Monthly Archives: October 2023

Snakes on the Bus

The Greyhound bus drove slowly and safely down Interstate 17, staying in the right lane, in no hurry to make it back to Mesa. Most of its passengers were in no hurry. They were returning from a weekend getaway at the Twin Arrows Navajo Casino and Resort, outside of Winona. Horace and Grant were two of those riders.

A handful of passengers weren’t coming from the casino. Several younger riders were making their way south from the Grand Canyon, returning from a weekend of hiking. An Airman, on leave from Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, was going home to see his girlfriend in Tucson. Near the middle of the bus, an elderly couple, Shirley and William, were going to their winter home in Mesa.

Shirley couldn’t fly. At least, that is what one of her many doctors told her. Because of anxiety and heart palpitations, Shirley was grounded, and couldn’t fly from their home in Springfield, Missouri to Mesa, where they’d spent the past twenty-two winters. William’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, and his driving scared the living daylights out of Shirley, which only made her more anxious and made her heart skip beats. For the past two years, they boarded a Greyhound Bus in Springfield, and rode for forty-five hours, across the farms of Missouri, the wheat fields of Kansas, through the plains of Eastern Colorado, over the Rocky Mountains into New Mexico, and across the desert into Arizona.

Shirley and William sat on the left side of the bus, in row thirteen. William had the window seat and Shirley sat in the aisle. Across from them sat Horace and Grant, who were in a heavy conversation about their weekend’s exploits.

“I still can’t believe I won at the blackjack table.” Grant beamed.

“Well, you really didn’t.” Horace said, trying to bring Grant back to earth.

“You saw it. I walked away from the table with over two-thousand bucks!”

“And how much did you put down at the start?” Horace asked Grant.

“Fifteen-hundred dollars, which means I won five-hundred.”

“And how much did you lose on the slots?”

“I think about seven-hundred.” Grant replied. His smile was slowly slipping away.

“Last question. How much of your winnings are you bringing home to Gloria?”

“That’s beside the point. The point is, I won big at blackjack.”

During their conversation, Horace kept an eye on Shirley. She looked somewhat pale and fidgeted quite a bit. At one point, she reached toward her heart, and small beads of sweat appeared on her brow.

“Excuse me ma’am. Are you okay?” Horace asked from across the row.

“Thanks for asking, son. I’m just a little anxious. It’s somewhat stuffy in here. Maybe I’ll take my heart pill. You know, my doctor says I should take my pills when I get too hot or if I feel too shaky.”

Shirley reached under the seat in front of her and grabbed her large, overstuffed bag. She began digging through the bag, searching for her heart pills. “You know, I’ve got so many medicines in here. It seems that every time I see a commercial that tells me to ask my doctor about a drug, I ask, and he gives them to me.”

Horace smiled as Shirley dug through her bag. Just then, she screamed and turned white as a die on a craps table. She dropped her bag and shouted “Snake!”

William, who up until then had been in a sound sleep, stirred. Horace rose to see what the matter was. Grant looked up and said, “I don’t see a snake. You sure there’s a snake?”

It’s in my bag. A rattlesnake. Listen.” she screamed.

Sure enough, a rattling sound emitted from the bottom of her bag. Rattle-rattle-rattlllleeeee . . . .

Shirley looked close to death. “Don’t let it bite me.” she yelled. “My doctor says one bite from a poisonous snake, and I’m good as gone.”

Horace jumped into action. He noticed William’s cane, reached across Shirley, and grabbed it. Carefully, he used the handle to slide the bag out from under the seat.

Rattle-rattle-rattlllleeeee . . . .

“Stop the bus!” he yelled to the driver. “Coming through with a snake.”

The driver pulled over on the side of the interstate. Holding the bag as far away from him as possible using the cane, Horace walked to the front of the bus, and then exited onto the shoulder of the road. He placed the bag on the ground, stood behind the bag, and gave it a nudge with the cane. Nothing happened.

From inside the bus, Horace could hear Shirley yelling. “I need my pills. I think I’m dying.”

Horace smacked the bag harder with the cane. Still, no snake emerged from the bag. Shirley kept yelling, louder and louder. Horace knew he had to get those pills. He gathered his courage as he slowly approached the bag. He reached down and grabbed the bottom of the bag. With the cane clutched in his left hand, ready to clobber the snake if necessary, he yanked the bag toward him, spilling its contents on the dirt.

A plethora of items rolled out of the bag; an old shawl, the latest edition of Reader’s Digest Condensed Stories, several bottles of pills, a can of Shur-Hold hairspray, and a ball of knitting yarn with needles. The last thing to fall out of the bag was what caused the commotion. Horace saw the biggest, scariest-looking battery-powered toothbrush he’d ever seen. Somehow, it had been activated, making a constant rattling sound.

Rattle-rattle-rattlllleeeee . . . .

Horace was relieved. He dropped the cane and rummaged through the pill bottles, looking for anything that displayed the word ‘heart’ in the instructions. He found a bottle of Warfarin, grabbed it, rushed back onto the bus, and handed the pills to William, who popped a couple of pills into Shirley’s open mouth and gave her a swig of water. Shirley instantly began to look better.

“Did you get the snake?” she asked.

“It wasn’t a snake. Just your electric toothbrush.” Horace exclaimed.

Everyone on the bus settled down. Horace exited the bus again to gather Shirley’s belongings. He placed the shawl, book, pills, can of hairspray, and knitting items back into the bag, got back onto the bus, and returned the bag to Shirley and the cane to William.

“You’re my hero.” Shirley said to Horace.

William thanked Horace for his deeds, and then slowly nodded off. Horace returned to his seat and continued his previous conversation with Grant.

Calm soon presided over the bus. That is, until Shirley grabbed her bag, wanting to read a Reader’s Digest Condensed Story. A new sound emerged from the bottom of her bag. She assumed a Gila monster had crawled into her bag while it sat unattended by the side of the road. She yelled, “Gila Monster!”, and then instantly passed out.

From out of her bag, came a hideous hissing sound.

Hiiiisssssssssssssssss . . . .

Lonely and Lost

The drive was lovely. The day was not. I was wandering through central Illinois, driving from Hannibal, Missouri to Davenport, Iowa. The early morning sun turned into a stifling hot day before I hit Monmouth, home to Wyatt Earp and Monmouth College. The car I rented from the airport in St. Louis was a new Ford Mustang Convertible that made driving in the heat fun but at the same time, well, hot. The late morning temperatures were already in the high nineties. Sweat rolled down my brow and if I’d been wearing a shirt, it would have shown dark circles under my arms.

I needed something to cool me. I looked for dark storm clouds in the distance. None appeared on the hot August day. I thought about putting the top up, closing the windows, and turning the air conditioner on, but I selected the convertible so I could drive with the wind in my face. Instead, I kept driving north toward Viola and the Quad Cities with the top down.

By the time I entered Viola, the thermometer registered a sweltering 105 degrees Fahrenheit. I needed relief and I needed it soon. I slowly drove past the Viola United Methodist Church, the US Post Office, and the Viola Home Telephone Company. It wasn’t until I hit the north end of Highway 67 that I spotted a place that offered what I needed. Just past St. John’s Cemetery and Skunk Creek, I saw a welcoming sign. Vern’s Tavern sat on the east side of the road. A few trucks occupied the dirt parking lot. A flashing sign that read “Ice Cold Beer. Three Dollars.” illuminated from the small window of the wooden door leading into Vern’s.

I slowly pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car. I put the top up, donned a dry shirt, and slid into my flip-flops that were lying on the floor of the passenger seat. In the few seconds that I sat in the car with the top up and the windows closed, the temperature felt like it rose ten degrees. I grabbed my wallet, climbed out of the furnace, and headed for the door.

A blast of cool air surrounded me when I walked through the entrance. My demeanor rose a notch as I strode to the bar. It wasn’t until I sat down that I noticed the eyes that noticed me. Besides the bartender, a lanky kid, probably in his mid-twenties, I saw three middle-aged men at the bar. No one said a word when I sat. They all starred my way, probably wondering what I was doing in Viola, Illinois on such a hot day.

Benny, the bartender, who happened to be Vern’s grandson, asked what I wanted.

“I need a cold beer. The colder, the better. You got Stag on tap?”

“Yep.” was his one-word reply.

“I’ll have one to cool me off, and maybe one more to get me up the road.”

I sat at the bar quietly, anticipating the cold draft that was coming my way. I glanced up toward the three locals sitting across the bar from me. They were all quiet too. They sat there and gawked my way. My beer arrived. I looked up at the trio, raised my mug their way, and took a long swig. Still, no emotion from my on-lookers.

I was half way through my first beer when one of the locals finally spoke. He, like the other two, was dressed almost identical to his friends. They wore faded blue coveralls, sweat-stained tee shirts, and John Deere ball caps. Dirt covered all three, most likely the same dirt that provided them with their livelihoods. They all sported old, cracked Redwing boots, which were also covered with dirt.

“You lost?” he asked.

When he spoke, I noticed that he was missing a few teeth. I noticed also that he was missing a finger or two, a sure sign that he was either a farmer or a butcher. His clothes and John Deere hat told me it was the former.

I got the feeling I wasn’t particularly welcome in Vern’s in Viola, Illinois on that how summer day. I took another long sip of beer, emptying the mug, smiled his way, and replied, “I was lonely and lost, but not anymore.”

The three weathered farmers looked at each other, shaking their heads and smirking under their breath. I heard one of the men ask John, the man who spoke first, if I was for real.

John spoke again. “Lonely for who? Someone from around these parts?”

Benny came my way and placed a second beer in front of me. He quickly retreated, probably wondering if a fight was in the works.

I took a sip of my new beer and looked John’s way. “Not who, but what. You see, I’ve been driving half way across your beautiful state, enjoying the quiet roads and endless miles of corn and soybean fields. It sure is lovely here. But the temperature kept rising, and I found myself lonely for the only thing that can truly cool a person off. Stag Beer. Ice-cold Stag Beer. Just then, in the middle of what you all I’m sure refer to as paradise, I found Vern’s. I’m not lost anymore, and these two mugs of beer relieved my loneliness.”

John was at a loss for words. He picked up his glass, tipped it my way, and said, “Well, thanks. You have a nice day, son.”

“I’ll do just that” I replied.

The tavern was quiet again. I finished by beer and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar, stood up, and headed for the door. I turned and asked John, “’Bout how far is Davenport from here?”

“’Bout half an hour up 67. That where you’re heading?” he asked.

“Yep.” was my one-word response.

“In that case, you ain’t lost no more.”

They Said That

Horace and Grant were on their way to Suds. It was Wednesday evening and they always spent Wednesdays at Suds, drinking a few beers and discussing the world. While driving to the tavern, they came upon road construction. A construction worker with a flag closed their lane for about ten minutes. Horace put his car in park and shut it off. Grant commented on his action.

“They say that you should keep your car running. They say it’s hard on the starter to stop and start the car a lot.”

“Who said that?” Horace asked. “It sure wastes a lot of gas sitting here idling.”

“They did. People who know how new cars work.” was his answer.

About fifteen minutes later, as they pulled up to Suds, Grant commented on the weather. “Good thing you didn’t wash your car. They say it’s going to rain.”

Again, Horace asked, “Who are they?”

“You know. Weather people. Meteorologists. They’re always right.”

“Maybe about meteors crashing into the earth and wiping out life as we know it, but they’re not always right about the weather. Beside, do you really know who they are?”

“Stop being difficult.” Grant replied. “Every time I look on my weather app, it says what the weather is, and it’s always right. They obviously know what they’re talking about.”

Horace replied to Grant’s hypothesis. “Well, you sure know a lot of people. A lot of very intelligent people who seem to know everything about everything. You always refer to this vast group of acquaintances when talking with me, just so you can tell me what they think.”

Grant pondered Horace’s remark for a second. Horace continued. “Sit up straight. They say it’s better for your back. You should take Ibuprofen rather than Acetaminophen. They say it easier on your stomach. You shouldn’t buy produce on Mondays. They say it’s been sitting on the shelves, rotting, all weekend.”

“So what’s wrong with that?” Grant asked. “So I read a lot of good advice. Ain’t hurting no one.”

“I don’t know those people. I don’t even think they exist, but you say they’re everywhere. I guess they all work for some large corporation somewhere. It’s probably called They, Inc. It’s made up of highly trained, and in-the-know individuals who spend their days telling the rest of the world what to do, how to act, when to do things, why things happen as they do, and who said so, which is usually themselves.

The conversation fizzled out when they entered Suds and found a table by the pool table. Jackie, the waitress, approached them with two beers. She knew Horace and Grant well and knew that they were good for two light beers per night. She placed the two beers on the table and asked, “You two really like the taste of these light beers?”

Grant spoke first. “Not really. I mean, they’re not bad, but they have less calories. They say men of our age need to count calories.”

“There you go again.” Horace said. “I often wonder, though, are these people, those I don’t know and have never seen, always right? Just because they say something, does that make it right?”

Jackie looked up with a quizzical look on her face. Horace continued. “I have another question for you, Grant. How many of them does it take to form a consensus on a topic? Do fifty meteorologists need to agree on rain before it actually starts raining, or is it more like four to five? What if three of them say one thing and three others say another? Which ‘they’ is correct? Perhaps they take a vote. The majority becomes ‘they’, while the minority becomes ‘some other guys, but they don’t know what they’re talking about’.”

 “You seem to be a know-it-all on the subject.” Grant quipped.

“Well, as a matter of fact, last week I read an article in the newspaper about neopronouns. New pronouns that are used instead of the traditional he, she, and it. The article stated that ‘they’ is now commonly used as a singular pronoun. If this is true, they could be just one person. Everything that you tell me could just be the flawed opinion of one person who doesn’t know that they are talking about.”

“Are we done yet?” Grant asked. “Can we drink our beer in peace?”

“Sure.” Horace said. “But the next time you say, ‘You don’t need to use the parking brake when parking on a hill. They say new car brakes are okay.’ I’ll reply, ‘Well, Grant, this they, meaning me, says otherwise, and they have been doing this since they can remember. So they’re!’”