Ate
It was almost three hours later when the Smiths returned, the back of their pick-up truck loaded with cardboard boxes and black plastic garbage bags holding God knows what. They quietly piled them into the trunk of Kat’s Lincoln. We were going to Mexico, all right. Mexico, Maine. Orville and Wilbur were Down Easters. I am not sure why this surprised me. They wore the state uniform of plaid wool work shirt, faded blue denim overalls, muck bespattered work boots and seed caps proudly embroidered with the name of the local farmers co-op. They were taciturn to a fault. I had even heard them utter the occasional “Uh yuh”. Yet, I had never made the connection with the Pine State. While awaiting the return of the Smiths Kat had primed me with a cover story to explain my presence in an isolated fishing port in Maine, in case the locals displayed any sign of curiosity.
“Tell them you are a butterfly specialist, looking for a rare butterfly” He was very pleased with himself for conceiving this brilliant plan, and he gave a sly wink and nod to let me know.
“A lepidopterist?”
“Yeah, yeah, one of those” he waved dismissively.
“You do realize it is April, hardly a butterfly in sight” He pondered this for but a moment. “Migration, the butterflies went south for the winter. Now you are waiting their return.” He beamed with pride of authorship, positively bursting his buttons. Kat was not accompanying us to Maine, so he and Wilbur exchanged keys and he drove off in the Smiths’ rickety pick-up, promising to keep in touch. I gave a non-committal wave as he left. Wilbur, I assume, got behind the wheel and Orville, by default, graciously offered me shotgun. The eastern sky was lightening in the first glimmerings of false dawn, as we eased the great white whale onto the turnpike and headed to Mexico. Maine. I took advantage of the natural silence that cloaked any activity involving the brothers, leaned my head against the side window and napped. It took a little bit of effort, but I was able to recall the delightful young lady who had been gracing my dreams before the rather upsetting events of the previous day. She was once again whispering in my ear, teasing me with promises of treats yet to come. It was the best thing that had happened to me in a very long time.
“Ow.” Once again I was taken from a glorious dream to this drab reality by a sharp pain to my head. Wilbur had pulled off the turnpike and was pulling into the potholed parking lot of a diner. A particularly deep pothole had caused my head to bounce off the window. It was much lighter out now, the sky a blue one usually only sees in badly printed postcards. Wilbur parked between two pick-up trucks which could have been off the same movie set as their own left behind, one loaded with ripe, steaming manure, the other piled high with weather-beaten lobster pots. Otherwise, the lot was empty. We were in Maine, if my sleuthing skills had any value whatsoever. Wilbur signaled me to stay in the car as he and Orville ambled into the diner. Both of the pick-ups had been driven off, one north, the other south, by the time the boys returned carrying their purchase. One carried a paper tray with three large coffees, the other had a box of donuts and a paper bag balanced on top. The coffee went to the bag seat and the donuts took the drivers position. Wilbur had a sheepish grin as he handed me the bag. Peering inside, I was struck by the delicious smell of cinnamon issuing forth from the two glazed apple fritters nestled at the bottom. I grinned appreciation to Wilbur, while accepting a scalding styrofoam cup of coffee from the back seat. We sat in, surprise, silence while sipping our coffee and eating our pastries, the Smiths sharing a dozen Boston Creme filled donuts between them. Two apple fritters is one more than any man needs, but I finished both of them with only brief pauses for sips of the bitter brew. Filled with sugar and caffeine, I no longer felt the urge to nap, so I rifled through the glove box in search of something to read. The box was large enough to house a family of four, including a cat, and it was littered with maps, pamphlets, receipts, and take-out menus. Digging deeper, I laid my hand on a Reader’s Digest. May 1967. Ah, well, beggars can’t be choosers. In hopes of finding something slightly more recent, or at least topical, I dug even deeper, until my hand came to rest on either the cat, or something it had dragged in. I recoiled, hastily wiping my hand on napkins fortuitously acquired from the donut shop but moments before. Reader’s Digest, it was, then. Orville took the wheel now, as best I could tell, and maneuvered the great white whale back onto the highway. As we continued on a northeast tack, the sun streamed in my side window, warming me, and glaring off the open pages on my lap. I shifted in the seat, adjusted the angle of the page, and settled back to read selected and edited articles from assorted periodicals that reflected the odd mixture of social conservatism and sexual liberalism espoused by the magazine’s founder. One anecdote in particular tickled my funny-bone and I could not resist sharing it with my fellow travelers. The brothers were polite, nodding to acknowledge my recitation, but giving no indication that they were in any way amused by the story. I apologized and turned my attention back to the magazine. We covered many more miles accompanied only by the hum of the bias plies on asphalt, and the occasional crisp flip of a pulp leaf. The sun was high in the southern sky when we turned off the main highway and took to a state road going north. At the intersection we paused to exchange the morning coffee for fresh, and pick up some pre-made ham and cheese sandwiches from the cooler. The tuna salad was tempting, but suspect. A few minutes more to feed the behemoth., then we were cruising through rolling countryside that was slowly, but inevitably giving way to the forest, reclaiming the land after a centuries long hiatus. Wilbur was napping in the back seat if the gentle snoring from the rear seat was any indicator. I was engrossed in a condensed version of a novel I vaguely recalled reading long before. I was irritated as I tried to recall if I had read the entire novel, or just the condensation or worse yet, seen the movie. I was wrestling with this weighty problem when, without warning, Orville jammed on the brakes, throwing me violently against the dash. A muffled “uh” from the back indicated that Wilbur had rolled onto the floor. A moose is a magnificent creature, seen across a beaver meadow, standing knee deep in a pond, serenely munching water lilies. It is a sad creature, head hanging from a wall in a hunters den. A moose is even a comic creature trying to outsmart evil foreign criminal masterminds with the aid of a flying squirrel. However, a moose on a road is a frightening creature. This particular frightening moose was asleep lying entirely across our path. The squealing tires had roused him as we lurched to a stop within inches of his bulk. He slowly lifted his head until his nose was level with the hood of the car, and peered in the windshield with a look of mild disinterest. Orville shifted into reverse and withdrew to a discrete distance. We stopped and continued to look at the moose. The moose continued to look at us.
“Mexican stand-off”, I muttered. Wilbur reached over the seat, tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a road sign just beyond the moose. MEXICO 28 Miles it read.
“Okay, a near Mexican stand-off.” I turned to Orville. “What now?” Orville shrugged his shoulders and turned to look at Wilbur. Wilbur shrugged his shoulders too. Qu’elle surprise.
“Either we move the moose, or we turn around and find another road.” I am a quick study of the obvious. “How far back to the first crossroad?” Orville raised an eyebrow in a manner I interpreted as “Pretty far”.
“Okay, then, how do we move the moose?” Orville raised his other eyebrow this time, in a manner I interpreted as “Hell if I know”.
“Tell them you are a butterfly specialist, looking for a rare butterfly” He was very pleased with himself for conceiving this brilliant plan, and he gave a sly wink and nod to let me know.
“A lepidopterist?”
“Yeah, yeah, one of those” he waved dismissively.
“You do realize it is April, hardly a butterfly in sight” He pondered this for but a moment. “Migration, the butterflies went south for the winter. Now you are waiting their return.” He beamed with pride of authorship, positively bursting his buttons. Kat was not accompanying us to Maine, so he and Wilbur exchanged keys and he drove off in the Smiths’ rickety pick-up, promising to keep in touch. I gave a non-committal wave as he left. Wilbur, I assume, got behind the wheel and Orville, by default, graciously offered me shotgun. The eastern sky was lightening in the first glimmerings of false dawn, as we eased the great white whale onto the turnpike and headed to Mexico. Maine. I took advantage of the natural silence that cloaked any activity involving the brothers, leaned my head against the side window and napped. It took a little bit of effort, but I was able to recall the delightful young lady who had been gracing my dreams before the rather upsetting events of the previous day. She was once again whispering in my ear, teasing me with promises of treats yet to come. It was the best thing that had happened to me in a very long time.
“Ow.” Once again I was taken from a glorious dream to this drab reality by a sharp pain to my head. Wilbur had pulled off the turnpike and was pulling into the potholed parking lot of a diner. A particularly deep pothole had caused my head to bounce off the window. It was much lighter out now, the sky a blue one usually only sees in badly printed postcards. Wilbur parked between two pick-up trucks which could have been off the same movie set as their own left behind, one loaded with ripe, steaming manure, the other piled high with weather-beaten lobster pots. Otherwise, the lot was empty. We were in Maine, if my sleuthing skills had any value whatsoever. Wilbur signaled me to stay in the car as he and Orville ambled into the diner. Both of the pick-ups had been driven off, one north, the other south, by the time the boys returned carrying their purchase. One carried a paper tray with three large coffees, the other had a box of donuts and a paper bag balanced on top. The coffee went to the bag seat and the donuts took the drivers position. Wilbur had a sheepish grin as he handed me the bag. Peering inside, I was struck by the delicious smell of cinnamon issuing forth from the two glazed apple fritters nestled at the bottom. I grinned appreciation to Wilbur, while accepting a scalding styrofoam cup of coffee from the back seat. We sat in, surprise, silence while sipping our coffee and eating our pastries, the Smiths sharing a dozen Boston Creme filled donuts between them. Two apple fritters is one more than any man needs, but I finished both of them with only brief pauses for sips of the bitter brew. Filled with sugar and caffeine, I no longer felt the urge to nap, so I rifled through the glove box in search of something to read. The box was large enough to house a family of four, including a cat, and it was littered with maps, pamphlets, receipts, and take-out menus. Digging deeper, I laid my hand on a Reader’s Digest. May 1967. Ah, well, beggars can’t be choosers. In hopes of finding something slightly more recent, or at least topical, I dug even deeper, until my hand came to rest on either the cat, or something it had dragged in. I recoiled, hastily wiping my hand on napkins fortuitously acquired from the donut shop but moments before. Reader’s Digest, it was, then. Orville took the wheel now, as best I could tell, and maneuvered the great white whale back onto the highway. As we continued on a northeast tack, the sun streamed in my side window, warming me, and glaring off the open pages on my lap. I shifted in the seat, adjusted the angle of the page, and settled back to read selected and edited articles from assorted periodicals that reflected the odd mixture of social conservatism and sexual liberalism espoused by the magazine’s founder. One anecdote in particular tickled my funny-bone and I could not resist sharing it with my fellow travelers. The brothers were polite, nodding to acknowledge my recitation, but giving no indication that they were in any way amused by the story. I apologized and turned my attention back to the magazine. We covered many more miles accompanied only by the hum of the bias plies on asphalt, and the occasional crisp flip of a pulp leaf. The sun was high in the southern sky when we turned off the main highway and took to a state road going north. At the intersection we paused to exchange the morning coffee for fresh, and pick up some pre-made ham and cheese sandwiches from the cooler. The tuna salad was tempting, but suspect. A few minutes more to feed the behemoth., then we were cruising through rolling countryside that was slowly, but inevitably giving way to the forest, reclaiming the land after a centuries long hiatus. Wilbur was napping in the back seat if the gentle snoring from the rear seat was any indicator. I was engrossed in a condensed version of a novel I vaguely recalled reading long before. I was irritated as I tried to recall if I had read the entire novel, or just the condensation or worse yet, seen the movie. I was wrestling with this weighty problem when, without warning, Orville jammed on the brakes, throwing me violently against the dash. A muffled “uh” from the back indicated that Wilbur had rolled onto the floor. A moose is a magnificent creature, seen across a beaver meadow, standing knee deep in a pond, serenely munching water lilies. It is a sad creature, head hanging from a wall in a hunters den. A moose is even a comic creature trying to outsmart evil foreign criminal masterminds with the aid of a flying squirrel. However, a moose on a road is a frightening creature. This particular frightening moose was asleep lying entirely across our path. The squealing tires had roused him as we lurched to a stop within inches of his bulk. He slowly lifted his head until his nose was level with the hood of the car, and peered in the windshield with a look of mild disinterest. Orville shifted into reverse and withdrew to a discrete distance. We stopped and continued to look at the moose. The moose continued to look at us.
“Mexican stand-off”, I muttered. Wilbur reached over the seat, tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a road sign just beyond the moose. MEXICO 28 Miles it read.
“Okay, a near Mexican stand-off.” I turned to Orville. “What now?” Orville shrugged his shoulders and turned to look at Wilbur. Wilbur shrugged his shoulders too. Qu’elle surprise.
“Either we move the moose, or we turn around and find another road.” I am a quick study of the obvious. “How far back to the first crossroad?” Orville raised an eyebrow in a manner I interpreted as “Pretty far”.
“Okay, then, how do we move the moose?” Orville raised his other eyebrow this time, in a manner I interpreted as “Hell if I know”.
