Coming to Colorado: A Young Immigrantâ??s Journey to Become an American Flyer

CHAPTER 14. On a Colorado Morning

On a Colorado Morning CHAPTER 14 { 169 } ON A COLORADO MORNING Army reserve training at Fort Carson ended the first week in July. I had to find a job fast, but I couldn’t find one in Denver that paid a decent wage. I had met Al Johnson at the university clinic in Boulder. He was tall and lanky, blond and blue eyed, his Norwegian heritage unmistakable. Al’s smile was something that any hospital patient would want to wake up to from a near-death encounter. His mission in life was to help others. He helped me. I had contracted a bad case of athlete’s foot and gone to the clinic for help. There I was given a purple tincture to put into a basin of hot water, and told to soak my feet three times a day—for hours. On the way out Al took me aside and said, “That stuff won’t work, but it’ll give you pretty purple feet, if that’s what you want?” and he laughed. “Go get yourself some of this salve at the drugstore.” He handed me a slip of paper. “It’ll fix your problem in three days.” It did. It was Al I turned to when I ran out of job options. I found his number in the phonebook, but didn’t really expect to find him in Boulder. He had probably headed home for the summer by now like most everyone else. But when I called his number, he answered. We talked, and I told him about my predicament. “I have to find a job fast, Al. You have any ideas? I’ll do nearly anything as long as it pays a good wage.” “Why don’t you come to California with me?” Al suggested. “We could drive a car to Los Angeles. It’s the cheapest way. All we have to do is pay for the gas.” “Whose car would we be driving to California?” “It’s quite simple, Wolfgang,” Al replied. “A used clunker. Used cars bring more money in California than in Colorado. There are outfits constantly looking for people to drive their cars from here to there. You can stay with my folks and look for a job. The chances of finding something that pays well are a lot better in California than in this prairie dog colony of Denver.” “Prairie dog colony?” I protested. “I happen to like this place! Watch what you’re saying. I think Colorado is the greatest place on earth.” “So do I, Wolfgang. Listen. I said Denver, not Colorado. There is a difference. Anyway, to get back to what we were talking about—a job for you which pays real money. There are a number of aircraft factories not { 170 } ON A COLORADO MORNING far from where I live. They are always hiring.” Al’s proposal made sense, and besides, I always wanted to see California. Al found a used-car dealer who wanted a 1951 Chevrolet driven to Sacramento. “You pay for the gas,” the dealer said. At Al’s insistence, he agreed, in writing, that he would reimburse us for any oil we might use. “Save your receipts. No receipt, no reimbursement,” the dealer emphasized as we jumped into the unpretentious, gray two-door sedan. Two days later, Al and I were heading west on U.S. 40, across Berthoud Pass, Rabbit Ears Pass, through the little cowboy town of Steamboat Springs, and on to Salt Lake City. It stayed light late in July, and heading west we gained time as well, so we just kept on driving across the Great Salt Lake and into what I thought of as real cowboy country. The road turned as straight as an arrow out to the far horizon. Then it vanished from view, only to reemerge as a seemingly endless ribbon of asphalt as we topped the next ridge. Ridge-line followed ridge-line, barren landscape in between. The only signs of civilization along our route were equally straight Union Pacific railroad tracks and telephone wires strung for hundreds of miles alongside the tracks. I found it mesmerizing to spy a black snake in the far distance slowly moving toward us, then turning into an enormously long train of over one hundred freight cars pulled by four diesel locomotives. As we passed one another going in opposite directions, I listened for the sound...