The Heat Is On

Everyone has moments when they are forced to improvise in a trying situation. My sister, Diane, is one of those people who can rely on her wits but she is also irreverent and uncensored. When we're together, this personality combination often gets us into trouble.

During my years at ASU in Arizona, Diane and I would do a yearly road trip from Arizona to Colorado where our folks lived. It was roughly a 13 hour drive and we’d usually stop half-way in New Mexico for the night. For our trip, we’d stock the car with a jug of water, hardy pretzels and our favorite processed squeeze cheese. We’d top the pretzels high with the smooth orange spread and take turns passing this sophisticated snack back and forth.

Diane would always start out the road trip by saying, “If one of us gets a ticket, we’ll split it, okay?”

And I’d agree. So, as we came to our fifth hour of driving in an endless flat and unchanging scenery in New Mexico, Diane behind the wheel, the speed began to slowly rise. Soon enough, we heard sirens and a big Ford police car was tailing us.

“Oh, shit!” Diane said glancing anxiously in the rear view mirror. She pulled over. I pulled my sun visor down to peak at the police man. We both saw a strong Mexican cop, young and good looking, approaching our vehicle. New Mexico is highly populated with a Latino community. Diane had an idea. “Quick! Quick! Put the Gypsy Kings on!”

“Good plan, sis!” I thought. It would be an attempt to show our cop we loved Spanish music. Maybe he’d empathize with us if he knew just how much we had in common with him. As he walked up to our car, “Bombalero” was blaring from the stereo, Gitano clapping sounds ringing out.

“Hello, ladies,” he smiled at us with bright white teeth.

“Sorry,” Diane mumbled. “How fast was I going?”

“You were going about 85.”

“Oh,” she paused, “sorry.”

“Yep. That’s a little too fast for a warning. I’m going to have to give you a ticket. Please keep your speed down,” he said.

“Okay,” she replied, “How fast can I go?” she asked.

“Keep it around 75 and you’ll be fine,” he handed her the ticket.

“Okay. Thanks a lot,” she said.

“Take care,” he started walking away.

“I can’t believe you asked him how fast you could go!” I exclaimed.

“Why? He was nice. You see, we can go 75.”

The rest of our road trip we stayed within a reasonable speed. At one point, we needed gas and a small break. The only place to stop was this mega gas and convenient store complex complete with a free movie theatre. It looked like a mall.

Inside, they sold Kachina dolls, Indian beaded jewelry and dream catchers. It was packed with Indians (or if you prefer “Native Americans” though I’ve never heard a Native American refer to himself as anything other than an Indian) Anyway, back to my sister Diane. We were strolling through the complex with cherry Slurpees when out of nowhere, Diane started singing rather loudly, “Cherokee People…Cherokee Tribe…”

We both looked at each other shocked at her outburst and laughed uncontrollably. I finally caught my breath, “What the fuck, Diane?”

“Oh, my God,” she said still laughing, “I swear that song just popped into my head!”

“You’re going to get our asses kicked!”

She bent over and started laughing again. “I didn’t mean to do that. It just came out!”

“Time to get you out of here,” I grabbed her hand and we headed for the parking lot. Diane, my un-politically correct sis. But wait, it gets better…

During my junior year abroad, I lived in Nice. Diane decided to visit me over Christmas vacation. I happened to be staying in a very strict dorm where the cleaning staff was especially mean. The rooms were tiny and had one small single bed barely big enough for one person. My friend who left for the vacation had given me the keys to her room for Diane.

Unfortunately, this convenient living arrangement quickly came to an end. One day, Diane was about to go into her room when she heard a man cry out behind her, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!”

Gripped with fear and also unable to communicate in French, my sister pretended not to hear him. He approached her and tapped her shoulder, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!” He showed her a photo of my friend, “Où est la mademoiselle?” he asked her. (Where is this young woman?) Diane, not wanting to be in trouble decided to play deaf and began signing the few words she knew in sign language hoping the man would feel overcome with pity. But, he grabbed the keys from her and said something mean. Diane fled to my room knocking frantically. “I got caught! I got caught! Hurry! Let me in!”

I let her in and she came into my room breathless and scared. “That fag dude took my keys!”

“Huh?” That “fag dude” was François, the meanest of the cleaning staff.

“I pretended to be deaf so we have to pretend I’m deaf, okay?”

“What? Why?” I was dumbfounded.

“I don’t know. I thought it would help.”

“Oh, great!” I said. We left my room in search of François. He was in the office sitting smugly behind a desk.

“What’s going on?” I asked him, Diane stood innocently beside me. “My sister said you took her keys? She’s deaf, you know.”

He didn’t seem to care. “You need to pay to use that room,” he said.

“Why? It’s my friend’s room and she is away for Christmas.”

He turned and looked out the window. He ignored us.

“My sister’s things are in that room. At least let us get her bags,” I pleaded.

He shook his head enjoying his omnipotent position in the situation.

Frustrated, I began crying and left the room. Diane followed me and began doing a stupid deaf routine in case François was listening. We couldn’t blow our cover, not that it had helped a smidgen. Several minutes later, François walked over to us.

“Look, we need the keys, just let us get our stuff,” I asked again.

After several minutes of contemplation, François looked at my sister and said, “I’ll go with you and let you get your stuff. But, you cannot have the keys!”

Then he turned to me and announced, “Your friend is in trouble!”

Relieved he was willing to budge enough for my sister to get her things, I looked at her and pretended to translate everything he had just said. After a couple farcical gestures, I topped it off by mouthing “Let’s go,” and I did the fist-on-top-of-fist, thumb over one shoulder, thumb over the other shoulder, essentially the “hand jive” straight from Grease.

After we got my sister’s bags, we were back in my tiny room, sitting on my bed quietly.

“Nice,” Diane raised her eyebrows at me. “Let’s…go” she said and she mimicked my ridiculous hand jive number.

“I didn’t do that!” I stammered.

She shook her head, “Yes, you did! You did that!”

“I did? Oh, god!”

Now, whenever we want to leave a place, Diane will say, “Hey, sis…let’s…go” and she’ll do the duke upon duke, over the shoulder routine.

I can't always keep up with her, but damn, it's a fun ride.