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 . . . .

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!’”

It was too darned cold outside for a Monday morning in April in Arizona. The mercury in the thermostat hovered around fifty-one degrees. The sun barely shone through the thick haze and the winds topped out at over forty miles per hour. It was definitely a blustery day, and Horace was glad he was indoors, drinking hot coffee.

Horace and Grant enjoyed their early morning breakfast at Frenchie’s Diner as best they could. They would rather be outside playing Pickleball or badminton, but at least they weren’t out with Henrietta and Gloria shopping. The two men found no enjoyment in walking around and waiting in stores while their wives tried on clothes, compared prices of new curtains, or talked about the many drugs they see on late-night television, knowing that they shouldn’t get any, but the commercials mention how the drugs can make life better, except for the many side-effects, like uncontrollable sneezing and flatulence, and how they should ask their doctors if the drugs are right for them. Shopping was too much of a chore for Horace and Grant, so they whiled the morning away in Frenchie’s, enjoying breakfast and coffee and talking about more pressing news of the day.

Horace glanced out the window just as a large cardboard box blew by at a rate of speed that made him think of Chuck Yeager’s first supersonic flight. He commented on the strong winds and the latest haboob that knocked over a few golf carts in the park while adding several shakes of Tabasco Sauce to his Denver omelet. Grant couldn’t help but notice all of the hot sauce Horace doused upon his eggs.

“You know, that could kill you.” Grant said.

“What?”

Grant continued. “The hot sauce. That’s what. You know it’s full of all kinds of unhealthy things, like salt and vinegar, and that’s not to mention all the preservatives and additives.”

Horace took a big bite of his omelet and agreed. “You’re right. It could kill me.”

Grant smiled and said he was just looking out for his best friend. Horace added. “If someone threw a bottle of Tabasco Sauce out of a passing plane that was flying at thirty-two thousand feet, and the bottle hit me on the noggin at nine-point-eight meters per second squared, yes, I guess it could kill me. But since we’re sitting indoors under a roof and not under any known flight paths, I’m not too scared about death by condiment.”

“So you don’t worry about dying?” Grant asked.

“Not usually, and not when I’m eating breakfast. So let me eat in peace.”

Grant pondered the situation for a minute and then added, “Me neither. I’m not scared of dying and I don’t really care. Just like the song by Blood, Sweat, and Fears.”

“Tears.” Horace commented.

“Only when I get Tabasco Sauce in my eyes.”

Horace corrected Grant. “It’s Blood, Sweat, and Tears.”

“That’s what I said. Anyway, don’t you ever fear death?” Grant inquired.

Now Horace thought for a minute or two. He replied, “I don’t really fear much. Too old for that. I mean, we’re all going to die, and I’ve lived a good, long life, so no, I don’t fear death.”

“You don’t have any fear of dying”? Grant asked again.

Now Horace became philosophical. “Fear of dying and fear of death are two different things. I’ll give you an example. If I’m pedaling down a bike path and some numbskull in a souped up, louder than a B-17 bomber, 1979 Firebird, otherwise known as a disco-sled, drives down the bike path toward me, doing eighty-nine miles per hour, of course I’ll be scared of the physical act of dying. I’d try to swerve out of the way, maybe pee my pants, and probably cuss, and yes, I’d be scared of becoming a two-hundred pound sailing soufflé as I fly over the hood of the car, but I’m not going to spend my life fearing the inevitable.”

Grant tried to contemplate what Horace said as he took a few sips of coffee. He then asked, “What about afterwards? You know; Heaven and Hell.”

“I’ve experienced both already. Heaven was the day I saw Henrietta working the lunch counter at the local Woolworths, and Hell was the day I shipped out to war. That’s good enough for me.” Horace said.

Grant agreed with Horace. He too had spent time in Vietnam, and he too had met Gloria, the love of his life.

As they worked on their breakfasts, Horace asked Grant, “What about you? What do you fear the most?”

Grant took a bite of his French toast, washed it down with a swig of coffee, and replied, “That depends on where I happen to be. When I lived in Detroit, my three biggest fears were running out of gas south of Eight Mile, driving into a pothole on I-94 and never getting out, and accidentally drinking water from Flint. When I moved to Colorado, my biggest fears were getting stuck in ski traffic of 1-70 without enough food or water to survive on for a couple of days, and getting run into by a kid in a brewery and spilling my beer.”

“What are you scared of here in Arizona?” Horace asked.

“When we moved here, I thought I’d be afraid of Gila monsters,rattlesnakes, and scorpions the size of Cuban cigars that crawl into my shoes when I’m dumb enough to leave them outside overnight. But I’ve never seen any of those. There’s only one thing here that really puts the fear of Jesus in me.”

“And what would that be?”

“Walking in a supermarket parking lot on Senior Day.”

“Amen to that.” Horace added.

They sat in silence for another couple of minutes. Just as they were finishing their meals, Alma, the waitress walked up to their table.

“Would you like anything else?” she asked.

Horace replied, “I think I left a little room for one of your hot, gooey cinnamon rolls.”

Alma shook her head and said, “Sorry. We just ran out.”

Horace looked up and grumbled, “I was afraid of that.”

It was a slow night at Suds. Partly this was due to the time of the year. Many of the snowbirds who came for the sunny weather were heading back to the northlands. The fact that the cable was on the fritz didn’t help. Many of the regulars who came to watch Wednesday Night Wrestling found other bars to watch the made-up mayhem that some call sport. Only seven patrons occupied the bar. Three semi-drunk local lawyers sat at the bar and discussed litigation, frustration, damnation, and titillation, all while downing draft beer. Two middle-aged women sat at a table near the front. Several large bags sat at the foot of their table, suggesting they’d been on a shopping spree. The only other people in the bar, besides Nick the bartender, were Horace and Grant, who sat at a table in the back.

Horace and Grant could usually be found at Suds on Wednesday evenings. They came to discuss the world as they knew it, while their wives, Henrietta, Horace’s wife, and Gloria, Grant’s wife, shopped, and had their hair done and nails manicured. Horace and Grant started with their first beer, and talked about the news of the day. Since they were only allowed two beers – doctor’s orders and their wives insistence – they sipped slowly, enjoying the quiet.

“Last night sure was a cluster . . . “, Grant told Horace.

“How’s that? What did you get into now?” Horace asked.

Grant told Horace about the John Denver tribute concert in their community the previous night, including the after-concert party Grant and Gloria worked. What started as a volunteer and fundraising opportunity for the basket-weaving club evolved into a Keystone Cops fiasco.

“Gloria got me involved with this after-concert dessert party. What a cluster . . . .”

“I heard you the first time, Grant. No need for cussing.”

Grant looked at Horace and replied. “If you’d have been there, you’d be cussing too. And laughing. The night was almost too bizarre to happen, but it did.”

“If you were involved, I believe it.”

Grant filled Horace in on the details.

“It went like this.”

Gloria volunteered to help serve cake and coffee after the concert Tuesday night. Of course, she volunteered me too. Dottie, the President of the basket-weaving club was in charge. Two other people were supposed to help.

We arrived at the community kitchen at 6:30, just like the e-mail from Dottie said. No one was there. We went home. Dottie called, wondering where we were. We went back to the kitchen. Dottie was there, but no one else.

Dottie took control. “First, let’s get the cake out and cut it into slices. Then we can put them on plates and back into the refrigerator until the concert is over.”

Gloria and I donned plastic gloves and headed toward the fridge. It was locked.

“Dottie.” I yelled. “I need the key.”

“The key for what?” she asked.

“The refrigerator. It’s locked.” I responded.

Dottie walked over and tried the handle on the large silver door. It was indeed locked. She walked around to the side and peered into the glass doors. You know, like the ones at the package store where the cold beer is loaded.

“WTF!” she squawked. “I don’t have the key. I’ll call security.”

A security guard arrived ten minutes later, just about the same time the other couple, Jim and Nancy came. We’d never met the security guard before. It turns out it was her first night.

“I’m new here, but maybe I can help. What’s the problem?” Catherine, the guard asked.

“We need the cake in the refrigerator, but the door is locked.” Dottie replied.

Catherine grabbed here key ring. There must have been thirty or more keys on it. She tried them all. None worked.

Dottie was starting to panic. She looked at Jim and asked, “Didn’t I send you the instructions on what to do tonight?”

Jim, an older man, with a thought-provoking look on his face replied, “Yep. I think so.”

“So what do we do now?” Dottie asked.

“Jim paused for a few seconds and replied, “Hmmmm . . . I don’t remember.”

Catherine chimed in. “Maybe I’ll call Stan, the other security guard. He’s been around awhile and knows the park better than me.”

Catherine called Stan. We all stood around for a few minutes, taking in our predicament. Dottie finally spoke. “Well, I’m not waiting around for security. I gotta get that cake.”

She opened one of the sliding glass doors, peered at the cake inside, and exclaimed, “I’ll climb through here. I think I can unlock the door from the inside.”

Before Catherine or anyone else could stop her, Dottie slid open the door, moved a few buckets of food to the side, and, headfirst, squeezed through the door. She would have made it safely too if her high-heel hadn’t of caught on the shelf. I heard a scream, and peered through the glass just in time to see Dottie hit the floor, kind of sideways, holding her right ankle. She screamed again, when a cream pie that was on a higher shelf tumbled off and hit her square in the face.

Just as Dottie was wiping pie off her face while cussing up a storm, Stan entered the kitchen. He saw and heard Dottie in the refrigerator and starting cussing up a storm of his own.

“What the Hell are you doing in there? And who let you go in there in the first place?”

Stan turned and looked at Catherine, who was trying to hide behind Jim and me.

“It happened so fast”, Catherine said. “I tried to stop her, but in she went before I could do anything.”

In the meantime, Dottie’s cussing turned to groans of agony. “I think I broke my ankle.” she exclaimed.

“Dammit! Stan yelled while he surveyed the situation. He instructed Catherine to call 9-1-1 as he moved over to the open sliding door. “Someone’s got to help her.” he said as he started his descent into the fridge.

Now Stan is no small guy. He’s at least six, two, and tips the scale around three hundred pounds. But in he went. Part ways at least. He got stuck halfway through the door. He was wedged in there like walrus jumping through a hula-hoop. He immediately started cussing again.

At that moment, Jim piped in, partially drowning out Stan’s tirade. “I think I remember where the key is. It’s in the bag of money.”

“What bag of money?” I asked. Now that Dottie and Stan were otherwise occupied, I figured I’d take charge.

“The bag of money we use for change when people want cake.” Jim answered.

“Good thinking, Jim. Do you know where the bag is?”

Jim thought again and replied, “Yep. Doris has it.”

“Who’s Doris”, I inquired.

“The vice-president. She has the money, and I’m sure the key is with it.”

“Well then, let’s call her and get her down here.” I said.

“Won’t work.” Jim replied. “I’m sure she has her phone off.”

“Why do you think that?” I asked Jim.

“Cause she’s in the concert.”

Over the moaning and cussing coming from the fridge, I decided that enough was enough. “I’m going to get the key.” I stated as I headed for the stairs leading to the concert hall on the second floor. I opened the door while the John Denver wannabe was singing about mountains and getting high, or something like that.

Interrupting John, I yelled, “Doris. We need you. Follow me and bring the money.”

Doris stood up, looking a bit embarrassed. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“We have an emergency in the kitchen. Follow me.” I looked up and added, “Is there a doctor in the house?” We have an injury that needs attention.”

“I’m a doctor.” came a voce from the stage. John Denver put down his guitar and jumped off the stage.

Doris, John, and I made it to the kitchen just as the EMT truck arrived. I got the key from the moneybag and unlocked the refrigerator door. The EMTs went inside. One tended to Dottie with John while the other EMT, with help from Catherine, Jim and me, unwedged Stan from the shelf. Stan wasn’t hurt. He was just pissed. Dottie was loaded onto a stretcher. Stan walked out of the fridge on his own. Catherine, Jim and I followed, just in time to see a throng of people standing outside of the kitchen.

“What do they want?” I asked.

Doris answered. “I guess the concert is over. They want cake.”

Gloria, who had been quiet the whole time, finally spoke. “I guess I’ll start cutting the cake.”

“I have money for change.” Doris added.

The concert moved downstairs. Someone brought John’s guitar to the kitchen. Gloria and Doris handed out cake while John sang about country roads and feather beds, or something like that. We found out later that Dottie only had an ankle sprain. Stan left with Catherine, cussing her out the whole time. That’s the end of the story.

Horace looked at Grant and asked. “Did that all really happen? I know how you like to exaggerate stories.”

“It’s all true. If you don’t believe me, ask Gloria or Stan. Or even Dottie or Doris. Just don’t ask Catherine or Jim.” he added.

“Why not them?” Horace asked.

“I think Catherine got fired. And Jim won’t remember. He barely remembers anything.”