Side Roads and Dandelions

by W.H. Harrod

  ~~ Chapter Eleven

  Bobby watched Ernest’s huge belly bounce up and down from uncontrollable laughter. It wasn’t as if Ernest didn’t try to restrain his hysterical reaction to Bobby’s tale. The situation deserved serious attention, and Ernest, being a physician knew this. But, the thought of Bobby forgetting that his main goal was to shoot himself, and instead, in a fit of anger towards a noisy coyote, using up his ammunition in a vain attempt to dispatch a source of irritation that would not have mattered to him anyway if he had simply gone ahead and pulled the trigger, struck him as hilarious.

  A glance towards the front of the vehicle only made matters worse for Bobby. Allison leaned forward with her hands covering her face, moaning in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing. Sam, meanwhile, whistled the theme song from The Bridge on the River Kwai movie over and over. A typical support group, this was not.

  After a time the inability of Bobby’s audience to restrain themselves had a peculiar effect on him. He must have realized the ridiculousness of the situation and how insane the whole story must seem to others.

  “Well, all I can say is I’m happy to see that I have brought joy to your lives. Personally, I never pictured shooting critters as being particularly funny, but if it will help brighten the mood, we can stop up ahead and buy us a firearm so I can shoot at something else for you. There are plenty of cattle in the fields along the road. I could keep you guys hootin’ and hollerin’ all the way to wherever we’re going and back.”

  “I’m sorry, Bobby,” said Allison, her embarrassment obvious. “You have to admit, there is a certain irony involved here. We’re not laughing at your life’s story or the fact that you considered killing yourself. That’s serious stuff! You screwed up, and the way you screwed up is funny. You’re smiling yourself, admit it!”

  Allison was right. Bobby no longer looked the pale, slack-jawed drunk they piled in the bus earlier. He now had a touch of red in his cheeks and a hint of a smile on his face. Allison’s optimism grew exponentially. This is a good thing that we are doing, she confirmed. This is a very good thing.

  Sam stopped whistling, thankfully, and Ernest attempted to catch his breath. The mood inside the vehicle had changed dramatically, and for the better. Much of the barrier between the four, created by time and distance, now lay in ruins around the mountain of common purpose recreated by Bobby’s story. Together, they were a more potent force to reckon with. Individually they were deficient in certain areas in spite of their impressive résumés, but as a group, they presented a solid front.

  “Well, if I’m going to be part of this cattle drive, then you better tell me where we are heading and what we’re going to do when we get there,” came the delayed response from Bobby as he joined with Ernest who had resumed sipping his hot coffee.

  Once more the three men deferred to Allison, the organizer and unofficial leader of this pilgrimage.

  “We’re going back to San Francisco to help prevent this country from going to war. I hope you’re not for it by the way,” responded Allison energetically. “If you are, I suppose you’ll have to stay in the bus.”

  Sam laughed, Ernest smiled, and Bobby thought about it.

  “Actually, I’ve been kind of indisposed, if you know what I mean.” said Bobby in all seriousness. “I haven’t been keeping up-to-date on those kinds of things. We’re going to war again, are we? Who is it this time?”

  Allison didn’t know if Bobby was serious or just kidding. “It’s Iraq, Bobby. We’re going to make a preemptive attack on the Iraqis.”

  “I thought we did that already,” answered Bobby. “Didn’t we do that already?”

  “Yes, we did. Twelve years ago we went to war against Saddam’s army, and now, we are going to do it again.” Allison could see Bobby struggling to get up to speed, but his five-year drinking binge had left him deficient in the area of current events.

  “Well, what did he do this time?” asked Bobby.

  Allison looked around to see if anyone wanted to jump in and give her a hand, but her two helpers offered no signs of wanting to make an assist.

  “That’s just it, Bobby. He hasn’t done anything different from the last time we fought him. He’s still a tyrant and a murderer among his own people, but he was that way the last time we walked away and left him in power. The current administration claims he has weapons of mass destruction and intends to use them. They are sending our troops there again to throw him out of power and find those weapons for the safety of the world.”

  “Is saving the world a bad thing, then?” asked Bobby.

  Allison’s eyes revealed her surprise at this question.

  “It’s a bunch of bull crap, Bobby. There’s no proof he has such weapons or would use them if he did. The rest of the civilized world condemns the action and refuses to have any part in it. That is except for the British and a few more countries that are dependent on the United States. Most of the United Nations advisors that were in Iraq report that there most likely are no weapons of mass destruction. They couldn’t find any. Most other countries believe it’s about the oil, and many Americans agree whole- heartedly with them. I know I do.”

  “When’s this war going to start?”

  “The deadline is fifty hours from now. That’s why we want to be there in the streets so we can show the world there are millions of people in this country who oppose the war.”

  Allison halfway expected the next question.

  “Is San Francisco the only place where people will be standing in the streets?”

  Allison delayed her response until her tone would be one of calm restraint.

  “No, I’m quite sure there will be a multitude of war protestors in city streets around the country. But, we don’t belong in those streets, Bobby. The streets we belong in are in San Francisco. The present administration says our soldiers must return to the field of battle in Iraq. We must return to our own field of battle, too, and our field of battle is in San Francisco.”

  Bobby thought about this for a time.

  “Well, okay then, we gotta do what we gotta do, don’t we. You know, I think I’m going to rest for a while. All this talking has got me kinda’ tired. I need to get some strength back so I can get out into those streets and raise some hell with you guys.”

  Bobby then proceeded to lie back down on the pallet of quilts on the floor of the bus. Allison, meanwhile, took inventory of the two men who exhibited not a trace of interest in engaging her in a prolonged discussion as to the wisdom or the propriety of their country’s foreign affairs.

  “Thanks for the help, guys,” said Allison to Ernest and Sam.

  “Hey, no problem,” answered Sam.

  “Glad to help,” added Ernest.

  Allison looked at both of them pleadingly. The proper words escaped her. What could she say to two slackers such as these two adolescents who were masquerading as adults? Only one term existed that could possibly convey the distain she felt at the moment. “Men!” she scowled.

  The rainbow wagon went silent as the three alert passengers arranged their own thoughts relating to the strange events that had already overtaken their adventure as well as future events yet in store. Less than forty-eight hours earlier they were all safely ensconced in their well-ordered lives, light years away from anything as bizarre as what was happening around them now. What’s next? had to be one of the questions near the forefront of each of their minds as they sat quietly staring ahead into the darkness, now only occasionally interrupted by oncoming vehicular headlights.

  Sam broke the silence. “What town’s coming up?” he asked.

  Allison consulted the small road atlas she carried with her.

  “Considering that the onion-fried burger city was not actually on a side road, but proved to be an adventure on both trips, we will arrive at Tucumcari in the next couple of hours, and that place was definitely on a side road in ‘69. Ernest, you may not recognize the name but you ought to remember your and Bobby’s adventure at the lake with
the bird,” said Allison.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said Ernest hurriedly. “I don’t want to go back there. I didn’t think I was ever going to get out of that mess. We were up to our waist in that muck. At the time I couldn’t believe I actually went out there and helped that crazy Okie. I don’t know what got into me. That was no lake; it was a mud pit.”

  Allison laughed. “God, were you two guys muddy. Do you remember that, Sam?”

  “Hah!” laughed Sam. “When they got back to the shore I couldn’t tell who was who. They were both covered from head to toe with the black muddy sediment from the bottom of that big pond. A police officer had stopped, and I remember how surprised he was when Ernest and Bobby washed off with the hose at the maintenance shed, and he discovered a white guy and a black guy.”

  “I didn’t think it was so funny,” said Ernest. “There weren’t a lot of us black folk around those parts back then. The way the guy stared at me I expected he was the local Klan leader.”

  “Yeah, but he turned out to be one of the nicest policemen I’ve ever met,” said Allison. “He really appreciated you two guys rescuing the beautiful hawk that was tangled up in the fishing line. I know I was impressed with what you did.”

  “I only regret that I was injured and couldn’t get out there with you guys,” added Sam in a facetious tone. “I would have liked for someone to buy my breakfast, too. Allison and I ate crackers and peanut butter in the bus while you guys snarfed all the ham and eggs you could eat.”

  “Bobby went out there first. I didn’t know what to do,” admitted Ernest. “The poor bird flailed around trying to get loose from that tangle of line and I expected it would drown any minute. Bobby grabbed a blanket and waded out through the muck and threw it over the bird to keep it from hurting itself.”

  “When he fell down into the mud with the bird wrapped in the blanket and couldn’t get back up, I had to do something. You two weren’t in any condition to help with cuts and bruises all over your bodies.”

  “You and Bobby were both heroes in my mind,” commented Allison. “What’s more, until that incident you two weren’t very friendly towards each other, but after that you guys got along famously.”

  “That’s true,” said Ernest with a big grin. “He did look a touch less honky to me after that. When the police officer got over the surprise of finding a black person under the mud and offered his hand to me in thanks for helping Bobby -- that meant something to me as well. I still had a lot of anger and was still conflicted and confused, but I knew that hating would not help anything. It was a start.”

  “If Ernest and Bobby hadn’t been there,” said Allison cutting in, “I’m not sure what the police officer would have done with Sam and me. He stared back and forth between Sam, the bus, and me so many times I expected him to hurt his neck. I know he wanted to search the bus for drugs, and I know he wanted to find out how we got those cuts and bruises. He really must have been a bird lover to let us go on our way. Saving that bird probably saved us a lot of grief.”

  “Anyway,” continued Allison, “we will be going through Tucumcari in the next couple of hours and although I see on the map that the interstate by-passes the downtown now, I would at least like to get off and drive down old Route 66 that goes through the heart of the city. Maybe the restaurant where you guys ate is still there and we can eat together this time? The place where we stopped to use the bathroom sat next to a big tee-pee. I hope it’s still there. Plus, if you mud people want to revisit the site of your good deed we can take a few minutes to find that place. It will be dark so I doubt you will be able to see anything.”

  “I told you, I don’t want to see that place again. Bobby might find another reason to jump in, and I don’t ever want to get that dirty again,” responded Ernest quickly.

  Allison looked over at Sam to see what he thought about the matter.

  “Hey,” he said, “I left all notions of possessing intelligent thoughts as well as a career back in Chicago. Don’t mind me. I’m just a vagrant along for the ride. Point the way and I’m there.”

  “What about food?” asked Allison. “Anything sound good for a late night snack?”

  Ernest looked around for his surviving onion-fried burger and finding it safe in the corner of the rear seat made his dining plans known to the others. “All I need is a quick shop with a microwave because I already have my food.”

  Allison frowned at the smirk on his face and then looked to Sam. “I probably should get something, maybe a sandwich and some juice at least. I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”

  “You had fruit, that’s all! That’s not enough to keep a snail moving for long,” said Ernest derisively. “You better get some protein in you before too long.”

  “Do you mean some of that oozing fat dripping with blood kind of protein, Doctor Death?” Allison gave Ernest what he referred to as the evil eye as she finished her cutting remark.

  Ernest laughed at this. “You know, I’ve done an in-depth study over the last fifteen years relating to the influence white people are having on black people since the civil rights period of the ‘60s, and do you want to know what I found out?”

  Allison bit. “What did you find out?”

  Ernest’s eyes brightened. “I discovered that although black people were certainly benefiting from the secession of physical and economic assaults towards the black population by white people, the assaults were, in fact, still occurring. Only now it’s more insidious. It’s camouflaged in the form of supposedly healthy, nutritional food. In my opinion, it’s nothing less than another form of emotional violence. Black people start to eat white people’s food believing it’s the proper thing for educated, forward thinking people to do, and as a result, they are gradually losing their essence, their true will to live. All that baked, broiled, and steamed meat served with those raw vegetables a hungry goat wouldn’t eat are sapping their essence. People can’t be expected to live like that; it’s inhuman. A man’s got to consume some lubricating foods now and then to keep him going, otherwise, there will be repercussions. We’ll end up like you white people with real tight sphincters. I haven’t written out my thesis yet, but if I get back from this venture alive it’s the first thing I’m going to do. More people need to know this stuff, or the entire black race might be doomed. In fact, there may be a conspiracy angle to it!”

  Twice in one day is too much, thought Allison. First, Bobby and his story about the coyote and now Ernest’s wild thesis about black people suffering at the hands of white people’s bland food. It was too much. She looked over towards Sam while thinking, If you are as crazy as the other two this is going to be a very long trip. Please tell me you’re not insane, too.

  Sam, obviously enjoying Ernest’s funning with Allison, caught sight of her staring in his direction.

  “What did I do?” he asked defensively. “I haven’t done anything. I’m just driving, minding my own business.”

  “Do you have a story like the ones Bobby and Ernest told that you’re waiting to inflict upon me? Please say no. Tell me, I need to hear it from you. I need to know if you’re as nuts as the two fruitcakes we have riding in the back. Am I alone out here?”

  You could almost hear the wheels grinding in Sam’s brain. He had to be thinking about joining in and having some fun with their den mother. Allison impatiently waited for him to respond. Ernest, having enjoyed the rise he got out of Allison, sat cradling his burger looking as if he hoped that Sam would likewise get in on the fun.

  “Hey, you don’t have to worry about me,” said Sam. “I’m with you. Actually, I’ve thought all along that you and I communicate on a different plane than other people. No offense intended Ernest, it’s just that Allison and I think a little differently, kind of along the same lines that you were talking about with the food.”

  Ernest’s ever widening grin indicated he realized Sam intended to join in their little game.

  “I believe what goes around, comes around,” continued Sam. “Whit
e people are going to pay for the things they did. I think it’s happening right now. Take rap music, for instance. You tell me that’s not the wrath of God! I don’t think for one moment that black people like that music. I think it’s a scam to get back at us by making us listen to screaming young people mouthing obscenities while they grab their crotches. All the white kids are trying to act like rappers and looking like idiots while they do it. Their white parents are so guilty about the past that they feel compelled to put up with this racket in their homes. I’ll bet if you can get inside a black person’s home you will find nothing but The Platters, The Temptations, Della Reese, Lou Rawls, and Nat King Cole albums.”

  Allison sat speechless as Sam kept talking.

  “I know for me, I’ve had reason to pause and reflect on things over the last several years. I began to research my ancestry. It’s obvious that with a name like McCarthy you have to look no further than Ireland. What I learned changed much of my thinking. I found out about the hardships my ancestors endured, especially during the potato famine of 1845-1850. It was truly horrible. I haven’t been able to eat potatoes since. I was so bitter that I began to buy bags of potatoes and take them out into the countryside and dumped them so they would rot.”

  “At the height of my fury, I happened to look down at one of the evil tubers on the ground and I beheld an amazing sight -- a potato that looked exactly like Vincent Van Gogh, the painter. I recognized it immediately as I’m something of an art aficionado in that I own a masterful reproduction of that famous sunflower painting you see everywhere. Anyway, it changed my whole thinking about potatoes. No longer did I find them so offensive, although, I still could not eat one. Right before me I had the head of a famous artist. This potato even had an ear missing, like Van Gogh did, although to be honest, I’m not sure if the correct ear is missing, on the potato that is. Well now, all of a sudden I’m buying bags of potatoes, not to throw away, but to search through for famous heads. Right now my collection includes an exact likeness of Margaret Thatcher, which is so real looking it’s scary. I’ve found a Dom DeLouise, and I think I may have found Abraham Lincoln when he was a young man without the beard and hat, when he wasn’t so haggard looking as he was in the photos taken towards the end of the war.”

  Sam halted to get his breath. In the background, barely detectable, you could make out Ernest’s efforts to keep his belly from going off on a new round of tremors. “Not to sound elitist but I have to say, white potatoes produce the best likenesses. I haven’t really had much luck with the reds and the russets, and you can forget about the sweet potato because they are useless. I’m in the process of developing a website to promote the nonconsumption of all potatoes, and I have contacted the governor of Idaho proposing that they stop growing potatoes and instead, grow pumpkins. You can’t count on a potato. The Irish Potato famine will testify to that. On the other hand, I have never heard of an incident where pumpkins caused such a mess, although, I’ve had difficulty at times when I tried to find a good pumpkin in the fall. It’s almost impossible. How are we supposed to have pumpkin pies if we use the pumpkins to scare little children? What a sick bunch of people.”

  Sam stopped again for a second to observe a completely befuddled Allison. She wanted to laugh and go along with the joke as a good sport, but in the back of her mind a little voice was asking her, Are they for real? She hadn’t seen these guys for a lifetime, so who’s to say they weren’t certifiably nuts. Hopefully, Sam would say something serious and not leave her hanging.

  “Oh, one last thing,” added Sam. “If we stop at a restaurant I won’t be able to sit with you guys if any of you order potatoes. It’s still too painful for me, but it’s getting better. I work on it constantly at home by playing with my Mr. Potatohead game in hopes that I will gradually become desensitized and overcome my phobia of coming to depend upon spud consumption only to discover someday that there are none, like there weren’t during the Irish famine. However, I may ask the owner if I can take a look in his potato bin.”