Flopping at Funcle Bill's
My plan was to drive straight to Needmore Indiana, arriving in the very dark, very wee hours Friday morning. I had a Mapquest map and turn by turn directions, so I figured it'd be easy.
Mom was skeptical that this was a good idea. She wisely pointed out that Needmore might be short on street lights, cell towers and the all-night fuel stops I was used to.
Considering the fact that I'd be arriving in Needmore at 3am, mom talked me into bedding down at my uncle's house, just outside West Terre Haute Indiana, and getting a fresh start Friday morning.
Robey liked the idea and said she was gonna ask funcle Bill to make her one of his special omelets.
“Funcle” is short for “fucking uncle”, a nickname he gave himself, commenting on the ukulele videos that my cousin Mike, his son, accidentally came across on YouTube. (I was outed! I swear I was gonna to tell 'em!)
I told Robey that funcle Bill is up and out pretty early during the week, so that might not happen. She was cool with that, but I promised I'd see what I could do.
Naming The Van
We hit the road about 8:30pm.
Mom warned me about a problem she'd been having with the van: while putting gas in the tank, the automatic shut-off on the pump keeps stopping the flow as if the tank is full.
An hour on the road, at the first fuel stop, I did everything I could to get the fuel to go into the tank without kicking off the pump every few seconds. I pulled the nozzle out to where it was barely in the hole. I tried angling the nozzle so the fuel would flow in a different direction, but nothing worked.
Click! Click!
The fuel clicking off got to be such an annoyance; such a deranging character flaw in this generic van, that names with which to christen the vehicle poured out of me. Many of which rhymed with my profession. (Think about it . . . Uncle Jeff will get this one.)
The fueling problem made me crazy. After the first fill up I realized I hadn't completely filled the tank. In fact, it was less than three quarters full. Ever more creative names exploded out of me!
Girls HATE Peeing Next To The Highway
For the trip I'd packed my iPod with various entertaining things for Robey and I to listen to: Frank Zappa, David Sedaris and of course, all the ukulele music I could find. But, because radio broadcasts are stronger at night, for reasons I can't explain, it overwhelmed my little iPod transmitter making it useless.
Not that it mattered much to Robey. She was embroiled in a battle over her fedora, which she engaged in fully through her light-speed texting ability.
She explained to me that the fedora that was currently squashed down on her head wasn't her's, and it had caused tense negotiations and accusations to be sent and received via the glowing black bar of soap glued to her hand.
After a few hours on the road Robey would look up from her phone to tell me she had to pee, just as we passed well lighted, well populated exits.
She did this 4 or 5 times then I told her to take a break from texting or she'd end up peeing on the side of the highway. Girls HATE peeing on the side of the highway.
It was a trial. Each time her phone chirped I'd have to tell her to take a breath and leave it be.
She paid attention to the road and pointed out an exit with only one gas station. It was facing away from the highway and it wasn't well lit, so I wasn't sure it was even open, but I didn't know where the next exit would be, so I took a chance.
Lights were on inside, but when I tried the door it was locked. Then I noticed a sign instructing me to use the other door. It was locked as well, but there was a buzzer. Sigh. I pushed it.
An old, unshaven, unfriendly looking man, who'd been pushing a mop, allowed us in. Robey headed straight to the restroom. We did our business and I told her to get a few snacks for the road. She started to protest that we had plenty in the van, but I 'shushed' her. It seemed impolite to make this guy let us in just so we could use the restrooms that he'd likely just cleaned.
. . .Not much of a cliff hanger. No one was chased with an axe, it just got too late to keep writing.
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