So Long, Chester Wheeler(69)

“Turns out you only think that when you don’t know the person at all.”

“When’re you coming home?”

“Day after tomorrow if I’m lucky. But, Anna. Come on. You know how much I hate blind dates.”

“Brian. Will change. Your mind.”

“No, but there’s more to it than that, Anna. It’s more important than just hating blind dates. Tim is gone and I’ve been so wrapped up in Chester’s life that I haven’t even processed that. How can I start a new relationship when I haven’t even figured out the old one?”

I thought, I did something wrong. Or I was something wrong. And I don’t even know what.

But even as I said it, I heard her likely reply. “Figuring things out is overrated.” She said that to me every chance she got.

This time, not so much. She simply repeated her previous announcement.

“Brian. Will change. Your mind.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but the call had been dropped. Either that or Anna had already hung up. It was not out of the question. She didn’t always hang around for the word goodbye.



I made it into and mostly through Nebraska, but I didn’t make it out the other side that day. I was just too tired.

I found an RV park near the Platte River and set down roots for the night, even though it was only five or six o’clock in the afternoon.

I wanted to hook up to water so I could shower for about a year without draining the tank. Or, anyway, until the small water heater—which I had turned on nearly a whole state earlier—was tapped out, whichever came first. Well. Running out of hot water was obviously going to come first.

I stepped down and unlocked the storage hatch under the body of the Winnie with my small key. Pulled out the water hose and began uncoiling it. I hadn’t done a good job putting it away, so it had a few snarls.

I just stood there for a minute or two, half looking at the river and half looking at the hose as I worked.

There were four ladies sitting outside in the space next to mine. They looked to be in their sixties, with pastel sweat suits, and hair more deliberately styled than one might expect of campers. They had a fire going in the ring firepit provided with the sites, and they were roasting weenies over it on long barbecue forks with wooden handles.

I heard one of the ladies say, “He’s one of them communists.”

I looked over, curious as to whom they were talking about. They were all staring right at me.

“Who, me?”

“We’re talking amongst ourselves, honey.”

I decided to let it go by. It seemed the better part of wisdom not to ask any questions.

I set about hooking up the hose between the provided spigot and the water fitting on the Winnebago.

“But yes,” she added. “If you must know, we were talking about you.”

I straightened up and tried to get all of this information to work together in my brain. It did not go especially well.

“I’m not a communist,” I said. “I’m definitely a small cog in the capitalist machine.”

“Which is exactly what a communist would say. Who else talks like that? I ask you.”

A different lady said that. She had a high, squeaky voice, like a doll suddenly come to life.

“Where’s all this coming from?” I asked.

“We were reading your bumper stickers,” the original lady said.

Ah. My bumper stickers. That explained a lot.

I opened my mouth to say something. I didn’t know exactly what it would be, but I had a general idea. I assumed it would be the same sort of something that would have come out of my mouth at any other juncture of my life. One, I would be clever. Two, I would stand up for myself. Three, I would put their meddling to shame. And fourth but not least, I would clearly show myself to be right, whether they were able to see and accept my rightness or not.

“You ladies have a nice evening,” I heard myself say.

Then I stepped back toward the driver’s door of the rig.

“What in hell’s that supposed to mean?” the doll-voice lady squeaked.

I didn’t turn around and engage them. I didn’t even look back to gauge their reaction. Over my shoulder I said, “It means I hope you ladies have a nice evening.”

“See? He won’t tell us,” another one of them said.

I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. It was one of those dark comedy moments that come through a life now and again. But I more or less kept it to myself.

I retreated into my own private space.

I showered until the hot water ran out, made and ate a sandwich, and put myself to bed. I did not dwell on the exchange, or argue with my temporary new neighbors in my head, or feel any lingering sense of having been ruffled over it.

It was their objection, so I let it be their problem. It really had nothing to do with me.

I slept well, and for a good long time.



The following morning I woke up early and drove all the way home.

I shouldn’t have. Every mile of the second half of the drive, I knew I should be giving up and finding a place to stop and sleep.

It was about sixteen hours of driving, all told, and the road hypnosis set in hard. The lane markers became like a hypnotist’s pocket watch, figuratively swaying back and forth in front of my face.

I stopped for coffee six times, and drove with the windows open, blasting cold air into my face. I purposely put on music I hated, that I found grating and jarring, and turned it up to full volume.