The Book Tour
Episode Eleven: A Love Story (of sorts)
On the eventless road to Boise and my next book talk, a
greasy-haired man runs the show. He’s seated up at the front, and the bus isn’t
crowded, so we all get to hear his story… many times. Annoyingly loquacious, he
tells it over and over. Even those just getting on the bus along the way, are
treated to a new version, for as we travel on, he adds detail. Finally, whether
we want to or not, we’ve all been sucked in. Even the bus driver is chuckling
away at each retelling.
His wife met “one of these guys” on an
Internet chat, claims she’s fallen in love. What happens next? The guy shows up
at the house with a bow-kay of flowers. So what do I do? I chucked her out,
that’s what I do. After eighteen years of marriage. A bow-kay of flowers, just
think of that. Flowers, he shows up with, and she tells me it’s true love this
time.”
Well, perhaps that man with the
flowers looked a sight better than him. Under his grubby baseball cap, his mane
is long, oily and dirty grey. His fatty belly is loose and drooping although
he’s a lanky man, and aside from one cluster of teeth on the left side of his
mouth, there’s nothing else to chew with.
“Eighteen years of marriage and she
has to go for someone on the Internet, just think of that. Chucked her out, I
did. And then, you know what I did. I went and throwed my wedding ring right
across the highway. Throwed that ring all the way across.” He shakes his head
dramatically. “Friend of mine, he says come up to the country. Do some hunting
and fishing, but I done something better. Something much better.”
He pauses for dramatic effect, and
we’re all on tenterhooks, leaning forward in our seats, waiting for the next
sentence. It’s not as if he’s such a great storyteller — or perhaps he is, in
an idiotic, loser way that’s certainly got us all hooked. That’s talent, isn’t it?
“What I done was, met a woman on a
telephone chat line. Fell in love on the telephone. Service only cost me $5.95.
Talked about everything, too, her and me. We’re gonna do plenty of things
together. Gonna buy a trailer, a cow, chickens. Have animals, travel. That’s
what we both want. Travel all over.”
Rather like a traveling circus, I
think, but his next sentences pulls me up short: “That’s where I’m going now.
On the way to meet her for the first time. We’ll start from here. Got
everything I need in my bags. Not going back home no more, no way. She’s coming
to meet the bus, too. Be inneresting. She don’t no idea what I look like. Never
seen a picture of her neither. Things like that don’t matter. What we talk
about on the phone, that’s what counts.”
At least he could have washed his
hair for this momentous encounter, I think. But it’s funny: by now, he has
every single person on the bus rooting for him, full of good wishes and
camaraderie. We all want him to win this round, although a positive outcome
seems highly unlikely. What will really happen in a few hours? This trip through
the sunny afternoon’s bland landscape seems quite endless, and we’re as
impatient as he is to arrive at his destination.
And then, finally, we’re there, at a
little nowhere stop an hour or so outside of Boise. There doesn’t seem to be a
station of any kind, just parked cars, trucks, scruffy scrub. Our man stands,
peers out the window as the bus slows. He shrugs himself into his dirty leather
jacket, slings his canvass hold-all over his shoulder.
“There she is. That’s her all right. I know it is.”
How? How does he know? There are a few stragglers out
there, and standing still, watching the bus with what could only be described
as fascinated intensity, is a large, blond woman in boots and a fringed jacket.
She’s dolled herself up properly for the occasion, full makeup, beauty parlor
hair. My heart sinks. What chance does this guy have? None. Standing beside her
is a tall young man, probably her son: clever of her not to go this alone.
All of us on the bus have our noses pressed against
the windows now; you could hear a flea jump. We’re all holding our breath,
waiting…
He gets out of the bus, saunters toward her, a
stoop-shouldered, sloppy man. She’s staring at him, her face expressionless.
Taking in the bad hair, the shabby scruffiness, the hangdog expression. He
stops when he’s right in front of her. Do they say anything? We can’t tell.
They just stare at each other.
Then, slowly, almost with
resignation but also with a very amused smile, the woman raises her arms,
slings them around his neck and gives him a most satisfying hug.
We all start breathing again. Some
of us are laughing with pure satisfaction. And the driver starts the bus, pulls
out towards the highway and heads for the city.
More about my books and
passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com and http://www:jill-culiner.com and on my podcast at
https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner
