Overstimulated

I'm coming north today at milepost 303 and I look up at the road just before mp 305.  A big white 18 wheeler seemed to be parked in the ash pullout.  

The White Spars 

Sure enough, it's a big honkin' 18 wheeler. Stopped on the pullout.  

I concluded that the driver `clicked to' the fact that the snaking switchbacks below and ahead would be a might too dicey.  I pulled across the road to the driver's side and yelled up "You need some help turning around?"

The driver looks at me quizzically, scowls a little, opens the door and climbs down.  Silence.  Says nothing.  

I say to him: "You don't want to continue on south because the switchbacks are too tight, you'll take out guardrails, damage your trailer, maybe even go off the cliff.  Not to mention that it's illegal."  

He bobbles his head, frowns and looks down the road, then at me, then up the road.  Then again at me.  

O.K..  He doesn't speak English.  

So I gesture at the road ahead and drag an imaginary knife across my throat.  Like all those Italian guys who used to beat me up in fourth grade.  

Nothin'.  Now he thinks maybe I'm gonna kill him?!

At that time I'm thinking, `he's got dark features, maybe he's Mexican.'  So I garble "Tu tiene ayudar a volver?"  (Trying not to screw it up and mistakenly order eggs and bacon from a Mexican menu).

Nothing.  More bobbling and frowning.  

O.K.  A little ... uh ... German.  

Nada. 

Finally, I'm reaching back to my Latin days.  But then I'm fearful that he'll think I'm damning or blessing him.  Or, even say something about underwear (Brother Hugh ... I get it.  I get it.).  

Then he starts talking.  And talking.  Nonstop.  Arms flailing, head spinning, eye's wide and wild.  

Hindi.  

Hindi?!!  

I don't know ANY friggin' Hindi.  

---

In a few minutes I'm standing on the double yellow line prepared to stop traffic while he turns his rig around.  He straightens out on the northbound lane and heads off, me giving him a thumbs up and hoping this gesture doesn't mean anything obscene about his mother.  

A mile north, milepost 306, he's pulled over by the AZ Highway Patrol.  I pass but then turn around, imagining what the police officer must be going through.  As I pull up to them both the driver smiles, points at me.  More bobbling.  

I explain events and the patrolman nods and tells him (shouts at him, like that will make him understand English better) he won't be issuing him a ticket because of what I say.  The driver smiles.  The patrolman shakes my hand and gestures to the driver to shake my hand.  The driver holds out his hand, confused.  It feels like vegetables gone bad as I shake it. 

I'm off.  

Way too much stimulation.  

Way too much.  

Waaaaayyyy too much.