FanStory.com - For Better, for Worse, ROADRUNNER!!by Mary Wakeford

Forty-one years ago my husband and I exchanged vows on a Friday evening to the generic "For better for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part" intentions.

From the moment the "We Did's" ended, the universe seemingly began sending smoke signals that one could interpret as maybe we shouldn't have. A prison breakout, three dead car tires; two dead popes; baby vomit, and my boss's brand new Monte Carlo sustaining a shot out windshield during our reception were just the beginning of the calamities that began as our "I Do's" ended. The universe sent signs even the rosiest of optimists couldn't ignore. But then an injured roadrunner happened along and restored faith in our union... BEEP BEEP!!

Our ceremony was l-o-n-g and h-o-t, representative of monsoon August in Arizona. The only thing limper than my veil was my hair. My future mother-in-law was late for the ceremony which delayed the start of the Mass. A colleague who lived nearby returned home mid-ceremony for a beer only to find us "Still going at it" (his words, not mine) on the altar a half hour later.

Unknown to me at the time, and with each genuflection before the priest, the letters HE and LP in bold black lettering appeared respectively on the right and left soles of my grooms rented shoes, seemingly sending a passive-aggressive S.O.S. to the photographer's lens and assembled guests throughout the up and down calisthenics Catholic Mass dictates. Decades past, he and his groomsmen vow they had no hand in the act of shoe graffiti.

As we exited the church following the ceremony under a veil of rice bombs and tulle, a hearse pulled up and parked right behind our limo--my sister's 1972 Plymouth Duster with touchy brakes.

An oaken casket was pulled from the hearse's belly emoting a dramatic exclamation point on the "Til death do us part" part. Once the collection of our 'WhatTheHell" expressions eased, we learned from an altar boy pulling double duty that a rite of Rosary was scheduled following our wedding. My in-laws late arrival had created a life and death, bumper-to- bumper reality moment for the new Mr. and Mrs. Wakeford.

As my brother-in-law fired up the Plymouth for the short trip to the reception hall, we tried to ignore the innuendo as Karen Carpenter belted "We've Only Just Begun" via the 8-track stereo while I pondered "ashes to ashes and dust to dust" from the backseat of a Duster. I hoped the dead guy was a car buff and appreciated the concert of celebratory BEEP BEEP's heralding the commencement of "party time" as we pulled away with a barrage of honking horns, compliments of our wedding party and a few revelers.

It was obvious to at least me, HE - LP and a hearse had launched the universe's first two salvo's upon our nuptials. White lace, promises, and a kiss for luck would only go so far.

We enjoyed a festive Irish Catholic reception with family, friends, and booze celebrating us.

My brother's six-week-old baby made his debut at our wedding. Ryan was passed between giddy women with as much affection as Jim Beam was passed around the hosted bar by giddier men. Who needs a town crier?

We had no idea baby Ryan was a bubbling hot potato as we played pass the bundle of joy. I would soon learn the only thing worse than a newborn projectile vomiting on a bride's wedding gown, is a newborn projectile vomiting on a cocktail dress worn by the bride's boss's wife. Ryan covered her beautiful burgundy dress from collar to hem in one swift, epic blow.

The baby couldn't have chosen a more gracious recipient. While my boss's Mrs. attempted to clean pugnant, imbedded curds of Enfamil from her dress in the ladies room of the reception hall, her husband discovered the windshield of their brand new Monte Carlo had been shot out in the parking lot. Enter Salvo #3 and #4. The universe was playing hard ball. I was all ears while hoping for continued employment.

The morning following our wedding, we set out for the California coastline in my '74 Camaro. The same car held hostage in Lou Grubb Chevrolet's car lot two years earlier when my dad assisted in negotiations demanding retreads replace the radial tires much to the salesperson's admonition.

Dad read something about radials and gas mileage, and I could sense it was going to be a deal breaker. It was the 70's. Block-long gas lines and rationing day assignments were still palpable in Dad's withers. I was young and dumb, and would have agreed to wooden wagon wheels. I just wanted the damn car.

Dad's retreads eventually won out, and those battled tires would become the universe's salvo's #5, 6 and 7, dispensed when two hours out of Phoenix, three of four tires disintegrated as chunks of black rubber bailed from our honeymoon train. THUMP- WHAP-THUMP-WHAP-THUMP-WHAP-THUMP-WHAP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. Try saying that fast--65 mph fast.

Imagine this going down on the I-8 as semi trucks passed our limp-along at mach speed. Then news broke over the car radio warning of a prison breakout. The notorious Tison-Greenawalt murderers were on the run, raping and killing families in their wake. Recent sightings reported the gang on our stretch of the Arizona highway. THUMP-THUMP-WHAP-THUMP.

We would be easy victims in my smokin' hot, turtle-slow Camaro as we pulled into Gila Bend, Arizona; population,12. I was already regretting my Daisy Sharp Shooter BB gun not making it into my curler bag. Salvo #8 did not go unnoticed, and made for one uptight bride--M'oi.

We found a dilapidated tire shop on the only drag, located just across the street from the Space Age motel--a place as a child I begged my parents to stay during our annual treks to San Diego. A begging always denied.

At age twenty-two, the property didn't look so space-aged. It didn't look like a honeymoon getaway either. If 'Gus' couldn't find tires locally, the flying saucer motel just might be our "To the Moon, Alice" hook- up on wedded bliss night number two. Be careful what you ask for as a child--wishes aren't always granted in real time.

Four foooooking hot hours later with half our honeymoon budget depleted on black rubber and tepid Dr. Pepper's from a rusty beverage dispenser, we peeled out of "Gila Bend--Over" trying once again to ignore the universe, its innuendos, and the Tison-Greenawalt gang as we clung by our fingernails to the notion of happily ever after atop our new tires.

We arrived in San Diego, but not before our hotel hold had expired due to tire death delay.

While driving the city looking for an alternate place to stay, breaking news sounded across the Camaro's radio/8-Track destroyer combo unit announcing the death of the pope, two days following our "I do's". His "I done" was big news. It would get even bigger a month later when his successor, Pope John Paul I died suddenly just thirty-three days into his papacy creating a conspiracy theory of papal murder. Salvo 9 & 10 noted.

The universe quivered as we wondered if a marriage annulment based on papal defection by death might be cheaper than radial tires and a divorce.

Sometime following a full day of exhaustion from lack of sleep in a rangy motel and walking laps around SeaWorld where I was chosen out of the audience to be French kissed by Shamu #32, we arrived hot, tired, hungry and 'whale slurped' at a local San Diego specialty pizzeria to pick up the pepperoni pizza I'd been craving since calling the order in thirty minutes earlier.

I registered concern on my groom's face when he returned to the car empty-handed with the devastating news they gave our pizza to someone else. It would take forty-five minutes before they could make another.

I dissolved into a pity party of uncontrollable tears. Enter the fooooooking universe's salvo #11. I was now questioning at the age of twenty-two, if I was mature enough to be married if a stinkin' pizza, or lack thereof, could take me to this level of hysteria.

In reflection, it could have been the very moment in time the word "FOOOOOOK" was incorporated into my language vault.

Our Taco Bell drive-thru dinner ten minutes later did not contain any foreign objects, so I took that as a sign the universe was also concerned about my state of mind and let up for a moment.

We headed north toward Los Angeles following our San Diego adventure, arriving at the hotel in Burbank holding our non-reservation-reservation. Oops, there was no room at the inn for this Mary and her Mr. My hand written confirmation number held little clout in 1978. The hostess apologized profusely while proffering a room at a neighboring motel. 'Neighboring' should have been our first clue. "Comparable" was a lesson we would learn ten minutes later.

When the desk person returned with a place called the Bahia showing availability, we jumped on it. We knew the Mission Bay Bahia was a class act and even sported a seal rescue tank on property. We were all in.

We were all out as we rolled up to the Burbank Bahia to witness a rangy stray dog peeing on the maid's cart parked outside our room. The place looked like fodder for bad dreams. A peak inside the guest room revealed torn plastic, and I mean shopping bag plastic curtains on a back window hiding weeds taller than the window itself. A red velvet bed spread, and conquistadors killing bulls finished off the decor. It screamed romance. The universe had struck again with salvo #12.

Hotel Camaro parked beachside seemed a better option while wondering if a divorce cost more than three radial tires and an annulment.

Following ten days in California, we headed eastward for a few days in Sedona before returning to jobs, assuming I still had one.

I was looking forward to responsibilities that didn't involve tires, popes or pizzas, but rather two hundred thank you notes awaiting pen to paper.

As we sped eastward on the Interstate atop our new radials, we learned the prison breakout murderers were still at large, and recent sightings placed them in Sedona--FOOOOOOK!

"IT" happened about an hour west of Blythe, California. A full-grown roadrunner ran onto the Interstate ahead of us with lead cars bearing down on him at 70 mph.

I screamed. Really, really loudly. With that, my husband safely executed an involuntary lane change just before we witnessed the large bird being hit by a car. It struggled to make its way off of the highway, obviously injured and in pain.

Following a reaming out for scaring the bejeezers out of my new husband that could have resulted in our own broken wings, I insisted we stop to help the poor thing in my most firm, unwavering "You must get out there and catch it" voice.

The universe paused and took notice.

My handsome, athletic husband, gulped once then responded, "Okay, let's do it" as he pulled safely into the emergency lane and threw those shiny black radials in reverse. The bird was in distress attempting to get beyond the barbed wire fencing off the roadway. My job was to keep it from re-entering the high-speed lanes. With a plan in place, it was time to execute the capture of this wild bird.

Neither of us exhibited the Marlin Perkins Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom fearless swagger, but the bird didn't either with a broken leg, so our confidence level jumped to a six. Following fifteen minutes of high speed sprinting and sporting in extreme heat, my husband captured the injured bird.

The stars and planets aligned as I witnessed the man who stole my heart fifteen months earlier chase the flapping, wild, injured animal across desert landscape in an attempt to save its life and appease his new wife. It was a moment of clarity. I had chosen well. The universe smiled.

I ran to the car and awaited the bird transfer as semi-trucks careened passed. My husband placed the roadrunner on my lap, and I held him tightly while conducting a body check. The bird seemed to understand we only wanted to help, and settled in immediately. He had an obvious fracture to his leg, but for the most part seemed alert with minimal lift-off attempts.

We decided to forego the Sedona portion of our trip and take him to a local bird farm near my office. "Roady" appeared okay with the plan poised on my lap staring straight ahead. A/C blasting.

I would love to know what was racing through his mind as we drove faster than he ever dreamed of fly-walking, while jamming to The Commodores' Three Times a Lady-- the Bee Gee's, How Deep is Your Love and Stayin' Alive. With a Little Luck, 'Wings' would be as good as new in no time. We joked I should have left dad home and bought a Plymouth Roadrunner a few years back. It would have come with better tires, and we'd be more richer than poorer driving with a live one on board--the irony that would have conjured up.

An hour later, we pulled into a Circle K in Blythe, and stabilized his broken leg with wooden stir sticks and medical tape. Then settled in for the drive home amid gawkers at the "K". Roady Wings was a super-star. We were freaks to a lot of "You two are crazy" commentary by strangers.

As our party of three rolled up to the Arizona Border Patrol crossing some fifteen minutes later, a federal agent leaned into the window inquiring if we had any fruit or vegetables to declare. It was the 70's and fruit flies were busy. His monotonous job posturing and his voice became elevated the minute he spied the well-behaved avian poised on my lap.

Officer Badge jumped backwards in alarming animation and began ranting about a wild animal, the law, jail time, blah, blah, blah. I got the sense he was more afraid of us than the wild bird on my lap. I indignantly replied in the most take-charge voice I could muster, that "Roady" had been hit by a car and suffered a broken leg. We were taking him to Rohr's Bird Farm in Phoenix for treatment and re-release once he was rehabilitated. We had a plan in place and he need not concern himself about the bird.

Mr. Badge wasn't amused. He was actually a little pissed and demanded we surrender the bird immediately. I was skeptical and asked respectfully, "What are you going to do with it out in the middle of nowhere, when we could guarantee help in a matter of hours?" I was bold enough to ask if his idea of taking care of it involved a Colt 45 behind the building, or a hammer to its head. I double-dog-dare stared him down while trying to keep my emotions in-check to avoid another pizza meltdown moment.

Mr. Badge assured me 'Roady' would be held and surrendered to the Game and Fish agent when he came calling in a few days. My emotions would not be contained. I wailed as I surrendered 'Roady' under threat of a large fine.

Salvo's #5, 6 and 7, otherwise known as black treads of bank death left us in no position financially to challenge a Good Samaritan bird kidnapping trial or fine. Not to mention, we were out-badged and outgunned. Damn those fruit flies.

I experienced separation anxiety as we drove away birdless from the checkpoint on our new radial tires. Well kind of. A bird finger may have been involved in the making of this story. My husband likely experienced a 'Who the Hell did I marry' kind of moment as the large Welcome to Arizona sign waved us home.