There is a most rhythmic quality to driving through the heartland of America and everyone should experience it at least once in his or her lifetime.

In fact, it's so rhythmic it's boring and should be used as an anesthesia during complex and painful surgery procedures. If a most enterprising fellow could somehow capture it on videotape he'd do a remarkable business with every hospital on the planet - but there's a rub. In so doing he'd fall fast asleep and the only thing he'd capture on film would be sounds of him snoring and a picture fixed on his growing beard.

And, Brad, whose mind is like a bowl of mush, had it all figured out. Somehow he'd managed to devise a most ruthless plan. He arranged it so perfectly and executed it with such precision that I actually had to admire his brilliance.

While we were still in Maryland he came up with the idea of switching off driving at every tank fill. It was a good, sensible plan with a solid base. It was a plan with substance because it meant we wouldn't drive too long and that at every 250 miles or so you could look forward to a nice nap. After agreeing to the sensibility of it all, I could have swore that I saw two bumps pop-up on the top of Brad's head but I was tired and dismissed it. And, since we just filled up, it meant I would be the first to implement his new plan - under the new plan I would be the first to nap. As I settled down, I thought, "How conniving can a bowl of mush be?"

At the FJTP in Spiceland it was my turn to drive and as I settled into the driver's seat, Brad cracked open a beer. Between sips of his beer he'd pause to fluff up his pillow and sleeping bag being sure to tuck it here and there and between each fluff and tuck he made idle comments.

Fluff. "Man, I can't believe how dark it is!" Sip.

"Yeah," I said, "And this rain isn't helping any."

Sip. "I wonder why that is? Getting darker when it rains I mean?" Tuck.

"Ohh, I don't know," I quipped, "I imagine it has a lot to do with the lighter side of the darkness having a hard time bending around the raindrops."

Fluff. "Boy, the bus sure is running good - we're making really good time." Sip.

It was true we were clipping right along. "It sure is. I hope it stays that way."

Sip. "Well…" Fluff. Sip. Tuck. "…it's time for a nap. Nytol!"

And with that the empty beer can was chucked into the trash and he slid between the layers of the sleeping bag so fast he scorched the nylon covering. In mere milliseconds he'd gone from belching beer to blissful slumber.

Pretty soon the rain subsided and although I was left alone, I had my thoughts, an open road and the promise of a beautiful, early Sunday morning. Indeed, as the sunrise crested higher in the morning sky, bright billowing clouds filled the open expanse of Middle America and as the Sun continued to rise higher, I noticed something else, too.

There wasn't anything out there.

Oh, there were houses, barns and fields - Oops, there'd go a tiny store - but that was it. Having left Indianapolis some three hours behind me I was now smack in the middle of Blahville and I could feel what little interest I had was being sucked from my very soul.

I shook my head when I realized all the inanimate objects in the bus were in cahoots with Brad and had also conspired to work against me. The surface of the road was causing all that metal to pleasantly clink and clank and bang against its neighbor, which had a soothing quality about it and caused me to associate melodies and lullabies with those clinks, bangs and clanks.

My eyelids began to harmonize with the clinks, bangs and clanks.

"Why isn't there anyone to wave at?" I thought, "Waving takes conscious thought!"

Then, I figured it out; everyone who lives in Middle America must go to bed real late Saturday night because ordinarily there be a mile-long procession of cars vying to pass whose backseats were loaded to the gills with waving kids.

I was awakened when my eyelids clanked shut with enough noise to startle me.

It was right about here where I realized with extreme envy that something else working against me. It was Blissful Brad sprawled out right behind the driver's seat snoring away like a lumberjack sawing logs. I turned to toss a nasty scowl in his general direction and was disgusted to see a broad grin plastered across his face.

"Why, you rotten son-of-a…" I thought, "You're enjoying it!" Brad's smile was so obscene it would have required the talents of an entire team of plastic surgeons to remove it. I had to do something or else my eyes would slam shut and stick together like two cold pancakes.

So, I made a game out of poking fun at all the towns that had silly names.

Illinois has an over abundance of towns with silly names. If Illinois ever thinks they're not collecting enough money from the Stop 'n Rapes, then they should gather together the same people that named their towns and charge other states to name theirs. I hear Minnesota is in dire need for some towns with silly names, so I have no doubt they'll make a fortune.

The first silly named town was Fithianio. Cripes, it sounded like a disease you'd rather live without!

"Well, cheese and crackers Mikey! You can't be having any of that! Hey, if anyone else calls just say you got a tummy ache, Ok?. If any of that other business gets out it'll psychologically scar you for life."

 

Whoa! Here's one for the books…Kankakee. Now that's definitely a color.

"Why, lands yes Ethel, I hope to shout it is. You know, Ethelene, I've always said that whenever anyone mentions Victoria's Secrets the first thing a body should think of is the color kankakee. By God."

 

Before I knew it, the miles were flying by and I gathered my second wind. A quick peek at the fuel gauge confirmed the passage - it was time to start looking for another propane stop. The next largest town was Bloomington, some 60 miles in front of me and according to the map I could expect the same amount of nothing after it. I'd better stop at the first town that looked promising.

The sign said a town named Le Roy was just ahead and as the bus drew closer I could see two water towers - one on either side of the Interstate - a very promising sight indeed. The bump at the edge of the exit caused the load to shift somewhat and made quite a racket. It was enough to awaken the dead and, of course, Rip Van Brad.

"Mmmmmm, where are we?" He asked sitting up with a big, wide grin and the sleeping bag wedged around his ears, "What's up?"

He looked as if his head was poking through a tightly knitted sock and he obviously felt very good with himself and with the world.

I was deeply touched.

"First thing you do, Bro," I said thumbing at his mouth, "Is wipe that smile off your face. I've been staring at it for thousands of miles, and - quite frankly - it annoys me! We're in Illinois - we need propane." I said, as the bus negotiated around the exit ramp, "Any town that has two water towers has to have propane in it somewhere, don't ya think?"

We paused longer than necessary at the exit's stop sign to be sure we didn't cheat what appreciation could be had for what presented itself as the only sign of human existence. Pulling onto the lot there wasn't anything to indicate we'd have any luck and the bus came to a halt at the far side of the building.

"Ohh boy, Brad," I said, clambering off the bus, "Looks like we're back in the thick of it again. I reckon we'd just as well go inside and get comfortable in a phone booth."

Inside, there were three people; a clerk behind the counter and a man and his girl friend who were pacing back and forth across the floor but in opposite directions from each other.

On the way in, I decided that I'd be scientific about the way I presented my opening question - if I worded it properly I could eliminate all the quandaries associated with questions that leave any room to doubt your ability to answer it fully and accurately.

"Excuse me, do any of you three," I pointed at each of them so as to eliminate the necessity for any of them to look around in suspicion that I might have been talking to someone else, "Live right here," I pointed at the ground under my feet so as to eliminate any suspicions as to where 'here' was, "In Le Roy, Illinois, on a full-time basis and drive through it regularly, have any idea where we can get propane," I then walked to the door and waved out to the parking lot, "For our bus that is parked right…out…there?"

They each blinked in unison. Apparently neither of them had ever seen Perry Mason when he was on a roll. So, I asked them.

"Honest, Mister, we don't know nothing about no Perry Propane, we jest drive trucks when the town namin' business is slow!"

I sighed heavily and trudged over to the phone booth to begin yet another round of telephone begging. The phone book said a bulk plant called Hicks Gas was in town but listed an address in Bloomington. It reeked of conspiracy but it was worth the price of admission.

Briiiinnnngggg. "Hello, you've reached the home of Hicks Gas for Mid-Eastern Illinois, we're sorry but it's Sunday and we're closed. So there! If this is an emergency please call…" I reached for my pencil, "…662-4366. Thank you."

I thumbed through the book to see if 662 was a local number. The book couldn't tell me so I turned to my staff of informants who were still standing on the floor because I hadn't excused them from duty yet.

"Can either of you three…" I pointed at each of them again, "…tell me with any reasonable amount of certainty, whether the telephone prefix of 662 is a local call from right…" I walked over to the phone booth and grabbed the door and shook it, "…here in this phone booth?"

They looked at one another and blinked and the girl friend's bottom lip started to quiver.

"See…" I whispered to Brad, "…do you see what a firm approach with a voice of authority can do for you? Be sure to take this as a lesson and remember it well."

"I, ahhhh…I'm sorry M-m-m-mister but there aren't many numbers from that…" She pointed with a shaking finger, "…phone booth that are local numbers. In f-f-f-f-fact, from right here," She spun around in a circle with an outstretched arm, "Everywhere around this place is a long distance call."

My jaw dropped.

Ordinarily I would have instantly stooped to grab it and put it back into place but I was awful busy trying to catch my eyeballs that had sprung out of their sockets.

For the next several moments I was possessed and took on the antics of John Cleese from Monty Pyton's Flying Circus…

I was stunned. Desperation took over and I began zooming around the store hoping to find something strong enough to beat the telephone booth to smithereens with. After several unproductive trips around the store I gave up and came to a screeching halt in front of the girl who had assumed the responsibility of being the spokesperson for the others.

I looked her square in the eyes and asked, "Are you trying to tell me that dumpy little Le Roy, Illinois, with two huge water towers, is the center of the known Universe and that," I frantically waved my arms about in a non-uniform manner, "a call to anywhere outside of this town is," I raised my voice an octave, "LONG DISTANCE?"

"Yyyesss."

"Ok, that's fine," I said in a soothing voice, "What's the area code for everywhere out of the neutral zone?"

"309."

Mr. Cleese would have been impressed with my next bit of impersonation. I stood erect, cocked my head a tad and said, "Thank you, so much."

I whipped out our emergency cell phone and dialed the number and was relieved to talk with Jason who just happened to be the service technician for Hicks Gas in Mid-Eastern Illinois. I explained our situation and how important it was for Brad to get back by a certain time and if he'd help two Montanan's on this wonderful, bright Sunday morning to get back on the road before the next scheduled spaceship arrived in Le Roy.

He was delighted to help and drove over to meet us so that we could follow him to the bulk plant. Jason even tried to fix the broken valve by doing the same thing that Stan in Minnesota had tried on the trip to Virginia. But, he too, failed to get any fuel into the broken tank.

We thanked Jason for his generous and well-appreciated assistance and once again we were back on the road. As Brad shifted through the gears and merged onto the westbound lane of I-74, I cracked open a beer and turned to look fondly back at the town of Le Roy.

We'd just missed it and as I watched it touch down on top of one of the water towers I shook my head in wonder as to what experience the next leg of our journey would bring.

Continue to CHAPTER FOURTEEN