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Sections Home Page Local News AP News Blogs Archives Business Classifieds Event Calendar Forums Life Opinion Obituaries Photo Gallery Readers Photo Gallery Sports Tempo Weather Road Cams Special Coverage 2006 Britt Festivals --> Shop Our Valley AutoFinder HomeFinder JobFinder Search Our Valley Special Sections Distinctly Northwest Readers' Choice Homelife Magazine Joy Magazine Oregon Golf Info Oregon Wine Info Other Publications Local Links Ashland News eSouthernOregon Newspapers In Education Personals Moving Here Movie Listings TV Listings Volunteer Customer Service Advertise With Us Media Kit Place Classified Ad Contact Us FAQ's Home Delivery Site Map --> Email Story to a Friend June 4, 2006 Cajon blues: I sit here Broasting I'm sitting outside a gas station in the high desert where California Highway 138 hooks into Interstate 15 when my car turns into a monster from a Stephen King story and locks me inside. The doors, windows, sun roof won't budge. It's just noon, so the temperature is a relatively balmy 90 degrees or so, but the car interior instantly heats up to about 120. I see the tabloid headlines: Reporter killed by own car; Oregon man victimized by demon vehicle from Hell! This implausible thriller is unfolding on an outer edge of the madness that is greater L.A. After enjoying the industrial agriculture ambiance of the San Joaquin Valley's I-5 corridor, we opted to bypass the belly of the La-la beast by heading east from the Grapevine and skirting the north side of the Angeles National Forest and catching the interstate from the Cajon Pass to Palm Springs. We made a pit stop at this gas station on a bad curve on a snaky hill above the rumbling interstate, along with half the population of San Bernardino and Riverside counties, judging from the overflowing parking lot. Not wanting to abandon the car to the chaos, I went in while my wife waited in the car, and she went when I got back. Advertisement I left the engine running and the air conditioning on for her, and she has turned off the car and apparently taken the keys. Inconceivable. The reason you sit with the car is because you might have to move it. Wait. Think. They're probably here somewhere. Be calm. Not in the ignition. Not in my pockets. Not on the floor. Not in the console. Not in a door. Still not in my pockets. This cannot be happening. I am not extremely claustrophobic. I am however probably normally claustrophobic. That rush of urgency is not panic. My wife will be back in a few minutes — to find my charred body with its black, swollen tongue, fingers crabbing at the windows like lifeless claws. Think. Still not in my pockets. Really, really gone. Wait a minute. The door handle probably won't work because my wife accidently hit the remote. The button on the door will unlock everything, ha ha. The first bad thing about this theory is that the clicking noise is all wrong, not the normal unlocking noise at all. The second is that everything is still locked. The third is that the horn goes HONK! HONK! HONK! just as a heavily tattooed dude with a shaved head and arms like elephant legs walks in front of the car with his heavily tattooed old lady. I assume an attitude of, "Dum-da-dum. Honking? What honking? I don't hear any honking." HONK! HONK! HONK! It is amazing what people in Southern California will not notice. It's an urban space thing, I guess. If you're accustomed to avoiding eye contact out of a not far-fetched concern that you may end up as a statistic in a road rage incident, what's a guy with Oregon plates honking his horn in the nether reaches of a parking lot amid the whine of 18-wheelers and that wind roaring down the canyon like the breath of hell? Wait. My cell phone. She took her bag with her, and her phone lives in that bag! I punch the number. "Hi. Sorry I missed you ... " Gaaaaa! Tilly Olsen once wrote a wonderful short story called "I Stand Here Ironing." If I live through this, I'll write something called "I Sit Here Broasting." Broasting is a patented process that cooks a chicken while sealing its juices hermetically inside. As I Broast the people on the other side of the glass are surreal as they stroll by in search of restrooms and snacks and sodas the size of garbage cans. I am like the guy who died on Mount Everest with all the other climbers passing him, unable to help or oblivious. And then my wife is walking out, smiling. She grasps the situation when she's at the car. This for some reason moves her to peals of laughter. "A little claustrophobic?" she asks between laughs. She has brought a Big Gulp. It is mostly ice. The ice is to die for. Reach reporter Bill Varble at 776-4478 or e-mail [email protected] . 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