By W.R. Jones
During lunch a few weeks ago, Raha took me to this park to show me a potential painting location. She warned me that the area was popular; I should get there early if I wanted a parking spot. Ya, ya, ya, there can’t be that many people wanting to hike.
I arrived by 9:00AM the next day and there was not an open parking spot for miles. I ended up painting in a cemetery. For some reason standing there reminded me of a cousin (maybe because I shot him). That coupled with the seagull pooping on Lisa triggered a memory of one of his stories.
Paul was, for a time at least, a pharmaceutical drug salesman. One hot summer evening after a long day on the job, he was driving on the interstate 80 through Iowa. His boss was a passenger and had dozed off. Keep in mind this was pre-seatbelt days. Paul was driving behind the cab of an 18 wheeler tractor that was being towed. The cab of the tractor was facing Paul’s car.
Paul got to daydreaming as is custom in the Jones family. During a particularly engaging dream, he began tailgating.
Looking up with a start to see himself rapidly bearing down on the truck cab, he jumped on the brakes, shouted mother-f…, and reached out an arm to keep his boss from slamming into the windshield.
Now from the boss’ view – I awoke with an 18 wheeler about to come through the windshield in less than a millisecond and, well yes, I pooped my pants. What would you have done?
There was no air conditioner, hot summer day, about 8 miles more to drive before any restrooms were available. Paul said conversation was lagging for the rest of the drive.
He never did get that raise.