One of my favorite work activities is traveling with Juicy PSI and Extra Eight Years. Every few months, in this case eighteen months, we travel to the central part of the state to meet with a captive audience. If ever asked to describe it, I tell people, “I liken it to Bob Hope and the USO shows. This gig is pretty much the same concept. In fact, I would go so far as to say it is exactly the same while being entirely different.”
Extra Eight Years always drives and, as Juicy PSI commented, “does his best driving when he is exceeding speed limits, has a Coke in one hand, and his phone in the other.” As we turned on to the onramp we were ‘joined’ by another vehicle (truck pulling a extended fifth wheel). The lanes merged quickly and, as they did so and as Extra Eight Years realized he didn’t have much time to avoid being consumed by the other vehicle, Extra Eight Years announced, “Ok, here we go, my first illegal move.” And we were off, and in front!
The stories shared by Juicy PSI and Extra Eight Years are always stellar. On this particular journey, we were discussing coworkers. Not just any coworkers, only those who made an impression and, in this case, not a good one. Juicy PSI was sharing a story involving some embarrassing information and disclaimed, “He told me not to say anything to anyone, so I’m telling you guys.” It is times like this that being a ‘nobody’ is good. A few stories later, Juicy PSI made an observation, “Let’s see, so far I’ve said something nice about no one.” Neither Extra Eight Years or I had noticed – nor did we care.
Extra Eight Years shared a story about a meeting in which a situation on an Indian reservation was being discussed. One of the individuals in the meeting, on several occasions, proudly used this opportunity to educate others, “It is because they are a Solvent nation.” Sovereign, Solvent. Tomato, Toma-toe.
Halfway to our destination we stopped to eat at a local diner. Our ‘favorite’ diner had closed down, which meant none of us would be ordering roast beff or parlines and cream (the spelling errors added to the ambiance of the the diner). Luckily, this diner had charm of it’s own. As we walked in, we saw a dry erase board poised next to the cash register. Across the top it read, “Special”, underneath that, nothing. “The special looks good,” I told Juicy PSI. “Definitely low-cal,” she replied.
We got to our table and found another charming feature – you phone -in your order from the table and they ‘ring’ you when it is ready. As we perused the menu, Juicy PSI expressed concern, “I really want the Monte Cristo, but the description, ‘heavy hunk of steamin’ junk’ is disturbing.” After much discussion, she decided to go ahead and get it.
I got the privilege of placing the order, which was fraught with frustration on the part of the ‘waitress’. In attempt to lighten the mood, I asked about the special. “We don’t have one,” she curtly replied. “Huh,” I said and we (waitress not included) giggled like school kids. Just prior to hanging up – translation: the waitress hanging up on me – she instructed, “Pick up your own drinks.” “I’m pretty sure our food will have, at a minimum, spit on it,” I told Extra Eight Years and Juicy PSI. “Yeah, I can imagine the conversation they’re having right now,” said Extra Eight Years, “‘You recognize those people Hank?’ ‘I recognize ’em alright, recognize ’em as outsiders.'”
Several hours later we were making our way back from our version of Bob Hope and American Variety’s, ‘On the Road,’ when Extra Eight Years threw his hands up in the air and proclaimed, “Who needs hands for driving? Not me, I’m hands free.” As I mentioned earlier, I’m pretty sure we got more than spit on our food at the diner.