rev. Haggard, who apparently bought and ignored meth monthly. The world would be a better place if that kind of common sense reached every woman who has shopped at The Gap recently.

“Leggings? What the f-? Why did I buy these damn things?”

I just saw the story where research scientists, who no doubt have spent years gathering various esteemed degrees in school, spent several months gorging lab rats on wine and the mouse equivalent of deliciously fattening food. They found mice that were interminably drunk wre much better off, as if that's something new.

This does not bring up the questionable use of research time by scientists (well, it does, but I don’t feel like addressing it at this point). But it certainly makes one think about lab mice and the luck of the draw.

Imagine the conversations that take place on any day inside the mice-only break room at Science Inc.:

“Whoa, what are all those tubes sticking out of your head?”

“I’ve got conscious neurotransmitter probes today.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s not the worst part. They’re probing my pain centers.”

“Oh, ouch. Chet, what are you working on?”

“Cancer. Lungs, pancreas, liver. Dissection is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Sorry, man. Hey, you mind if get that get-well card back? Bobby has something that may be curable.”

“No problem.”

“Hey Chuck, you doing anything?”

“Huh, wha’? Me? Oh, you bet. Eating and drinking and eating and drinking. I am so sloshed right now there are, like, five of you. It totally sucks, dude.”

“You’ve got to be joking. Most of us are terminal and you’re whining about gluttony?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I was this close to the test of how much sex will kill you.”

The following occurred at about 5 p.m. Oct. 24 at the Radisson Poco Diablo Resort in Sedona. Some of the names were changed because, honestly, I don’t remember their names.

Scene: Quiet lobby, three women behind the check-in desk; a somewhat heavyset younger woman working on one of the computers; a very short older woman with those cat’s-eye glasses on a thin metal chain (a look that could have qualified her as a substitute teacher), and some other youngish woman that just doesn’t make an impression. On the other side of the desk is a distinguished looking man (a Richard Gere type, only shorter with more wrinkles and about nine-tenths less handsome, a person herein described as “me”) and a woman who really doesn’t figure much into this particular story, which says more about the circumstances than her personality, because sometimes it just happens that way.

The cat’s-eyeglasses woman, whose head, neck and top part of her shoulders peek over the desk, stares at the two people who have just entered the quiet lobby but says nothing as they stand there in an otherwise empty lobby. They look confused, but how could they be? Once the front door opens, they are facing what could only be the check-in desk, an area familiar to any traveler. And yet the visitors hesitate, look, and slowly approach. Twenty feet away, 15, 10, and they stop again. Cat’s-eyeglasses still stares, but now looks as confused as they are. She remains silent. They take another step, and another. OK, just one more and …

“Welcome to the Poco Diablo Radisson, how can I be of assistance to you today?” Cat’s-eyeglasses says, the greeting well practiced, or merely rehearsed.

“Uh, checking in.” That’s the previously mentioned “me,” if you are confused.

“Wonderful. Your name please?”

“Well, I have this express check-in printout, I did it online. And it said to bring it to the express counter and I, there’s no-“

“Name, please?”

“Yeah, guess this doesn’t do much good, what’s the sense, we’re the only ones here, right, so that pretty much means this was kind of a-“

“Name?”

“Right, name.” I give her my name.

“Yes, here you are, one night, correct?”

“That’ll do it.”

“Wonderful, this will only take a second and we’ll have you on your way. I see you’ve prepaid so if I can just see some ID we’ll have you on your way.”

“No problem.” I hand her my ID, which is brand new because I lost my driver’s license not too long ago and went to the DMV for a new one, but then I found my old one but it was still worth the $4 fee because now my ID does not have a photo of me with a mustache, which I could have mentioned to the clerk but she wanted to have us on our way, so I kept all that to myself.

As she is tapping at the computer, I notice her name tag.

“OK, looks like we’re finished here,” she says. “Here are your keys, and you will see I have written your room number on the sleeve here because it is our policy not to say room numbers out loud for the privacy of our guests.”

“I can see why. She certainly seems suspicious,” I say, gesturing to the heavyset woman behind the counter. “Good policy. You can never be sure.”

“Yes, we certainly think it is.” Her sarcasm detector is set on “Off.”

“Never be too careful, that’s what I always say. So we’re in …?’

“Right there, sir, I’ve written it down.” She places a map of the property on the counter. “Your room is just around the corner here. Now where did you park?”

“In the parking lot.”

“Right, of course. So if you go out those doors there to the left, head down the short flight of stairs and follow the sidewalk, then, let’s see, you take a right, or no because, hmmm.” She says something no one can quite here.”

“OK, so it’s right out there and I go where again?”

“Those doors, you’ll see stairs, go down there and turn right. But first follow the sidewalk, then turn right. But you know what’s really nice? There are signs pointing the way to all the room numbers, it’s so easy.”

“Perfect, thanks so much. Oh, one more thing, where is the fitness room?”

“My goodness, I should know that. Let me take a look here and I am sure I’ll have you on your way in a second.”

Her finger follows the paths on the map, stopping and turning every now and then as if trying to find a way out of a maze. “You know, you’d think I’d know that by now, but this is my first week and-“

“It’s right here,” the younger heavyset woman says, her finger plopping next to a box saying “Fitness center.” “See, it’s right next to the pool.”

“Oh, so it’s right across from the room.” Damn! Now she knows the approximate location of our room.

The cat’s-eyeglasses woman apologizes. “I’m still trying to get everything straight around here.”

“You’re new, I understand. So how long do you have to work here before you graduate to a nametag that has your real name instead of Trainee?”

Yes, the good folks at Radisson had issued their new employee a label, so much more convenient than an actual name. Saves money on nametags as well. The fine plastic sported by Trainee could be used over and over again by many other Trainees, saving Radisson as much as up to a few bucks a year (negated, of course, should a few nefarious visitors leave with the tiny containers of shampoo and conditioner).

“My goodness, I don’t know, I’ve never asked about that,” Trainee says. “But my real name is Jan.”

“So it is a job description, right? You’re not Jan Trainee?”

“No, just Jan.”

“I hope that someday your fine efforts on behalf of this company will earn you your name back.”

“I hope so too.”

“It’ll take a few months, I think,” said the heavyset woman, who has a nametag with her alleged name rather than her position, since her position (Woman Who Looks Too Busy to Help, Speak to or Acknowledge Customers) is too long to fit on a nametag.

“And I hope to be here a few months from now,” Jan Trainee says. “I’m sure I will be.”

“Too bad you don’t earn a credit toward your name with every guest you help. Then I could come back a few times and help you toward your goal.”

And perhaps even attend the ceremony where Trainee ascends to her true and proper name, though that may be a secret Radisson ceremony that involves the death of some small animal wearing a nametag that says “Sacrifice.”

THAT TIME AT THE AIRPORT

“We’re close, you might want to have your ID ready.”

Wait, ID? Before leaving for the airport I had thinned my wallet to the essentials (credit card, debit card, Starbucks card, my “If lost, please return wallet to…” because I still believe in the inherent good of pickpockets) but did not recall seeing my 12-year-old picture ID in which I sported a mustache now considered fashionable only in former Soviet countries.

“Oh crap, I don’t think I have it.”

“What? How could you not have it?”

How indeed, as our country faced its greatest terrorist threat – sports drinks. Just two days prior, Britain had broken an al Qaeda plot involving the use of explosive sports drinks, or coffee, or toothpaste, or contact lens cleaning solution, or any type of gel or liquid that was not baby formula since their explosives technology apparently did not extend to infant products. As a result, passengers were asked to pack solids only into their carry-ons. As a result, we were in line to check a small carry-on bag as it contained shampoo, conditioner and other potentially lethal trial-sized products.

I reached into my back pocket, extracted an unusually thin wallet and went through each of the cards again. I was well-prepared for future visits to Starbucks, but I was in a shitload of trouble when it came to boarding an airplane. No ID bearing my photo. Why didn’t Starbucks require a small picture of myself? More Americans carry Starbucks cards than photo ID because they’re far more useful. “Did you know how fast your were going?” the cop would say. “Let me see your insurance, registration and Starbucks card, please.” Trust me, we’d all drive a lot more safely if traffic fines included the loss of future caramel macchiatos.

“No, it’s not here. But I know exactly where it is.” Turned out I was wrong about that.

I weighed the possibilities. I could run out the curb and jump on a bus back to the parking lot, endure 21 subsequent stops, search for my car, get in the exit line, explain to the parking clerk that I swore I’d put the ticket in the glove box and had only been there about 30 minutes, and wave as my fight passed overhead.

Or I could book a later flight, go home, get my ID, return, get in the security line and forget all about that tube of hair gel I carry on me for emergencies, resulting in a lengthy interview and invasion of personal space by minimum-wage TSA agents who enjoy the job for its various perks.

Or I could call my good friend and neighbor Mo, whom I nod at almost every time I see him when not averting my eyes pretending I am way too busy to talk. Or nod. Yeah, he’ll help me. I’ll just call him, have him use the key he and his wife have to Paula’s house (she has developed a relationship with Mon in that she nods and waves, and at times even exchanges pleasantries should the situation warrant, like meeting at the community mailbox, forming a bond like no other in the neighborhood), finding and taking the remote control to my garage door (she has it for reasons I no longer remember), enter my home through the garage, chant in a loud voice the phrase “Down, down, down” to the two dogs who will meet him at the door, maneuver his way to the kitchen where, in a pile of rather unnecessary cards, he will find my photo ID. He would then take said ID and drive about 30 minutes to the airport, where I will be waiting anxiously on the curb with hundreds of other photo-ID-capable travelers who are waiting for loved ones to pick them up rather than a guy across the street to drop off an ID.

Yeah, calling Mo will work.

“Hand me your phone,” I said.

“Where’s yours?”

“Packed.”

“Why?”

“Because if I had it on me, I would just be one more thing I’d have to dig out of my pocket at security. I mean, I’ve already gotta take off my watch and kick off my shoes. Getting my phone out is just too much of a hassle.”

True laziness is an art, and I am Monet.

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” I said. “What if they determined my phone could detonate my shaving cream? To hell with missing the flight to San Diego. I’d be locked up in TSA jail with other people accused of attempting to blow up their personal-hygiene items.”

“But you’re shaving cream would be in the checked luggage, remember? They’re not letting us carry on potentially lethal gels and liquids.”

“Trust me, if I wanted to explode my shaving cream with my cell, I would find a way to do it, whether my luggage was in the overhead bin or in the hold. Either way it’s a local call and BOOM, it’s all over. So I’m not going to take my cellphone on the plane. And these people taking on laptops? Potential super-terrorists. So let me use your phone.”

“All right, here. Mo’s number is in the directory.”

“Wait, how do I get there? Why don’t you just dial it for me? Hand it to me when it’s ringing.”

I am a Rembrandt of task avoidance.

Paula punched in the number and handed me the phone.

“Is it ringing?” I said.

“It should be, just give it a sec.”

“Can you talk to him? Tell him-“

“No! You’re the idiot who doesn’t have his license.”

The phone rang once, twice, again. Again. Answering machine. I hung up and looked at my watch. It was shortly before 7 a.m. I assumed it also was 7 a.m. in a household that assumed sunrise happened since it was never awake to actually witness it.

“No answer.”

“Try it again. But you know you’re waking them up.”

“No kidding. So what do I-“

“Just hit the green button. Forget it, I’ll do it. There.”

Ringing. Again. Again.

“Hel … lo?”

It was Mo. Well, at least the 10 percent of him awake.

“Mo.”

“Yuh.”

“It’s Scott.”

“-“

“You know, from across the street.”

Another pause. I could almost hear a quick nod in my direction.”

“Mo, I need a favor.” Yeah, a favor. Only not like a “Can you take the newspaper off my driveway” favor, but a “Can you help me frame this room I’m adding to my house” favor.

“Yeah, no problem, what’s up?” said Mo, happy to go get the newspaper off my driveway.

“I’m at the airport and I forgot my ID.”

I waited.

“So what do you need?”

Son of a bitch, he didn’t hang up. If I’d heard a neighbor say over the phone “airport” and “ID” in the same sentence, I’d slam down the phone (at least press the End button really hard) and unplug the phone.

“I need you to get the key to Paula’s house and get the remote for my garage,” I said, outlining the favor in detail. He said something about being late for work. I could live with that.

“So is that OK, can you get it to me?” I said, knowing this may just be the end of the friendly nods.

“Sure, OK, it’ll take me a bit.”

“Great, I really appreciate this, Mo. I owe you. Call me when you’re leaving. Oh, and that really strange looking thing low in the sky? That’s the sun.”

OK, I didn’t really say that thing about dawn, not to a guy doing me a helping-me-reroof-the-house type of favor.

“Well?” Paula said.

“He’s doing it and will call back when he’s on his way,” I said, handing her back her phone.

“You owe him bigtime.”

“Tell me about it. I just hope he’s not moving soon, because this is one of those things that locks me into helping him get his refrigerator into the truck.”

“And his entertainment center. And his bed. Hell, this one signs you up for the whole day, including following him to the new house.”

Once at the front of the line, we were directed to the next available ATM-like machine, a kiosk designed to reduce the face-to-face time between the customer and the customer service representative. Paula punched in the appropriate code, told the machine she had one bag, and wanted to request a seat in the non-liquid-bomb section. The joke, of course, was that there was no non-liquid-bomb section because we were flying Southwest. If we wanted to sit in the non-liquid-bomb section, we better fight for it just like everyone else.

At that point, as I glanced at the customer service representative saying “Next in line please” while making actual eye contact, it occurred to me. Maybe there was another answer to my dilemma. And just maybe I should ask someone. Like that customer service representative not afraid to look at customers.

“Excuse me,” I said, opening my hands so she could tell I was not carrying any gels or liquids. “Seems I forgot my photo ID and if I go back to my house to get it, I’m going to miss my flight. Is there a way I can still get on the plane.”

I bowed my head ready for the “What, are you crazy, fly without an ID? Well, you might as well walk right up to the gate with a juice box in one hand and a cellphone in the other, you creepy little terrorist.”

Instead she said, “Sure, no problem. Just inform them at security. You’ll get a little extra attention from agents, but you can still get on.”

Attempt to carry a Yoplait Smoothie onboard and it’s on the no-fly list for you. But fly with no ID and you can be any middle-aged balding white guy from the suburbs and fly with no questions asked. What is this world coming to?

I rejoined Paula, now being handed a luggage claim tag from the customer service representative responsible for handing out luggage claim tags.

“I just found out I can fly without an ID,” I said.

“What? You’re kidding. So you can give these people just any old name and fly?”

“Yeah, just like back in the 70s. Dark times. So anyway, I gotta call Mo and tell him never mind.”

Not sure who was more relieved, me or Mo. He was out of a crappy favor, and I didn’t have to donate sperm if he wanted another kid (you see, he had a vasectomy and, well, you never know with favors).

We rode the escalator to the third floor and walked to Gate C. A half-dozen people were in the line feeding to one of three metal detectors. Paula showed her boarding pass and ID to the agent, who nodded and directed her to the right.

I handed over my boarding pass to the uniform-clad man and wore by best sheepish expression.

“ID please,” she said without looking up, a waste of preemptive sheepish expression.

“I don’t have it,” I said.

Now he looked at me. “Ah, no ID, huh?”

“No. I left it at home. I know exactly where it is, though.”

“Doesn’t do much good at this point, does it”

“No, guess not.” I wasn’t sure if I should offer a personal apology for making him go beyond the call of duty, which was looking at IDs and nodding.

“Do you have any ID with a picture on it? Employee ID? Military ID? Library card?”

Library card? We are banning makeup, lipstick, nail files and anything that at some point could be used to hurt someone or, in the very least, make us presentable in public. But you can board a plane with a library card. This is going to rev up the terrorsts’ fake-ID industry, even though profit margins won’t be there like they used to be.

“You want a fake passport, that will be $2,000. U.S. driver’s license? That’s $1,000, $200 if it’s OK you be from Arkansas. State ID? Only $500.”

“No, I just want a library card. I have a photo of myself here. Just glue it on.”

“Oh, stupid TSA rules. OK, library card. That’ll be $10.”

I looked at the agent.

“I don’t even have a library card,” I said. “I mean I do have a library card, of course. Just not on me.”

“Anything with you picture?”

“No, all I’ve got are credit cards, cash …”

“Cash is always good, just not here,” he said, as if I’d offered him a bribe. Which I didn’t. Not that anyone could prove.

“I have nothing,” I said.

He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a red Sharpie. He put my boarding pass on the dais, smoothed it out and started to write. Once finished, he capped his pen and handed me the pass, which now included this phrase in large red letters – “No photo ID, check.” I now bore the shame of a scarlet phrase.

“Just show this to the agent as you walk through the metal detector,” he said. “Hold it up in front of you so he can see.”

I took the boarding pass and moved to the station to the left, as ordered. I took out my wallet, kicked off my shoes and slid off my watch, placing them into a bin. When it was my turn, I slid the bin onto the conveyor belt, held my pass in front of me and walked very slowly through the metal detector. The woman waiting for me on the other side looked at the pass.

“Male check needed on four,” she said loudly, keeping her eyes on me. “Sir, if you’ll just step over here.”

She pointed to an area surrounded on three sides by nylon straps stretched between metal stanchions, the same sort used by banks and amusement parks to keep customers in line. It was, of course, impenetrable. We all are trained not to cross such ropes. We could erect them the entire length of the border and stop the immigration problem in its tracks.

“Oh look, someone has put up ropes,” an immigrant would say. “We really shouldn’t go any further. It’s not allowed.”

I stepped into the proscribed area as other ID-carrying travelers passed. I ignored their looks that said, “If we start racial profiling, it’s just those kinds of guys that we’ll miss. Stupid terrorist, now you are trapped by ropes and will be dealt with.”

A man half my age approached. “Sir, if you’ll just follow me we’ll get you on your way.” To TSA jail!! Hahahahaha.

He released one of the straps so I could pass, taking care to re-secure it behind me, and walked me to a black mat with two widely spaced yellow footprints.

“If you’ll just place your feet on the spaces indicated,” he said. At this point there was no mention of the removal of any clothes, so I ruled out a body-cavity search. For now.

I put my feet on the outlines (they were so much bigger than me, could someone design a mat that did not make one feel so inferior?) as the agent stood about a foot away.

“Great, now if you’ll just raise your arms straight out to the sides,” he said. “I’m just going to pat you down. Do you have any sensitive areas I should know about?”

“No.” I do have sensitive areas, but not any he should know about.

He cupped his hands on my upper right left arms, felt along my legs and patted my sides and chest. He was either looking for a knife, gun or breath spray, I wasn’t sure.

“OK, if you’ll just step over here to identify your belongings,” he said, walking to the X-ray machine. He held up the bin with all my stuff. “Is this all you have?”

“That’s it.”

“OK, that’s good,” he said, though he might just as well have said, “OK, this will be easy.”

He took my Nikes and placed them on a table. A few feet away was a machine about the size of a copier, only different because it apparently worked. With a pair of tongs, he grabbed what looked like a small moist towelette and swabbed the tops of both my shoes. He placed the towelette into a plastic mount, snapped it shut and inserted into the machine. Within seconds a blue LCD screen lit up with a series of numbers.

“OK, sir, you’re free to go,” he said, the numbers apparently below levels that would suggest a shutdown of the airport to be a good thing.

I walked back to Paula, who was waiting. And laughing.

“I really wanted to take a picture of you, but I thought they’d take that pretty seriously,” she said.

“If you had, you and I would definitely be in TSA jail right now, next to someone explaining that their lubricant was for personal, rather than terrorist, use,” I said. “The airline industry has really lost its sense of humor over terrorism jokes, you know?”

On the return trip I received much the same treatment, only the San Diego agents placed my belongings into a bright red bin that screamed “Suspect.” I was released following a pat-down and shoe swabbing.

My ID? Still have no idea where it might be. So tomorrow, I’m applying for a library card.

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I am still unsure how Bryson trapped himself with a plastic bag from Borders, but he was indeed securely handcuffed in such a way as to meet CIA standards for transport to Gitmo (as in “Can it Gitmo ridiculous than a boy locked in a bag?”)

We had just purchased a few books at the Borders Express in Sunvalley Mall, the usual sprawling complex of hot pretzels and overpriced fashions, this one in Concord, California, where we were visiting his grandmom and granddad. Once the purchase was made (two books, one a hardcover), I handed Bryson the bag, as he had carried such bags in the past without injury or incident. In fact, his track record for carrying bags was nearly flawless save for that time he dropped his cherry snow cone in among his new clothes because he wanted to save it for later. But that was when he was 5. Now he was 11, his bag-carrying skills at an all-time high.

So firm was my belief in his abilities, I took my eyes off of him for several minutes, so firm was my belief that when I again turned to him, both he and the bag would not only be there, but in a decent, non-threatening condition.

Such haughty actions were quickly punished.

“Dad, I’m stuck.”

Hmm, that voice came from very near, and it sounded like my son. But how could it possibly be him? Stuck? No, because we are outside of Hot Topic, where there is absolutely nothing that could trap a young boy other than the fashion display that whispers, “Hey, little man, come inside for the dose of coolness you’ll never get hanging around your dad.”

“You’re what?” I turned to him. Everything seemed just fine. Bryson, check. No trenchcoat-wearing strangers, check. Bag with books, check.

Plastic wrapped tightly around wrists with fingers turning blood-red, that admittedly seemed to be a problem.

Each of the bag’s handles dug into the flesh of Bryson’s wrists, his arms pinned together at the point of the restraints. Was this a sign we had all become handcuffed by our own wants in a society that emphasizes things over our own humanity? Or was this a kid who had somehow tied himself up with a book bag?

Let’s go with the latter.

“Bryson, what …? How …? I don’t even …”

He struggled against the plastic, wriggling his hands. The bag refused to give.

“I don’t know, I was just doing stuff and now I can’t get out,” he said.

“But what exactly were you doing?” I said. “Because this really took some effort.”

At this point it was difficult to take seriously. My son has been trapped by plastic, outwitted by a book bag. Inanimate object 1, straight-A student 0.

He struggled some more, trying to pull his arms apart. The plastic showed no sign of weakness.

A few shoppers slowed as they passed, gazing at the boy ensnared by a common mall container. Several looked at me with a “Aren’t you going to help him?” look, quickly judging by parental skills. A few merely smiled.

But others looked at me rather wistfully, as if dreaming of the day they too would be able to restrain their children with such a simple device.

I inspected his predicament a little closer. The plastic clearly was embedded into the area where small bones made up the wrist area. No way was he going to slip these bonds. We had to devise a more clever escape, something very Houdini-like in its nature to confound the bag and render useless its evil plan.

“Just twist your wrists and pull them apart,” I said. “It’s just plastic.”

Plastic, indeed. This was some sort of demon-infused plastic that refused to surrender to the writhing of small wrists. Not a millimeter did it give.

“I’ve been trying that and I can’t move,” Bryson said. “It’s starting to hurt.”

The beet-red glow moved from fingers to the lower part of the hands. Drastic measures must be taken. My fatherly instincts took over.

I pulled out my camera.

“Don’t even try!” Bryson said. “I can’t even believe you!”

He darted away, walking as fast as a boy attempting to hide he was handcuffed by a bag in a mall could. I caught up to him less than a minute later as he leaned against a gleaming marble wall of the Macy’s.

I snapped the photo, looked at the LCD screen. Dang, no flash. I called up the menu, switched on the flash and shot again. Perfect.

“Fine, are you happy now?” Bryson said. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey, remember that time Ryan got his finger stuck in the bowling ball?” I said. True story. Ryan, 7 at the time, actually got his finger stuck in a bowling ball. How does that happen? A manager used soap from the men’s room to extract it. “Remember how funny we all thought it was? Well, except for Ryan, who couldn’t stop … OK, look, let’s get this thing off of you.”

I bent down and he turned toward the wall.

“Just leave me alone,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.”

“If you could do it yourself, you would have already done it. Just let me look.”

It was like those Chinese fingercuffs. I searched for a clue, a part of the bag that might release its grip allowing me to unravel the rest. But it looked impenetrable.

“Just how did this happen?” I said. “Because then we can reverse what you did and get you out.”

“I don’t remember. I was just twisting it and stuff and flipped it up. Now I can’t move it.”

“So you were flipping it? Which way?”

“I think I sort of flipped it like this.” He swung his arms outward.

“So if we flip the bag backward we should be able to get this off you.”

I pushed the bag toward the narrow slot between Bryson’s arms. He pulled away.

“That hurts,” he said. “It won’t go that way.”

I looked inside the Macy’s. The woman at the cosmetic counter looked back. I balanced the possible solutions.

One, continue to struggle hoping we would find the plastic’s weakest point and bring it to its knees.

Two, ask the cosmetics lady for scissors, resulting in sympathy I neither wanted nor needed from a woman in a white smock.

Three, pretend everything is fine because a plastic bag can’t cause irreversible harm. Can it?

I went with four: Tear the damn bag. I ripped it open at the seams, the bag giving up its contents with one quick pull. Suddenly it wasn’t so tough.

Without the weight of the books, Bryson quickly untied himself. Normal color soon returned to his hands.

But now I was stuck carrying the books without a bag, walking around the mall looking like a shoplifter. Perhaps the bag won after all.

The new computer was still in boxes because dad, a dial-up guy in a broadband world, wasn’t about to try to connect the green plug to the green jack, or figure out what the hell a USB was, never mind where it goes.

The first thing to be done was to clean the hard drive of his old computer, something I would eventually do with a screwdriver and a hammer (with no apologies to the charity destined to get this relic, purchased in an age when Compaq wasn’t Latin for “piece of crap”).

As I looked at the screen, I was amazed at the number of icons that obscured the Compaq logo. Nearly every pixel was occupied by a launch button for various programs, most of which likely had never been clicked.

“Wow, this is a mess,” I said to dad. “The first thing we’re going to have to do is clear off this desktop.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I can get a little messy.”

He reached for a small pile of bills lying next to the keyboard. “I’ll take these and if you hand me those papers over there, we’ll have this cleaned up in no time.”

This is why my father waited two months for me to visit before opening his new computer. Wise decision.

I got a tattoo for the same reason most guys my (advanced) age get a tattoo – a Porsche is way too expensive, wearing clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch would be trying too hard, and Botox only lasts a few months.

So I got a tattoo. OK, I made the appointment when I was drunk, plunking down $20 as a promise to return the next day at 3 p.m. I would find out later, while waiting for the tattoo artist and watching several sober people drop by to make appointments, that the deposit seems only to apply to those in an inebriated state as a tattoo always seems like a good idea after the fifth beer. If not for various health laws designed to keep drunks from making bad decisions (like driving), you would probably see tattoo booths in almost every bar. If I etched skin, I would want to set up shop on weekend evenings at TGIFriday’s, the center of the universe for those 40 and older who can’t hold their liquor. I could retire after a few months and hundreds of ill-advised tattoos later. My motto – “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The pierced, tattooed Goth girl at the front desk (who knew tattoo parlors had front desks?) seemed surprised when my friend and I showed up the next day in an alcohol-free state. I was surprised too. Not that we were in a tattoo parlor. That we were in a tattoo parlor in an alcohol-free state.

She chose a tiny shamrock on her upper back. Must be an older woman thing. While there, another older woman was getting a shamrock on her ankle. Perhaps a latent attraction toward the Lucky Charms leprechaun. I went for a Kanji symbol, Kanji being Chinese characters used by the Japanese in certain writings (information I looked up later, thinking if something is going to be a part of me the rest of my life, I should know a little something about it, though I am still perfectly content not knowing exactly how my gastrointestinal tract works). I examined the chart of Kanji characters. You could assume there would be a symbol for diarrhea, but not that it would offered as a tattoo. My first, drunken choice was “father,” because if there came a time my son thought I was neglecting him, I could point to the tattoo and prove that I was still a father. But seeing the chart in a sober state, the character was a bit sparse, a box with a couple of accent marks. I chose instead “laugh, humor,” a symbol that applied to my personality and also one I considered cool, a fact tempered with the knowledge I considered my Toyota Camry cool.

The symbol happened to stored on the tattoo parlor’s computer (who knew tattoo parlors had computers?) and was printed on special paper that allowed the tattoo artist to transfer it to my skin. Yeah, the “artist” was no more than a guy really good at coloring within the lines. Since he had a series of very sharp needles at his disposal, I did not question his talent.

I picked a spot high on my right arm, easily covered by short-sleeve shirts. The only thing cooler than having a tattoo is having a tattoo no one can see, allowing you to be smug about your coolness. Hmm, seeing that in print, it seems rather silly. Too late now.

My friend shouted from the counter, her microscopic shamrock already in place.

“Twenty bucks if you make him scream like a little girl.”

The tattoo-coloring guy said, “No problem.”

What most people say when seeing your tattoo, after, “Why?” is “Did it hurt?” The best answer is, “Just enough to let me know what parts of me I don’t want tattooed.”

There is a stinging sensation at first, not surprising since a bobbing needle is piercing skin about 10 times a second. It s followed by a burning sensation is if a lighter is about an inch from your flesh. And then it begins to tingle, which is somewhat pleasurable (though not pleasurable enough to convince me to tattoo certain parts of my body). It’s as if your skin says, “Oh, is this all? No problem.” Every now and then there is a brief spike of pain, but nothing to make you scream like a little girl. Unless you are a little girl. And if you are, you are prohibited from getting tattooed, which I learned after signing a form swearing I was 18 or older (as if we had a problem there), that I knew tattoos could only be removed surgically (as I learned during the Angelina Jolie-Billy Bob Thornton tabloid adventures), and that I wouldn’t sue if my skin was allergic to the ink and my flesh started to slough off. Yeah, sure, whatever, just give me my cool Kanji.

About 20 minutes later it was done. The tattoo color-iner taped some Saran Wrap to it and told me to keep this “bandage” on for the next three hours. The Goth girl handed me care instructions, stuff about antiseptic cream and lotion and soap. Whatever, OK, you bet. Can I be hip now?

One last hurdle. When I mentioned a few months ago to Bryson, my 11-year-old son, that I was thinking about a tattoo, he gave me a look reserved for smokers (who receive the disdainful, reproachful look of a know-it-all kid every time he passes one, and I don’t have a problem with that).

“You can’t get a tattoo,” he said. “For one, you’re too old. Old people don’t get tattoos. You’re, like, 20 years too late. And only bad guys get tattoos. Whenever you see a guy with a tattoo in the movies, you know he’s the bad guy.”

Yeah, well, maybe bad guys just want to be cool, no matter how old they are.

“Bryson, can I tell you something without you freaking out?”

“I guess. What’s going on.”

“I did something.” When your father says, “I did something,” you probably expect to hear, “And we have to move so get packing.”

He just stared at me. I rolled up my sleeve.

“Is that real? That’s not real. Is it real? No way it’s real.”

“It’s real.”

“No it isn’t. Nice try.”

“It’s real. Trust me on this. I have photos.” I did have photos. Hey, you don’t break your tattoo cherry without getting photos, especially when you’re old.

He looked at it very closely.

“Touch it.” He rubbed it with his forefinger.

“It’s real! What did you do! I can’t believe you did that to yourself.”

The boy was giving me lessons on how to act when he turns 18. Wish I had photos of this.

“Hey, I’m old enough to do this,” I said, defending myself to a kid. “It took a lot of thought.” And a lot of beer. I didn’t mention that last one.

“You are way too old. Old people don’t get tattoos. Young people get tattoos.”

“Don’t you even want to know what it means?”

“I already know what it means. It means you’re crazy!”

Apparently we were going to have to agree to disagree. Later he still didn’t understand the tattoo, but he did accept it. I also acceded him the right to get his own tattoo. When he’s 40.

“No way, I’m getting one way before that so I’m not a crazy old person.”

Pandora, meet box. Box, meet Pandora.

Sometimes it’s tough to be cool.

Warning: The following story – which is true and really shouldn’t be, not in this civilized world – involves bodily fluids and can offend most people, unless you Googled “bodily fluids” and wound up here. Then again, these probably aren’t the bodily fluids your are looking for. And if they are, well, to each his own. Just don’t contact me. Ever.

The Navajo Reservation is northeastern Arizona is a beautiful place, as long as you are prepared. It is a good idea to keep plenty of gas in your vehicle because services are few and many miles apart. It’s also good to have a water bottle or two because there may come a time when you will need both, the water and the bottle. Trust me on this.

It is shortly past noon in Chinle where I am finishing a lunch of burgers, fries and two large glasses of Diet Pepsi. Or maybe three. Hard to tell because the waiter, during the few times he stopped by, made sure to bring another large glass of Diet Pepsi, which I dutifully drank as water is scarce up here and I would hate to resort to water when the Diet Pepsi flows like wine (though wine is not allowed on the reservation. Nor is beer. Or any alcohol. And that is a good thing considering the number of narrow two-lane roads that cross great, and very empty, distances.

Mark and I, in separate cars and on assignment here, got into our respective vehicles for the two-hour drive to Kayenta and our hotel just 30 miles from Monument Valley.

We go over the map before heading out.

“We’ll take 191 up to Many Farms,” Mark says, his finger tracing the black line. He points to a red line angling off to a large empty space on the map. “Then we’ll take this road. I think it’s pretty good, that’ll save us lots of time instead of going up and around on the highways. But first I’ve got to gas up.”

We stop at a Chevron at the edge of town, which was about a mile from the center of town. Navajos tend to spread out on the reservation, and why not given that 300,000 people live in an area larger than 10 states. No need to put up with neighbors, not when there’s one person per 12 square miles. Follow one of the dirt roads or ruts that trail off into the desert and you will eventually run into a someone’s property, on which may be a mobile home or hogan (traditional eight-sided dwelling easy to maintain but, as I see it, darn uncomfortable to live in; god bless the Navajos). It is like a labyrinth off the main road. One trail will branch, then branch again. You just keep following because there is no way to turn around. This is SUV hell, where the vehicles have to really work for a living, none of this going-to-the-store crap. These are teeth-jarring, bone-rattling roads, and no little pansy Toyota Camry is going to cut it..

After topping his tank, Mark heads into the mini-mart. On this particular corner of Chinle, the last sign of civilization for the next 70 miles, there are gas stations with mini-marts on each corner. Each one is busy. Each has a couple of dogs lolling about, getting up to avoid the trucks pulling in and out. Navajo dogs are the most car-savvy in the world, a product of evolution and survival of the quickest.

“I’m pretty tired, I’m gonna grab an energy drink,” Mark says, and I follow him in. Not a bad idea.

He snags a Red Bull from the refrigerated case. “I love this stuff,” he says. “You get a decent buzz and you don’t have to pee.” I don’t know, $2.39 for nine ounces of caffeine? Having never tried an upper-laced drink, I opt for a Tab Energy, on sale for $1.99. Little did I know how handy this would come in. Well, kind of.

We hit the road, driving north to Many Farms over rolling desert. Land stretched endlessly on all sides. The only sign of man’s influence, other than the asphalt that disappears over the horizon, are the power lines that intersect the road every 20 miles or so.

I hit the scan button on the radio, switching between the AM to FM bands. No use. Of the two FM stations, one has country music and the other is Jesus. I rank country music slightly ahead of Jesus, but neither are ahead of static. On the AM, I go between two Navajo-language stations, enjoying the vowel-dominated, arrhythmic patter of the language. And every now and then the DJ says something in English, usually a time (“something something something 7:30 p.m. something something something”) as if Navajos never got around to really caring about the clock. Which makes a lot of sense the more you’re on the res.

A sign announces the Many Farms town limits, though there is nothing amid the scrub brush save for an abandoned gas station and a left turn. We take the turn.

Buttes and mesas begin to break from the desert floor, exploding on either said of the (remarkably smooth) two-lane road. The road lifts us over a rise and as we crest, a valley unfolds, bisected by the straight line of asphalt that continues for miles.

Mark keeps his pickup at a steady 70mph and I stay about 100 feet behind, the hum of the pavement challenging the whoosh of the air conditioner for sound dominance.

I glance at the digital thermometer on the dash. It breaks triple digits for the first time. 101 degrees. Near-record heat for the res, which sits at 5,000 feet.

All the while I’ve been sipping the Tab and wondering why I didn’t hit the bathroom back at the Chevron. Well, because it wasn’t nearly this urgent, that’s why. The pressure on my bladder continues to grow. Sure, I could pull over and take care of it. Only the landscape does not afford privacy. And Mark would continue to speed on because he’s just that way.

I looked at the can of Tab. There was a swallow left. Maybe two. Which my body would only manufacture more liquid waste, adding to my problem. But in one swallow, maybe two, the energy drink would become something much more important. A container.

I weighed the possibilities, and that involved eyeing the can’s volume (nine ounces, but that’s filled to the brim, no allowing for any tilting during the fill) and well as its opening at the top (fine for sipping, not to generous for other purposes).

The view offered no relief to the emptiness. Oohh, relief. Relief would be so nice.

There was really no choice to be made. There was only one thing to do. Now it was a matter of logistics.

I roll up the right leg of my shorts, matching the side with the dominant hand. This was not something to attempt with a hand and arm that could not shoot a basket, throw a baseball or even write a simple sentence.

I reach in and carefully withdraw myself. OK, if I shove the shorts up a little more, lift a bit and pull, yeah, looks like we’re ready for launch.

I drain the last of the energy drink and place the can in position, knowing that once I start, there’s not stopping. At least for 8 ounces or so.

My eyes dart between the road and the business at hand. This is worse than talking on the cell phone. Thank god for a absolutely no traffic. Not even coming from the other way. If I had thought about that at all, I would have considered it strange. Maybe even reasoned an answer so that what would happen in the next 30 minutes would no have been such a surprise.

The can is in position. With my index finger, I place the other subject in this experiment where it looks like the mission would be best accomplished.

Now all I need to do is release.

Focus. Yes, you are seated behind the wheel of a car going 70mph, but it’s OK. Mr. Bladder refuses to cooperate.

“I am not, repeat, not going to let you piss your pants,” Mr. Bladder says. “Not if I can help it. No way. In your sleep, maybe, when you are dreaming about going to the bathroom because you drank to much right before going to bed, but not when you are fully conscious.”

Please, just this once. Come on, I really need this so as to avoid impending internal injury. Trust me, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

“I know about internal injury, I’m the one doubled up from cramps,” Mr. Bladder says. “This is so humiliating. Don’t put me in this position.”

Just this once. I promise. I’ve never done this before and will never do it again. Once it’s done, it’s done and we’ll never speak of it again.”

I can feel progress. Yes, the troops are advancing. Ah, yeah, that’s it, right there, right there. Just keep it going, yeah, just like that baby, you got it.

I glance down, though at this point the concern about aim is secondary. But it’s all going well. The right hand has placed the can in the perfect position, to both support and receive contents. Beautiful.

Another decision to be made. It appears that liquid is quickly approaching the brim, and overfilling will not be tolerated. But there’s still more to come.

Focus. Ease back. Squeeze.

Got it.

The can, I realize, is very warm. Thankfully there is little smell. This is new pee, stuff generated in the last hour or so. Not like old pungent pee that’s been sitting around for a while. This is OK.

But it still has to go.

A bit of advice. When emptying contents of a can, consider the physics involved. For example, tipping a can over a sink is one thing. Tipping a can in 70mph winds is quite another. For example, should you need to empty a narrow-mouthed container during a Category 1 hurricane, I suggest you grasp the container as near to the bottom as you can without having it blow out of your hand. Then tip the can slowly so that the open end is downwind from the bottom. No need to tilt is much past 90 degrees. Let gravity do the work and watch as the contents are neatly swept away with no splatter.

These are all the things I would learn in the next 20 seconds after I rolled down the window. Gripping the can near the top, I thrust it outside and flip it upside down. The wind carried the liquid back for a few millimeters or so before prevailing aerodynamic laws took control. Some of the liquid was quickly caught up in the small eddies that had formed behind the can, throwing it up and onto the nearby hand.

At this point I could have released the can, but that would have been wrong for two reasons: it would be littering and, more importantly, I might need it later.

I hold onto it, which turned out to be a very good thing to do. Sort of.

I bring the empty can inside, and using two fingers place it in the cup holder that will need a severe cleaning before I ever use it again. I wipe my hand with tissues from the glove compartment, glad the duty is done and feeling so so so so so much better.

I see a car in my rearview, miles behind us, and am glad there was no one behind me just a few minutes ago because it could have led to the only incident of road rage on this desolate road. I round a slight bend in the road and the car disappears. It is the first vehicle I’ve seen since we turned at Many Farms. My eyes glance at the mirror every now and then, until I can make it out a little better. Looks like a white pickup. Its hazards are blinking. And it seems to be catching up very quickly.

About three minutes later it veers into the right lane and blasts past me. There are two men in the cab and one in the bed. The one in the bed looks sternly at me, as if I should have pulled over. I notice it has U.S. government plates.

Odd.

It passes Mark and soon goes out of view. I think little of it.

About 25 miles into the 50-mile road, we crest another small hill and I see what looks like a large semi ahead. Only it’s not moving. Looking more closely, I can pick out a line of cars behind it, maybe three or four. No, there are more. Eight, maybe 10.

Must be a construction zone. The semi is waiting for its turn as cars heading east are allowed access to the narrowed road.

Only there hasn’t been a car coming from the opposite direction since, well, ever.

Less than a quarter-mile from the line, I notice flashing blue and red lights further up the road. And what appears to be another semi, only it’s on its side. Mark and I slow as we reach the back of the line. We get out of our cars and wonder what the police officer is telling the drivers at the head of the line. It’s bad news as two SUVs turn around. Another towing a U-Haul trailer does a three-point turn and heads in the opposite direction. The driver slows and rolls down his window.

“Road’s closed for at least three or four hours,” he says. “Pretty nasty.”

I look at Mark. “What if we go back and take the long way around? Better than sitting here in the heat.”

“No, it would take us forever.” Mark turns toward the driver. “What are you going to do.”

“There’s a dirt road about a mile away. We’re going to take that.”

“Hey, you mind if we follow you?”

“Not at all.” The driver rolls up his window and pulls away. Mark and I get into our cars. Or should I say Mark gets into his truck. I get into my Toyota Camry built for smooth roads and decent gas mileage.

And I need to go again.

We follow the SUV towing the U-Haul as it turns left on a wide, fairly flat dirt road. I stay as close to Mark as possible, the dust limiting visibility to about 15 feet.

Only the road, as we know t, disappears a few minutes later. It narrows as it passes a mobile home sitting in a fenced yard.

What we are on could no longer be classified as a road. It is a trail fine for high-clearance vehicles and covered wagons. Two ruts straddle a week-choked median, closely following the uneven contours of the terrain. Have you ever been on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland? You know how the vehicle bounces around as if negotiating a trampoline? That what this is, only without the assurance that you will get to a point when the ride is finished.

And I really have to go.

I keep my eye on the trailer, figuring if it can get through this, my Camry can make it. The first two times I pan out on the sandy soil, I give thanks to the Japanese engineers, as well as my belief in foreign cars.

I slow was Mark’s pickup struggles up a rather large bump, its tires doing little more than spitting up sand and dust. My hands squeeze the steering wheel and I lean forward, hoping Mark clears that hill because I’m going to need a running start.

“C’mon, man, you‘ve got to make it now or I’m stuck and there is no way to turn, no way,” I say. I imagine being stranded with no cell phone service. No water. No Tab energy drink.

His wheels suddenly fine some purchase and his truck lurches over the top and bounces down the other side. I press the gas pedal, feel the back end slide out but I am up and over.

For a few precious seconds, I forget how badly I have to go. And then I eye the Tab can, remembering.

No chance to do it now, not when every ounce of concentration has to be on the path ahead.

The Toyota thumps the sand again as it crosses a wash. Weeds scrape the undercarriage as the trail twists and turns through the desert. I do not see any signs of life, nor the road we left behind. I place my faith in the only two things that can save me – my Camry and the Tab can.

I look ahead and can no longer see the U-Haul. It is, I convince myself, a good sign. The driver is so far ahead, we are about to hit a good patch or road. It beats the alternative line of thinking – we took a wrong turn and are hopelessly lost.

Mark’s pickup hits another bump, spraying sand in a thick cloud. He disappears in dusty brown smoke. I plow ahead, driving purely on faith. The Camry’s nose points up and drops with a thump, and I press the gas ever so slightly to maintain momentum amid the pillowy soil.

And I burst through the cloud to see a wide, flat, hard-packed dirt road leading to the left and right. I look right, toward another dust cloud, and can make out the top of the trailer. Somewhere in the dust between the trailer and the Camry is Mark’s pickup.

Score, baby. The worst is over. This road must lead back to pavement.

Relies sweeps over me. Then something else. An urgent need not felt since, well, the last time I was on asphalt.

I look at the Tab. Faithful friend. Loyal comrade. Will you serve me now as you served me then?

The can stands straight and proud, answering my without a word.

Tab is ready, but the road is not so helpful. Tires bounce crazily over the washboard surface, the car vibrating as if beaten like a snare drum. Mark is getting further ahead, so I do the only thing I can and goose the pedal. The car’s suspension reminds me it was built for the road, not for the off-road.

Mr. Bladder speaks.

“Remember how I was a bit reluctant to give it a go the last time,” he says. “I am quite ready now. Extremely so. Here, I will prove it.”

I lean against the steering wheel until the cramp disappears. OK, we’re going to have to do this. Tab is ready. Mr. Bladder is ready. I take a deep breath until another pain radiates from below the belt.

I roll up the pants leg, reach under and set the stage. Only the constant rattle rearranges the furniture and I must start again. A pull there, a tuck there. Ready.

I place Tab at the proper angle. There. No, there. There. There.

The bumps do all they can to make this all but impossible. Just a few more seconds, maybe until we reach the road. Can’t be more than 10 minutes or so.

Mr. Bladder makes the decision. I look down, then up, down again, up, my eyes bouncing as much as the car.

I feel a warmth at the bottom of the can. Then on my hands. Then on my shorts. Spreading on the shorts.

Can’t stop, no. I shift Tab. Back in the can. For a moment. It wanders again. Hand. Back in the can. Hand. Shorts. In the can. Shorts.

All the while keeping my left hand on the wheel, out of harm’s way.

Can is getting full. I look down. Yes, pressure is gone, Mr. Bladder eases off. Much much much better. I am truly blessed to have a bladder half empty rather than half full.

I roll down the window and hot desert air slams into my face. Remembering my physics lesson, the emptying of the can goes flawlessly.

I put it back in the cup holder, roll up with window and check the damage. I roll down the pants leg and probe at the fabric. Damp, wet, wet, soaked.

Oh crap.

I hadn’t peed my pants this much since I was 5 (any stories you hear of that happening past that age are patently false, no matter what my college roommate back in 1978 might say about that night of binge drinking). I lift my butt off the seat to check the Scotch Guarded fabric beneath.

Dry. A miracle.

And the bumping stops. The dust cloud is gone. I am turning left on a paved road, and in 25 minutes I would be in Kayenta.

I thought about taking off my shorts and holding them out the window, where they would dry in minutes. Then I imagined accidentally letting them go, and the only worse thing then wet shorts would be no shorts. Besides, I had a hard enough time rolling up the pants let to assume the position. Trying to strip them off at 70mph, well, I wouldn’t want my son to read this in the newspapers.

“A 48-year-old Phoenix man was killed when he lost control of his vehicle on a desolate highway. Paramedics responding to the accident found the victim with his shorts at his ankle. He was alone in the car.”

No thank you. Instead I turned the AC on high and closed all but the vet to the right of the steering wheel. For the next 20 miles, I cupped my hand to direct the air to my shorts, taking a break for a few seconds when muscles started to weaken. By the time we pulled into the hotel, all but the seam was dry.

No one ever knew. And I proudly wore those shorts the rest of the day because they didn’t stink at all.

I did toss the brave little Tab can, giving it a small, almost unnoticeable salute as it dropped into the recycling can outside the Best Western.

May you come back as a full-sized Tab can. And if so, perhaps we will meet again.