I was wrong!  That steady flow of people, and the fact that we were the only real giftware vendors added up to a good show, financially.  It wasn't as good as Stoughton, but we certainly can't complain.    The Las Cruces show made us enough to get to Vegas and enjoy two days of mild gambling, plus an insane buffet lunch on Thursday afternoon at which I pigged out so much, Freddy thought I was going to drop dead right there in my soup, or at least explode, like that guy in "Monty Python's Meaning of Life."  Fortunately, I did not end my meal with a wafer thin chocolate mint.  I had two napoleans and two cream puffs, all of which were sugar free.

    About four years ago, when Freddy was ten, we visited the Grand Canyon for the first time.  Followers of our tales can find pictures of those adventures on our other pages, Travels with Freddy.  Just outside the National Park, coming southwest from Monument Valley, we passed a big sign, advertising authentic Indian souvenirs from Chief Yellowhorse.  We had seen several of these signs, and couldn't pass the place up.  Diane bought a souvenir wedding cup made of white pottery strengthened with strands of horse tail, and Freddy got a bow and arrow, made by a real Indian boy, which still hangs on the wall of his room today.  That's the bow and arrow, not the Indian boy, who today is probably a major stockholder in a Native American Casino.

    That's when I realized the truth:  the Native American has not forgiven the white man for General Custer, nor the Trail of Tears, nor the Smallpox infected blankets.  No, not even for John Wayne, who fought on their side more times than he fought against them.
    The way I see it, there is a secret cabal made up of Native American, Japanese, and Chinese businessmen, who share their own particular skills and unite in order to defeat American Tourists.  And who has a better right, after all?  Can't you picture this scene, hosted by a Japanese agent pretending to be a tourist with a half dozen cameras around his neck, all in brown leather cases.  The Japanese agent has thick glasses that he doesn't need, and has taught himself to purse his lips, making his teeth look bucked in the way Jerry Lewis used to do in the old days when racist humor was considered cute and Lenny Bruce's language was considered perverted.  How times have changed.
    Anyway, we can easily imagine what was said at this meeting, filled with high dignitaries from China and the American Indian Reservations.
    "We all know the futility of fighting a war with the United States," said the man with the glasses, pausing to take another picture of the assembled crowd.  Some of the native Americans looked beautiful in their ceremonial dress.
    Chief Yellowhorse said, "Ugh," and thought about his childhood summers.  Little white children got to play baseball and go swimming and fishing.  Little Yellowhorse had to go to work every weekend.  He and his older brother would dress up in colorful native costumes and stand by the side of the road up by the Grand Canyon.  Tourists would stop to take pictures of them, and because Yellowhorse was cuter, his brother would nudge him over to the vehicle, filled with staring tourists, the women whimpering like sick geese, "Oh, isn't he cuuute?"  In his hand he carried a crudely written document: "Picture--$5.00."  He smiled at the nice white and black people, but in his mind, he cursed them, waiting for the day when he would be old enough to exact revenge, but how could he?  Scalping just wasn't legal anymore.
    The Japanese agent smiled at the crowd, possibly reading his mind.  "No, scalping isn't legal anymore.  Besides, it's too violent.  Why should we scalp heads when we can make a fortune scalping show tickets at casinos?"
    The crowd muttered.  A good idea.  The little man with the cameras is heap smart.
    He continued.  "We can fight the American only one way--financially.  He's too strong to fight any other way."
    "Right on," shouted a Chinese worker wearing a blue worksuit.  "We certainly can't fight when the President of the United States is a Texican."
    The crowded muttered in agreement.  They remembered Lyndon Johnson.  They know hounds were not the only things he picked up by the ears.
    "We must pool our resources.  The Chinese know how to make cheap junk.  They can train the Native Americans in mass production, so they can make cheap junk in turqouise and tin that looks like silver.  In return, Native American stores can also stock Chinese exports, like stuffed rabbit pelts, died to look like dogs and cats; cheesy ceramics of every kind, and especially toys--tomahawks and rubber knives, tee shirts, and little statues of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and epecially that tired indian on the horse at sundown in wood, plaster, metal, tapestries, velvet paintings, etc."
    The crowd, seeing how they could avenge centuries of intolerance, and get rich, too, cheered--a loud "huuzzanga" that echoed throughout the cave and sang the song of freedom for the oppressed.
    "There's more.  The price of gasoline is determined partly by local taxes.  The reservation can put its own tax on gasoline!"
    And that is why, my friends, when you drive anywhere in the Grand Canyon area, you see signs like this:

    And why, as we went from store to store, every shop had the same thing, piled higher and deeper, and all authentic American Indian Goods.

    And on we drove, as the heat grew unbearable.  Remember, we had never gotten the air conditioner fixed, so we had to drive with the windows open.  Driving west on route 40, it seemed like hurricane winds were blowing on my face, battering me like a windy day on a beach.  The car shock so badly, we could barely keep it on the road.  At a town called Meteor City, we stopped for the gas, mentioned the terrible wind, and the girl behind the counter told us, it's that windy just about every day in central Arizona.  I should have asked  her to tell that to Lady, whose fur was blowing every which way.

    Beseiged by the wind, we stopped at Petrified Forest National Park, much of which is also called Painted Desert National Park.   We have seen the Painted Desert from the North.  It's just as beautiful from the south.  There are no words or pictures that can do it justice.

    Because of our little National Park visits, we decided to wait until morning to get to Las Vegas.  We stayed at a Walmart in Kingman.  When I used the men's room, I found a familiar site.  You know, on first visiting them, all WalMart Supercenters look the same.  Then as you get into the store, you find subtle differences, which make every WalMart unique.  The book departments always vary.  North Platte carried books on local history; WalMarts in Salt Lake City have extensive materials about the Morman Church; areas which have a large Hispanic population carry foods which cater to that nationality, etc.  There is only one thing that is true of every WalMart we have visited, one thing no other stores seem to have, one special "trend," if that is the proper word:  In every Walmart we have visited, at least one of the signs posted in the men's bathroom, the one which says something like this: "We prosecute Shoplifters.  Do not steal from this store.  You will be fined, sentenced to prison, and possibly even crucified by a member of the friendly WalMart staff," has been stolen, leaving an empty plastic placard stuck to the wall.
    Obviously, in WalMarts coast to coast, dullards of all races and creeds find it amusing to steal the "no-stealing" signs.  What does that tell us about society, my friends?

    Ever see a Disney movie?  Have you ever noticed that Disney films are the most Christian of movies?  Really.  From "Snow White" and "Pinocchio," to "Beauty and the Beast," and "The Lion King," in all of them, the dead are ressurrected.  Baloo turns out to be alive. Trusty only got a broken leg.  Shadow didn't die in that ditch, after all.  He just took a little longer to get back home.  Sometimes, I wish life were like a Disney film.
    Sun Nee, the cat we've had since Freddy was four years old, who was named Orientally after the role Freddy's brother, Kevin, played in "Grease," has been very sick of late.  A couple of times, Diane's medicine brought him back to health, but for the last two weeks, it looks like Sun Nee is going to die.  He's a bag of bones, and he won't eat.
    I had thought he was getting better.  At the start of our trip, he was friendlier than he used to be.  For the past couple of years, he used to just hide in the bedroom all day.  Lately, he was like his old self--begging at the table, rubbing against our legs, a trait, unfortunately, he seems to have taught to lady.  Then, he caught a cold--sneezing constantly--and stopped eating completely.
    I didn't want to say this to Freddy and Diane, but I didn't know what to do.  When Sun Nee dies, what do we do with his body?  You can't just throw it into the woods like John (Gopher) Coffey.  Not Sun Nee.  He was our friend, a member of the family for over ten years.  We rescued him from the shelter as a kitten.  Somebody had tossed a bagful of kittens on the side of the road.  A humane witness took the kittens to the humane society, where Diane and Freddy fell love with him.  Sun Nee had fur like Casmire.
    What could I do?  It didn't look like Sun Nee could be saved.  I guess I would have to bury him somewhere on the plains, like the cowboy cat Rod McKuen used to sing about.  It was the only even slightly appropriate thing I could think of.
    One evening, I was alone in the camper with the animals.  While I was putting a couple of things away, the can of Pounce, cat treats, got shook.  I saw Sun Nee perk up.  The cold he picked up in Michigan kept him from smelling anything, but he reacted to the sound and jumped up, like a Pavlovian cat.
    "Thank God," I thought.  "He's going to eat the Pounce!"
    Shaking it all the time, I brought it over to him.  He was sleeping on Freddy's bed, above the driver's seat.  "Come on, Sun Nee.  Eat it.  It's good."
    I took a piece out of the box and handed it to him on the palm of my hand.
    "Good Boy, Sun Nee.  Eat it."
    I can't tell you how I felt when I saw his nose go down to my palm.  He was going to do it.  He was going to be all right.
    He took the pounce in his mouth, held it momentarily, then dropped in on Freddy's mattress.  My heart sank.  I pushed it over towards his mouth.  It was no use.  Sun Nee was dying and nothing was going to stop it.  Diane had tried to force feed him for several days, but it didn't make him want to eat a thing.
    Everything in Las Cruces was so Mexican, that Freddy wanted Mexican food every night we were there.  One night, we had tacos.  Diane's Taco had lots of cheese in tiny slices, about the size of Noodles in Lipton's Noodle Soup.  On a whim, she put a few slivers of cheese on the seat in front of Sun Nee.  He sniffed at them, although he couldn't smell anything.  Diane tensed as she watched him open his mouth.
    He was eating.  He was actually eating.
    She whispered to us, afraid to startle the cat, as she grabbed more cheese from her Taco.
    Sun Nee ate that, too.
    "Try a Pounce, " I whispered.
    "Later," said Diane, her eyes moistening, "I don't care if he wants to eat nothing but cheese for the rest of his life.  I'll see he has all he wants."
    Later that evening, Sun Nee ate his Pounce.  Then he ate regular cat food.  The next day, he was begging food from the table and being a big old pain in the neck.  Maybe there is something to this nine lives business about cats.  And just maybe, once in awhile, life is like a Disney Movie.
    I snapped this picture just as Sun Nee started to eat the cheese:

    Just outside of Hoover Dam, we were stopped by the Dam Police who wanted to search our camper.  The police officer explained that a terrorist threat had been made, and the Dam was under high alert.  One officer went inside the camper to visit Freddy, Diane, and the animals, while I walked around the camper with the first officer, allowing him access to all the outside hatches.  I told him what our business was, but was afraid he would want to inspect the plastic boxes I had tied to the back.  We now had eighteen boxes of stock tied back there and if he wanted to search them, it would take hours to unpack and pack them up again.  Desperately, I acted as friendly as I could, and peeled away the cover so he could see the contents of the few boxes with opaque plastic walls.
    The other officer, once he saw our animals, spent most of the time inside talking about cats with Diane.  I guess he figured terrorists don't bring children and pets on suicide missions--or at least they'd have dobermans or rotweilers, not a sheltie who rolls on the grass at potty time and a chihuahua who yaps with a screechy sound like a hammer pulling a nail from a redwood table.  They spoke together, and agreed to let us move on.
    Relieved, I did what I always do in stressful situations--I started to talk.  "You know, this isn't the first time somebody thought I was a terrorist--"
    No indeed, it wasn't the first time.  There had been another time, a few years ago, New Year's day, 1999, as a matter of fact, at about 8:00 am.

    We had just pulled into Washington, D.C., I and my family, and my friend, Gary, and his family.  We were on our way to Rhode Island, where Gary had to deliver his children to their mother, his former wife.  Freddy was really close to Gary's kids, and we thought they could be together longer if we all drove up together in our van, both of us taking turns driving, and sharing the gas bills. We enjoyed a memorable New Year's Eve right on the highway.  Gary, who could hold his liquor better than I, was allowed one small glass of champagne as he was the driver.  We all cheered the new year, waved to other cars on the highway and had one of those crazy days we would always remember.
    I had taken over the wheel during the night, and brought us to D.C. because Gary's kids had never seen the White House.  We walked around the White House Area, but it was really cold, especially for underdressed Florida people and Gary decided he didn't want to walk so far in the cold when we saw the Lincoln Memorial.  He decided to drive.
    I told him he was supposed to park down the hill by the Potomac, but Gary said, "What the hell.  There's nobody around this early.  I'll just pull in where it says, "Tour Buses Only."
    I didn't like this idea, but Gary was driving, so I figured, "What the Hell?"
    "Okay, " Gary said, "You kids get out and climb up those steps."
    I noticed a park ranger headed our way, but I figured Gary was driving, so what the hell?
    Before the kids got out the door, the ranger held up his hand.
    "Gary," I said.  "I think we'd better not send the kids outside and just leave now."
    "Maybe you're right."
    Gary turned the wheel to the left and started to pull out.  A Police car pulled in front of him and blocked his way.  The situation was starting to get pretty hairy, especially when I saw two more cars pull up behind us and several officers get out.  If I had been driving, I would have been scared, but I figured Gary was driving, so what the Hell?
    I didn't want the rangers to think I was taking their picture with the camcorder in my hand, so I left it running and put in on the dash.  I figured, what the hell?  If they noticed it, I would pretend I was nervous and had left it there accidentally.  Besides, Gary was the driver.
    The officer that came to our car was furious.  "Don't you people read signs in Florida?"  Always an amiable man, Gary smiled and tried to be friendly.  "Hey, you know how it is.  The kids wanted to see the Lincoln Memorial.  You're a family man.  You know how that is."
    The policeman wasn't buying it.  He was really annoyed.  "Considering the state of the world right now, can you imagine how many flags went up at headquarters the minute a big white van pulled up in front of the Lincoln Memorial on New Year's Day?"
    I began to calculate the cost of calling out three or four squad cars.   It seemed more were pulling up all the time.  This could be a heavy fine.  Oh, what the hell?  Gary was driving.  He would have to pay the ticket.
    I wife had the van's paperwork handy.  She passed them to the police officer.  He went back to the others.  Gary began to fidgid.  He was nervous.  When the officer came back to the car, Gary rested his arm on the dashboard.
    You're right in front of the camcorder, I thought.  All we're going to get is the audio of this lecture!  Move your arm, schmuck!
    We got quite a lecture.  The officer said if anyone had gotten out of the van, we'd all be lying on our faces right now with pistols pointed at the backs of our heads.  He made his points so vividly, I began to think we were terrorists.
    Finally, he gave us a written warning and let us go.  We left Washington in a hurry.
    How do you like that?  Just a warning.  No fine at all.  That's Gary for you.  Somehow, he always manages to get things right.  If I had been driving, we probably would have had a thousand dollar fine.  Good thing he was driving.

    We stayed at Sams Town RV Center for a couple of days.  We will probably stay there whenever we go to Las Vegas.  They have TV cable, a phone hookups for the computer, a great casino, and good food.

    But I wasn't the only one acting silly.  Look at the picture below.  Is Diane really tickling that camel's balls?

    We had a good time, got some rest, lost about $150 gambling.  A few machines rolled quite a while on my money, but no real jackpots gave us a profit.  We walked through some of the fabulous shops at the hotels along the strip.  Here's Diane and Freddy outside one of the shops:

    Shopping at Las Vegas was not as much fun as it used to be.  For one, we didn't have much money to spend, so we could only look at the silly souvenirs we wanted to buy.  Secondly, and more important, I saw some old friends in Caesar's Palace.
    Those Egyptian figurines that cost nearly $40 at Caesar's Palace are the same ones we see all the time at the wholesalers for four bucks apiece.  I kid you not.  Suddenly we realized just how much of the stuff some of those shops carry are really Chinese imports. marked up 500% and more!  I began to realize the truth about those old jokes from Jewish comedians in the Borscht Belt hotels about "I can get it for you wholesale," and "I never buy retail."  Well, they're absolutely true.  It took me 57 years of wasteful spending to learn that yes, many things are available wholesale.  I will always check the wholesalers before buying retail.  Some of the markups are incredible!

    The walk up the strip from Freemont Street took us through one of the seedier parts of town.  We passed the Graceland Wedding Chapel, a couple of working girls, at least one pimp who gave Diane the eye, and a dance place where Diane wondered if she couldn't put some of those dancing lessons she had had to some profitable use:

    Later on that evening, we stopped at Treasure Island to see the Pirates again.  My cousin Joe, the now famous gopher killer, told us they were going to discontinue the pirate show, so we wanted to enjoy it one more time.

     We had a big lunch at the Harvest Buffet--only 4.98 for Senior Citizens--Freddy had to pay full price, though--and I ate everything I could squeeze in--except chopped meat, our main diet.

    We left Las Vegas after lunch and headed north into Utah.  We spent the night about 200 miles south of Salt Lake City in a beautiful spot, surrounded by mountains, just like the mountain campgrounds Diane loved so much, except this was a WalMart parking lot.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN