Last Bus to Coffeeville

by J. Paul Henderson

  There was a stage close to the entrance where the musicians played. A woman in her early twenties had been singing when they’d arrived at the Cow Wash, but now a man in his late fifties had taken to the stage. His name was Brett Turbine. He had three guitars propped up behind him and was tuning another. He talked to the audience as he did this, telling them stories and laughing easily. His voice was deep and gravelly, fashioned from years of drinking hard liquor and smoking cigarettes, and his face looked like a squat for homeless people.

  When he was happy with the sound of his guitar, Brett rose from the high stool he’d been sitting on and started to play. He sang songs about drinking hard liquor, smoking cigarettes and homelessness; songs about cheating women and cheating men; and songs about dying cowboys and crippled children. After each song, he would remind the Saturday night crowd to tip the waitresses who served them and, if they liked what they were hearing, to feel free to throw money into the large plastic bucket at the edge of the stage.

  ‘Man, ain’t he the cheery one,’ Bob said. ‘Next time the waitress comes by I gonna ask for two glasses: one full o’ beer, an’ an empty one fo’ my tears. Only thing goin’ fo’ the man in my book is his appearance. Least he don’t look like the mannequins me an’ Marsha saw at the Gran’ Ole Opry. Looked like they’d just come outta some beauty parlour an’ got clothed in a fancy dress store.

  ‘You heard the story ’bout when Elvis played the Gran’ Ole Opry, Gene? He went there once an’ never went back. Some ol’ guy tol’ him to stick to drivin’ trucks; tol’ him he’d never make it in the big time. Ha! That was back when the Opry was still in the Ryman Auditorium over on Fifth – before it moved out here. An’ who you think played piano at the openin’ night o’ the new one? I’ll give you a clue: he were a good friend o’ yo’s an’ mine.’

  Doc thought for a while and then gave up. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Richard Milhous Nixon his’self. Ha!’

  ‘I need to go to the bathroom, Gene. Where is it?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘I know where it is, Mrs Skidmore,’ Eric said. ‘I can take you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Eric; I’d be delighted to have your company.’ She looked at Jack and said: ‘You could learn a lot from this young man!’

  ‘How come she’s always on my case?’ Jack asked, after Nancy and Eric had left the table. ‘Is she confusing me with someone else?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Doc said. ‘It’s Nancy’s voice, but it’s not her speaking the words. You need to keep that in mind. Oh shit! What’s she doing down there?’

  Brett Turbine had stopped singing and was kneeling by the edge of the stage talking to Nancy, who was in the process of dividing the money in his tip bucket between her and Eric. He stood up and walked back to the microphone and, in a laughing voice, announced to the crowd that he was being robbed by two of the FBI’s most wanted and could anyone help. Doc got down there as fast as he could.

  ‘Anyone can take the money, Gene,’ Nancy said. ‘People are throwing it away. They don’t want it anymore.’

  Pilfering from Ike Godsey’s Store had been one thing, but stealing from Brett Turbine in public was another matter altogether. Doc told Brett to continue his set and promised to sort things out. Eric only too willingly threw his share of the spoils back into the bucket, but Nancy held on to her dollar bills and Doc had to prise them out of her hand. She started to get agitated and Doc saw a cold glint in her eyes, a sure sign of approaching danger if ever there was one. He remembered it had been her birthday the previous day and used it to his advantage.

  ‘Come on, Nancy, they’re waiting for you at the table. They want to wish you a happy birthday, sing you a song.’

  Nancy relaxed her grip on the money long enough for Doc to take it from her and place it in the bucket. ‘Is it my birthday?’ Nancy asked incredulously. ‘I had no idea. How old am I?’

  ‘We can talk about that back at the table; let’s take you to the bathroom first. Eric, you go back to the table and I’ll take care of Nancy.’ He then took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, placed it in the bucket and got Brett’s attention. ‘When you see us walk back to our table – over at the back there – can you sing Happy Birthday? Her name’s Nancy.’

  ‘Happy to,’ Brett smiled. ‘– And thanks for taking care of things, Grandpa.’

  Eric returned to the table alone, his hands inside the rubber gloves feeling particularly moist. Jack shook his head from side to side in mock-disappointment. ‘Not only a snitch but a desperado, too,’ he said to Bob. ‘Who’d have believed it of one so young and innocent?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything, Jack – it was Mrs Skidmore who took the money. I told her we shouldn’t do it.’

  ‘Just following orders, eh, the old Nuremburg Defence?’

  ‘I think we’re supposed to sing Happy Birthday to Mrs Skidmore when she gets back.’ Eric said.

  ‘I hate singing that song,’ Jack said. ‘I hate singing Auld Lang Syne, too, and wearing party hats. Hopefully, by the time she gets back she’ll have forgotten all about it.’

  ‘I reckon you an’ Brett Turbine could be soul buddies, Jack. I cain’t see him likin’ those things neither.’

  As if to disprove Bob’s point, Brett immediately launched into Happy Birthday, and as Doc and Nancy made their way back to the table, the raucous Saturday night crowd joined in.

  Nancy didn’t sit down but stood there beaming, lost in the moment and graciously accepting the well wishes of those around her. The song eventually came to an end and Brett spoke into the microphone. ‘Happy Birthday, Nancy! If I were twenty years older, I’d sure as hell make you mine, darlin’.’

  Altercation in Plaid

  They left Nashville the next morning and continued on the I40 towards Memphis. Sweet gum trees replaced maples, and the first cotton fields appeared. Bob stuck to the speed limit and drove at a steady 70 mph; Gene and Nancy snoozed; Jack read the now out-of-date newspaper he’d bought in Nashville; and Eric completed the second book of Chronicles: a further 1,623,021 fatalities.

  ‘The toilet’s blocked,’ Jack announced.

  ‘Shit!’ Bob exclaimed.

  ‘That would be my guess,’ Jack said.

  ‘’Course it blocked with shit, you damn ninny! I was jus’ exclaimin’ when I said the word. Who gone an’ blocked it?’

  ‘It will be an accumulation,’ Doc said. ‘We’ll stop at the next rest area and empty the sewage holding tank into the dump facilities there. Do you know how to do that?’

  ‘No I don’t know how to do that!’ Bob snapped. ‘I’ll have to read the damn manual again!’

  ‘I’ll read it,’ Jack volunteered. ‘I’ve finished the newspaper.’

  ‘I bet you put it down the damn toilet, didn’t you?’

  ‘If you don’t quit moaning, I’ll stick your head down the toilet!’

  ‘Either you two behave yourselves or you won’t be allowed to go on any more trips!’ Nancy said. ‘I’m not having any falling out on my bus.’

  ‘Sorry, Nancy,’ Bob and Jack said in unison.

  ‘It’s Mrs Skidmore to you, if you don’t mind! Honestly, Arnold, I’m tempted to make them both get out and walk the rest of the way. The sooner I retire the better.’

  ‘You could punish them by making them empty the holding tank,’ Doc suggested helpfully.

  ‘That’s a good idea, Arnold. Bob and the other one – yes you, I’m talking to you,’ she said, looking at Jack sternly. ‘You both empty the tank when we stop! Understand?’ She then turned to Doc. ‘What’s a holding tank, dear?’

  Two old men stood at the urinals of the rest area, facing forward and studiously ignoring each other. One was dressed in a green plaid shirt and corduroy pants, and the other in a red plaid jacket and Mackinaw wool hunting hat. If death came to either man as slowly as urine left them, one of them at least would be content.

  The last time the two men had been in such close proximity was almost fifty years ago when, on the front porch of Oakl
ands and in the company of Hilton Travis, they’d smoked cigars together. Brandon Travis was the first to finish. He gathered his rucksack and cardboard sign from the tiled floor and exited the restroom without washing his hands. Brandon had been on the road for three days.

  Having resigned themselves to an impending lawsuit for the loss of his sister, the administrators of the Oaklands Retirement Community had seen no further advantage in paying for Brandon to stay in a hotel. At Brandon’s insistence, however, they’d given him the cash equivalent of a first-class plane ticket to Memphis, and the taxi fare from there to Clarksdale.

  Believing his luck to have changed, Brandon visited a casino in nearby Grantville and there, found that it hadn’t: in less than an hour he lost not only his fare at the blackjack tables, but also the remainder of his money. He had no option but to hitchhike home. To give himself an edge over any competition he might face on the road, he tore off the side of a cardboard box and inscribed on it: VIETNAM VET. That Brandon had never fought in that, or any other war, was unimportant.

  Brandon had no trouble getting cars or trucks to stop for him, but had the greatest of difficulty remaining in these vehicles for any length of time. He was disadvantaged by a body odour that ripened by the hour, a conversational manner that was sour and expletive, and an unpleasant habit of loudly coughing up phlegm and then swallowing it. Consequently, Brandon’s rides had been many but short. He now stood at the entrance to the services touting for a ride to Memphis.

  Doc exited the restroom and waited for Nancy. She came out of the ladies’ room with her hands wet. ‘There aren’t any towels in there, Gene. Can you believe that?’

  Doc saw no point in mentioning the hand driers that would have been on the wall, and instead gave her his clean handkerchief.

  ‘This is no good, Gene,’ she said after a few moments. ‘The material’s too thin.’ She dropped the handkerchief to the floor and proceeded to dry her hands on his shirt.

  Doc retrieved the kerchief and took Nancy’s arm. As they prepared to leave the lobby, the man standing at the exit started to shout at them. ‘Nancy Travis! What in God’s name are you doing here? Is that you Chaney, you son-of-a-bitch kidnapper!’

  They came to an abrupt halt, and Doc stared disbelievingly at the man he’d only recently stood next to in the restroom. It slowly dawned on him who he was. What kind of plain dumb luck was this? Not for a moment had he ever considered that Nancy’s estranged brother might be the one to derail their escape to Coffeeville. But here Brandon was, exposing their identities at the top of his voice to a crowd that now gathered. Doc was not only speechless in that moment, he was mentally paralysed and couldn’t think of a damned thing to say or do!

  For once, Nancy’s Alzheimer’s came to their rescue. She literally had no idea who the man shouting at them was, and screamed at him when he tried to touch her. Her conviction was total and convincing, and when bystanders noticed Doc having difficulty restraining the man, they willingly intervened on his behalf.

  ‘Get your damned hands off me!’ Brandon shouted at them. ‘That woman’s my sister and that man has kidnapped her!’

  ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life!’ Nancy shouted back at him. ‘My brother’s dead; he died in a tractor accident twenty years ago, and this man is my husband! How dare you say such things? Call the police, Gene. This man’s a lunatic; he needs to be locked up in a secure unit!’

  ‘You’re the fucking lunatic, Nancy!’ Brandon countered.

  The grip of the trucker holding Brandon tightened, and Brandon reluctantly had to recognise that public opinion was once again passing him by. He stopped struggling and became placatory. Having recently purloined the wallet of an ancient motorist who’d been kind enough to give him a ride – deciding on the spur of the moment to place it in his jacket pocket rather than the glove compartment as requested – he had no desire for the police to be involved.

  Bob had now arrived at the scene. He’d left Jack and Eric to pump out the sewage and headed to the service building with the intention of bumming a cigarette from Doc. He hesitated when he saw the commotion, and then moved casually to Doc’s side, to all outward appearances just another face in the crowd. Doc noticed him but avoided showing any signs of recognition, waiting until Brandon’s eyes were averted before whispering in an aside for Bob to get the wheelchair from the bus’s storage compartment and chloroform from his medicine box. Bob disappeared as silently and inconspicuously as he’d arrived.

  Brandon now apologised to the small crowd. The ballyhoo, he explained, had been a misunderstanding, a case of mistaken identity caused by the fragility of his mind: fighting for his country in Vietnam had taken its toll and left him a mere shell of the man he’d once been. He did promise, however, to tell the full story to anyone prepared to give him a ride to Memphis. Unsurprisingly, there were no volunteers and the crowd drifted away.

  As Doc and Nancy moved through the door and walked to the parking area, Brandon followed them. ‘I know it’s you Nancy, and I know it’s you Chaney,’ he said in a low threatening voice. ‘Don’t for a moment think this is over!’

  Doc had suspected as much, and purposely guided Nancy away from the bus toward an area where cars were parked. He knew Brandon would take the licence plate of any vehicle they climbed into, and that eventuality had to be guarded against. As Brandon followed at a distance, a man with an empty wheelchair followed him, and when no one was looking pushed it hard into the back of his legs and tipped him backwards. Bob then placed a rag soaked in chloroform over Brandon’s face and wheeled him to the bus.

  ‘Now what we do?’ Bob asked, once Doc joined him.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Doc replied, ‘but let’s get Nancy on the bus first.’ He took Nancy to the rear lounge and asked Eric to read her a story from the Bible. ‘A nice one, Eric – not one about dead people!’

  Doc then went to his box of medicines and rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for. He apprised Jack of the situation and asked him to check for any parked truck with its trailer doors unlocked. ‘And try not to be conspicuous, Jack. Make out you’re just stretching your legs.’

  He went to Brandon’s slumped form and listened to his heart through a stethoscope. ‘Man, this guy’s got the heart of an ox,’ he exclaimed. ‘How heavy would you say he was, Bob?’

  ‘’Bout two-thirty.’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ Doc said, and then took out a syringe. He stuck the needle through the seal of a phial, filled the syringe and flicked it with his fingers. He pulled up Brandon’s sleeve and located a vein in his arm. He then injected the entire contents.

  ‘How long’s he gonna be out fo’, Gene?’ Bob asked.

  ‘By my calculations, about thirty-six hours. All we have to do now is find a way of getting him out of here. I’d rather we didn’t have to take him with us on the bus.’

  Jack returned with the news Doc had hoped for.

  Jack had strolled around all the trucks, casually stretching his arms and occasionally yawning, but had found all to be secured. He was about to report this to Doc when a truck with Nevada plates drew up, and the driver climbed out and headed for the services building. He walked to the rear of the trailer and found the padlock hanging loose.

  Bob and Doc followed Jack to the trailer, Bob pushing the wheelchair. They checked to make sure no people were watching and then opened the door. The trailer was filled with mattresses wrapped in thick polythene. Jack climbed up and pulled the dead weight of Brandon’s body while Doc and Bob lifted and pushed.

  There was a small walkway between the stacks of mattresses and Jack dragged Brandon’s body to the rear of the visible piles and out of sight. Bob helped him arrange the rear mattresses to allow Brandon a comfortable passage, and then rolled a packing blanket into a thin pillow and placed it under his head.

  Doc stood watch and then gave Jack $500 to put in Brandon’s pocket.

  ‘Why are you wasting your money on him, Doc?’

  ‘The
truck’s heading to Las Vegas, Jack. If Brandon wakes up with money in his pocket, he won’t be leaving there until he’s gambled it away! It will give us more time.’

  They fastened the padlock and moved away from the truck, and watched from a distance as the driver returned, started the engine and pulled his slightly heavier load back on to the interstate.

  ‘You shoulda been a crime boss, Gene,’ Bob laughed. ‘You wasted yo’ time bein’ a Medicine Man!’

  ‘How many laws have we broken now?’ Jack asked, slightly concerned.

  ‘Five that I know of, maybe six. It’s hard to keep track,’ Doc said.

  They returned to the bus and immediately left the rest area, determined to make no further stops on the interstate. Doc went to lie down, exhausted by all the excitement.

  It was a while before Nancy noticed his absence. ‘Where’s Gene?’ she asked Jack.

  ‘He’s resting in the compartment. I think all the unpleasantness got to him.’

  ‘Oh for Heaven’s sake!’ she said, dismissively. ‘There are worse things in life than a restroom running out of paper towels!’

  Memphis

  They reached Memphis shortly after midday. It was a city that had been in existence for fewer than two hundred years, although the site itself had been occupied for thousands of years more: Native Americans who’d built earthworks in the shape of truncated pyramids long before the Egyptians had ever thought of the idea, and later Chickasaw Indians who lost control of the bluffs, first to the Spanish, then to the French and finally to the British.

  ‘We oughta go hear us some blues music tonight,’ Bob said. ‘Get us an antidote to all that rhinestone shit we been listenin’ to. You up fo’ it, man?’

  ‘Sure. We can eat dinner at the hotel and then walk over to Beale St. You’re definite you squared the parking with the hotel?’

  ‘They reservin’ us a place on the street right by the entrance, an’ we got it till midday tomorrow. If there’da been a sport team or musician stayin’ in the hotel this weekend, we’da been outta luck, but there ain’t, so we okay.’