“Tom?”
“Yeah?”
“Uh … the engine’s on fire.”
“WHAT?!”
***
In 1986, my father made good on his longstanding desire to get the hell out of Wisconsin. Our destination was Corrales, New Mexico, an Albuquerque suburb on the West Mesa. Dad visited once and decided all his problems would go to die in the desert.
Mom wasn’t thrilled about this master plan, mostly because we’d be leaving her family behind. I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait. Yes, I’d miss my mother’s family, but I’d been bullied since first grade. I was fifteen and it was wearing me down. As an added bonus, my sociopathic older brother would stay behind.
Sign me up for a new life.
Dad decided that Mom and I wouldn’t move there with him right away. He drove alone with the intention to set everything up for us first. That six month stretch was Mom’s boot camp in single motherhood—training which would serve her well when she divorced him in 1988.
Selling our farm wasn’t Mom’s only problem. We also had a business that needed offloading. In 1980, Dad decided that owning a tack shop would be a great way to make money in the horse show world. It was … a mixed bag. The shop finally turned a profit the year before we moved.
Two of our horses were joining us. We hired Mike, a farrier who had a side business transporting exotic animals, to haul the horse trailer. Mike had a habit of ordering burgers that consisted of, “Meat between two buns. Nothing else. No cheese, no ketchup, no onions, no pickles, no nothing. Just meat between two buns.”
Instead of hiring movers, or even renting a truck, we packed the school bus we owned, which itself towed a large U-Haul trailer.
That’s right, we owned a bus. We frequently set up a temporary version of the tack shop at large horse shows and the bus hauled everything. We—well, actually, I—ripped all the seats out of it so we could put the tack in there when driving to the shows. It looked exactly like what you imagine, except it was painted blue-grey, with the words “Wheaton College” painted on it. No, we never painted over the name.
So, packing a two-story farmhouse in it seemed like a no-brainer, but the end result looked like something out of a Mad Max film.
Mom asked Tom, a family friend, to drive the bus. Tom had an ambitious beer belly, a habit of walking around in his underwear, and a good sense of humor.
With the hot weather, the bulk of the driving would be done at night to spare the horses from overheating in the metal trailer. Mom had booked a couple of motels along our route that also had stables to put the horses up while we slept. I bet you didn’t know those existed, did you?
So, at 10:00 pm on a humid July night, we made our escape. Mom had the two dogs, and Garfield the cat sharing the passenger’s seat of her pickup. I laid on the last remaining bench seat in the bus to get some sleep. Dreams of a glorious life in the Land of Enchantment filled my head.
Our first layover was Springfield, Missouri, where we arrived in the late morning. This leg of the trip had been relatively uneventful, but Springfield was the turning point. That evening, as we were preparing to leave, Mom realized that Garfield was gone. He probably snuck out the door during one of the in-and-out trips she and I made from the room. Mom was distraught. We burned a solid thirty minutes calling for that damned cat, as if he gave a shit, before leaving him behind.
***
This time I rode with Mike. As the sun set over the Ozark mountains, I settled into the passenger’s seat of his truck with my head against the window, and fell asleep within seconds.
“Fuck.”
I stirred a little.
“Goddammit. Fuck. Fucking bullshit.”
That’s when I realized we weren’t moving. Before I could get my bearings, a small warm package landed in my lap.
“You eat it. Those assholes couldn’t do something as simple as a piece of meat between two buns.”
I opened the wrapper and plowed into a lovely hamburger with mustard and ketchup. Mike decided to go hungry rather than face the tyranny of condiments.
At a rest stop in Oklahoma, I was done riding with Mike, because he was just too weird, and decided to stick with Tom on the bus the rest of the way.
***
We all stopped at a tiny gas station directly across the border at a hole in the road called Glenrio.
After we fueled up, Tom turned the key and there was a disconcerting whump from the engine. After that, it wouldn’t start—just kept going wrawr, wrawr, wrawr, wrawr. Tom told me to lift the hood and check out the engine.
This being an old bus, the hood consisted of two side-opening panels. I stepped out and opened the side closest to the door.
The engine was on fire.
I slowly closed the hood and let Tom know. Tom, Mike and my mother all screamed and scrambled for a nonexistent fire extinguisher.
Someone yelled for towels and blankets to soak with water. While we rushed to put the fire out, I spotted the gas station attendant running like hell into the desert.
Eventually, we covered the engine with wet towels and the flames died. Tom and Mike spent considerable time checking components to see how badly everything had been damaged. The news was shockingly good. There was some char on various wires and hoses, but everything seemed intact.
Tom stepped back in the bus to try starting it again, while the rest of us stood about thirty feet away, in a collective cringe.
After a little coaxing, the bus came to life. Mike checked the engine to make sure it hadn’t resumed burning. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and we were back on the road. I was asleep in ten seconds.
–
Andy Finley works as a medical software analyst for a children’s hospital. He lives in Massachusetts with his very sweet Golden Boxer. He learned how to make a mean Turkish Baklava, and loves teaching people how to make their own.
Andy has been previously published in The Adelaide Literary Magazine, Creative Wisconsin Magazine, The Bookends Review, and Suburban Witchcraft Magazine.
© 2025, Andy Finley
Halfway Down the Stairs 