Roads From the Ashes. Megan Edwards
to visit our factory and talk to the designers.”
We set a time to meet at the Revcon factory in Irvine, and stepped back outside the Trailblazer.
“It’s huge,” I said.
“I guess we need to know how much it costs,” said Mark.
“$75,000,” said Corey.
We thanked her and walked back toward the gate. $75,000 was three times more than we’d thought about spending. The guy with the Jamboree had been right on target when he’d sized us up.
“We’ll go see the factory, and then we can decide,” said Mark, but it was too late. We both knew it. We’d finished shopping, even though we’d hardly begun. We’d picked our wheels, and now we had a new challenge: figuring out how to pay for them when our income was about to drop by 90%.
Lunch with the Suits
Money. We’re all brought up to plan our lives around how much we have, how much we expect to have, and how afraid we are of not having enough. I’d always lived well within my means. I had a couple of credit cards, but I always paid them off every month. I’d used them as an easy way of buying stuff, a way to avoid writing checks or carrying cash. The only big debt I’d ever incurred was a house loan.
The fire burned up my good habits along with my stuff. When I saw how easily the things I’d always considered permanent metamorphosed into smoke and ash, it shook all my assumptions. I’d always known anything could happen, but now I’d experienced it. There’s a difference.
Two days after the fire, I put on my one remaining business outfit, the one that had escaped destruction by being at the dry cleaners. I went to work, accomplished nothing, and then decided to have lunch at the University Club.
The University Club is a former old boys’ bastion I had joined a couple of years before. It was a good place for quiet lunches with business associates, and a growing number of female members was lightening its heavily masculine atmosphere. Even so, when I walked in the door, the round members’ table in the center of the room was occupied by a phalanx of men. Every one of them had twenty years on me.
The week before, I would have looked for another table. I would have eaten alone rather than sit surrounded by suits. They’d always intimidated me. Today, as I stood in the doorway, I found myself looking at them and asking, “What have I got to lose?” It almost made me laugh out loud when I realized I’d never been so entitled to answer, “Nothing!” I walked right over to the table full of men and sat down. They looked surprised, but they all murmured hello.
They went back to talking about the fire, which was the only topic of conversation all over Pasadena. None of them had been affected, and they were wondering what was going on up in the hills. “It’s still burning,” I said. “My house went two days ago.” The conversation stopped. The whole table looked at me blankly. I was their first concrete example of burnout, and it silenced them. “It was all gone in a couple of hours,” I said. “Just about the only things that survived were the cars we left in.” They didn’t know what to say. They were all busy imagining what they’d be doing if their houses had burned down less than 48 hours before. They were having a tough time.
“I came here for lunch,” I said, “Because I couldn’t go home.” I laughed, and they stared at me again. That’s when it hit me. They were scared. They thought that losing all their stuff was the worst thing that could happen to them. They’d spent a lifetime piling it up and guarding it. They couldn’t imagine what it was like to have it all snatched away, just like that, poof!
And then another thought struck me. They were supposed to be the powerful ones, the ones who intimidated the likes of me. But now they looked like slaves to the pursuit of security. I felt free. I smiled sweetly at them as they remained speechless. I think I spoiled their lunch.
Somehow, the fire had singed my soul. It ignited a thousand cliches with new meaning. If not now, when? Life’s not a dress rehearsal. Be here, now. Follow your dreams. Climb every mountain. What are you waiting for? What have you got to lose? Just do it!
They were all shouting at me as we drove away from Traveland wondering how in the world we could buy a $75,000 truck. “Just do it!” drowned all rational doubts, and the next morning, we drove to Irvine to take a look at the Revcon factory.
Bastard Hunting
Revcon was housed in an industrial park, one of the thousands that have taken root in Orange County where citrus groves used to thrive. Anonymous on the exterior, they can surprise you with wonders on the inside. I once went into one that was a sculptor’s studio, and another that was full of trombones, tubas, and a fascinating fellow who repaired them. Outside, they’re urban sprawl. Inside, they’re secret entrepreneurial kingdoms.
Revcon’s operation qualified as an industrial park wonder. Inside a large garage-like space were parked three Trailblazers in various states of completion. While our eyes were adjusting to the light, a walrus of a man lumbered over to greet us. Trotting along next to him was a little terrier of a sidekick.
“Welcome to Revcon,” said the big one. “I’m Bob.” We introduced ourselves. “And this is Wes,” he said, elbowing his companion. “Wes does a lot of our design work.” Wes smiled nervously, and we followed both of them inside the factory.
It smelled like glue, and the rat-tat-tat of power hammers and staple guns echoed. “I’ll show you the assembly line first,” said Bob. He had Mark by the elbow. Wes flanked him. I walked behind. He steered Mark toward the chassis of a one-ton Ford pick-up truck. “This is what we start with,” he said. “And actually, we have to buy the whole truck and strip it down. Ford won’t sell us just the chassis. Anyway, we stretch the frame, and then we build the coach.”
We walked by the three Trailblazers that had progressed to the point of having bodies, and we went inside the last one. Two workmen were installing light fixtures. Bob was still talking, and Wes was still laughing nervously, but I’d stopped listening. I was moving in, if only mentally.
Then I heard Bob say, “They use them to hunt bastards,” and I was again all ears. “Yeah, Saudi Arabian princes buy these things and take them out into the desert to pursue their favorite pastime, bastard hunting.” He was loving our stunned looks, and he paused dramatically. “Bastards are these big birds they like to shoot.” Oh. Bustards. I didn’t bother telling him he had his vowel wrong. Without his malapropism, Bob would have been no fun at all.
By the time Bob escorted Mark into the front office and allowed me to edge in, too, before closing the door, I had formed some opinions. The first was that for Bob, cornering a potential customer in his office was as unusual as catching a leprechaun in a rat trap. The second was that Revcon was more than it appeared to be. Beyond the factory floor was a warren of offices full of boxes, telephones, mismatched furniture, and a dozen or so aimless young men wearing ties. People were either moving in, moving out, or incredibly disorganized. It was a mystery, along with the fact that Bob’s office appeared to belong to someone else, someone with a German name.
In any event, Trailblazers were definitely being built, and Bob was bursting to sell us one. The price was $75,000, just as Corey the saleswoman had said. There was no negotiation. That was the price. We could follow our truck from chassis to completion. In fact, the chassis we’d just seen would be ours. And yes, they’d work with us to create an office in the back in place of a bedroom, and they’d wire in any equipment we wanted, like a CB radio, a cellular telephone, whatever. So do you want it? Please sign here. By the time we were done, I felt as though Bob had been sitting on me for three hours.
In the end, we signed, because, as I’ve said before, our good sense had been burned up in the fire. We walked back out to the factory to look at our chassis, which was supposed to become Coach Number 115 within six weeks. We didn’t know it then, but it was a lucky thing for us that it took more like twelve. The extra time came in handy for scraping together $75,000.
Beyond the Cutting Edge
Perhaps at this point I should explain why we were more interested in offices