Kicks on Route 66

My favorite highway was America's sweetheart highway -- Route 66.

It existed before the interstate system was created. It cut across the heartland of the United States and even inspired a jazz musician named Bobby Troup to write a song about it: 'Get Your Kicks On Route 66.'

My younger brother John, who goes by the nickname Legs, and I traveled out West when I was 21 and he was 20. I yearned to see what Arizona was like and when I told Legs I was heading West, he said, 'Can I go with you?'

We finally argued our parents into approving the trip. Our car was an old Dodge that had seen better years, but I thought it would get us to where we were heading, Tucson, AZ. Legs had never traveled farther than Wheeling, WV. before, about 60 miles from our home in Sutersville, PA. We got all packed, stretched a map out on the dashboard, waved so long to our parents and brother Dennis, and backed out of the driveway.

Like the two characters in the hit television series 'Route 66,' our plans were aimless. Legs had a good voice and wanted to be a singer. I thought I could write and wanted to be a newspaper reporter and an author. The world was our oyster and we just wanted to dig out as many pearls as we could find.

I quickly discovered one thing: my brother was not an experienced traveler. After a couple of days on the road, he pulled some folding money out of his pocket.

'Here,' he said. 'This is yours.'

I was confused. 'Where did you get that money?', I said.

'You're careless with your money,' he responded. 'Every restaurant we ate at you'd leave some money on the table. I picked it up.' He smiled.

'Brother,' I almost screamed, 'you stiffed the waitresses. That was the tips I left.'

'Oh,' he said. 'I thought you were just being careless.'

We got on Route 66 and traveled through St. Louis and on to Tulsa and Oklahoma City. We stopped at a small diner in Oklahoma and two spinster sisters who owned it made up a box of fried chicken and homemade pie that they insisted we take with us.

'You boys don't have your mother to look after you,' one said, wagging her finger. 'Make sure you eat good and stay out of trouble.'

They followed us to the car and as we pulled out of the parking lot, one shouted, 'Watch out for alcohol. It's a curse!.' Her sister nodded. I could tell why they were spinsters.

The Dodge performed fine until we reached New Mexico. The radiator started heating up on us and red lights started flashing. As we crossed the Arizona state line, we blew a tire and had to replace it.

Twenty miles from Tucson, we blew another tire. Fortunately we had a second spare and we put that one on. As we rolled into the Tucson city limits, the window on the driver's side crashed inside the door. I turned to my brother to say something and Legs interrupted me.

'Brother, I think the radiator's heating up,' he said.

At that moment, red lights erupted on the dashboard and smoke began pouring out of the hood. The engine started making funny hiccuping sounds and the car slowed down. The engine died and we coasted to a stop next to a car lot called 'Honest John's Used Cars.'

Honest John was standing next to one of the cars. He was dressed in a cowboy outfit with leather boots and a wide-brimmed Stetson hat. In a perfect Jewish boys, he said, 'Hello boys, you look like you got a car that's giving you trouble. You vant to sell it? I'll give you a good price.'

I didn't want to sell the Dodge but I had no choice. It refused to start. Legs was looking at a bow and a quiver of arrows next to the office. The car was finished. Kaput.

Honest John counted out $60 and paid us for the car. Legs talked him into giving us the Indian bow and arrows. Honest John told us about a cheap motel that was about a half mile away.

'You boys are young and strong,' he said, nodding. 'You won't have any trouble walking there. Velcome to Arizona. Haf a nice day.'

We unloaded our luggage and Legs strapped the bow on his back. As we walked down the dusty road he said, 'I wonder what kind of deal Honest John gave that Indian to get his bow and arrows?'

We stayed at the motel two days while we searched for a place to stay. There was a boarding house on Swan Road that offered a room and meals for a reasonable price. The owner was a widow and she had half a dozen boarders as guests. One of them was Sheldon, a driver for a bakery company.

After dinner, he told us he was heading to the greyhound dog track and asked us if we'd like to join him.

'I got a system,' he said. 'We might pick up some money.'

My brother and I had never been inside a greyhound dog track before. Sheldon would box three dogs in a quinella and make the bet. That night we had incredible beginner's luck and hit every race. When we left the track under a big Arizona moon, we had money in every pocket.

'Do you do that well all the time, Sheldon?' I asked our new friend. He grinned. 'I'd be lying if I said I did,' he declared. 'You guys brought me good luck.' Our Arizona adventure had begun.