So Long, Chester Wheeler(32)

“No. I mean . . . you’re not as mobile as you used to be when I first started helping you onto the toilet. And that was how many days ago?”

He didn’t answer. I could tell he was having some kind of internal reaction to my observation, and it wasn’t pretty in there.

“I don’t mean to take away your autonomy or make you feel helpless or anything,” I added. “I just don’t want any injuries.”

“Yours or mine?”

“I don’t want either.”

“And if I have to . . . use the facilities?”

“I was thinking I’d bring you the bedpan and disappear. I’m hoping that, given plenty of time and space, you can get yourself onto it.”

“I was just trying to save you the unpleasantness. You know. Having to empty it and air the place out and all.”

“I appreciate that. But I think it’s better than anybody getting hurt.”

We drove in silence for a minute or two as the green, green trees flashed by the window.

“When do you think we’ll get into Phoenix?” he asked.

“Probably day after tomorrow. But if I really push for the miles, maybe not too late.”

“Sure, okay,” he said. “Whatever. Just so long as we get there.”

“And back,” I added. Because he didn’t add it.

“If I can just get there,” Chester said, “I’ll be okay.”





Chapter Ten:




* * *





Gobble Gobble Shine

I woke in the morning somewhere west of the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma.

We had stopped at an RV park again, over Chester’s objections, because RV parks have restrooms with sinks. I didn’t want to wash the bedpan inside the Winnebago, for reasons I don’t want to—and hopefully don’t need to—explain in great detail.

The furnace was blowing hard, and underneath the roar of it I heard a strange noise that I couldn’t identify and would find hard to describe. Maybe a sort of warbling sound? But with that noisy fan blowing it was hard to be sure.

I sat up in bed and raised the curtain.

The Winnebago was completely surrounded by a sea of wild turkeys. The RVs beside us were similarly engulfed. There were easily hundreds of turkeys, and though I can’t claim I couldn’t see to the end of their flock, if I just looked at the immediate area, I got the eerie sense that this part of the country had turkeys where most locales have dirt.

The toms were massive and fat, and displayed a short, even fan of raised tail feathers. They had bluish faces with brilliant red neck wattles. The hens were thinner and more plain, with pale red heads and a beautiful crosshatch pattern at the ends of their wings.

They did indeed appear to be gobbling as a team, explaining the odd noise.

I was sleeping in the tiny bedroom at the back of the rig, and I leaned down past my feet and opened the accordion door to the main part of the RV’s cabin.

“Chester,” I said. “You’ve got to see this.”

He groaned and lifted his head.

“What’s that noise?” he asked, sounding mostly asleep.

He reached over and lifted his curtain. He looked out for a minute, grumbling slightly in his throat. Then he dropped the curtain and allowed his head to hit the pillow again.

“If I can’t eat them,” he said, “then I don’t care.”



We drank coffee and ate cereal quickly. I laid out the pills and poured the apple juice as efficiently as I could. All in an attempt to get on the road and get miles under our belt. But I had hooked up to the campground’s water the previous night so I could take a shower, and before we could leave I had to get out and unhook and stow the hose.

The turkeys had gobbled on to greener pastures.

A guy in the next campsite waved at me. He was thirtyish, with long hair and a bushy beard. He looked like a throwback to the time of hippies. He was even wearing Birkenstock sandals.

“Love your bumper stickers,” he said. “Really good.”

I wanted to shush him, but I didn’t want to be rude. Besides, it was already too late.

I coiled the hose and stowed it in the hatch under the living area, then climbed back inside. Chester was sitting on the edge of his foldout bed, and he watched me as I walked around raising all the curtains.

“Come on,” I said. “We have to get you up in the cab so we can drive.”

“Why can’t I just stay here?”

“Because there are no seat belts here. Come on.”

I reached out an arm. Chester did not take it.

“So? Drive carefully.”

“I always drive carefully. Trouble is, I have no control over making other drivers drive carefully. And I’m legally responsible for an unbelted passenger. Now, come on, Chester. We need to get some miles behind us. Grab on.”

He took hold of my arm, and I pulled him more or less to his feet.

It was only about three steps from his bed to the passenger seat. But it was a tough three steps, and getting tougher all the time.

As I was guiding him into his seat, halfway supporting him, halfway losing the battle and letting him drop, he said, “I thought you scraped off the bumper stickers.”

“Yeah, that was the plan. But they were stuck on pretty tight, and I didn’t want to scratch up your bumper.”