old
are you, boy?”
“Twenty three, sir.”
“How many years have you been in so far?”
“Four and a half, counting my time on Monkey
Island.”
“You see what I mean? You only need fifteen and half
more years and you could retire at thirty-eight. Maybe get yourself
a government job or buy a farm and work some more until your Social
Security kicks in. Then you put up your sign that says, Gone
Fishing. How about it?”
Jason cocked his head and pursed his lips. Thelma
cleared her throat, elbowed him, and whispered, “No.”
“Tell you what. Talk it over with your pretty wife on
your honeymoon. Let me know what you decide once you get back. You
need some dough for it?”
“Yes, sir. I haven’t had any paydays for almost a
year now. I don’t know how much Thelma has left after her train
ride way out here.”
The captain pulled out his wallet and counted out its
contents, which he shoved into Jason’s hands. “You can pay me back
when you get the back pay you’re owed.”
***
“Boy am I glad you two showed up when you did. You
were just in time.” Corporal Lance Ivers pretended the steering
wheel of his 1939 Oldsmobile was a pair of bongo drums. He tapped
out a beat in time with the big band’s song blasting through the
car’s lone speaker. “I was getting a case of cabin fever number
nine back there at the base. Forget California.” He started to
sing. “Las Vegas here I come. Right back where I started from. Turn
on your neon signs. Nevada here I come.”
At McDonalds Famous Barbeque in San Bernardino, Lance
ordered three burgers, fries, and sodas to go. “We can eat on the
run. I don’t know why they bother selling that barbeque. Their
burgers are the best there are.”
He pulled onto Route 66 and headed
north to Barstow. After tossing the remnants of his lunch out the
window, Lance continued singing along with every tune he could find
as he turned the radio’s dial. In Barstow, he topped off the fuel
tank and bought six more sodas. He smacked his lips as he finished
the first and tossed the bottle over the car’s top and onto the
sand next to the road’s shoulder. “I can’t drink beer because it
makes me too sleepy. But that doesn’t mean we can’t sing that
famous tune loved by sailors and soldiers everywhere, Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the
Wall .” He elbowed Thelma in her
ribs.
With the temperature at 109 degrees and body odors of
the two next to her combining to make her carsick, Thelma climbed
over the front seat and sought refuge in a nap on the back seat.
She listened as the duo in front sang, sometimes sharing the lead
vocals, sometimes harmonizing, but usually off key. The swaying
motion of the car and monotonous lyrics first hypnotized her and
then began to lull her to sleep:
Eighty-eight bottles of beer on the wall
Eighty-eight bottles of beer
Drank one down
Passed it around
Eighty-seven bottles of beer on the wall...
She drifted off to sleep at bottle number eighty-six.
After the song ended, Lance turned to weightier subjects, such as
life as a civilian. “I heard the captain giving you his spiel about
signing up for six more years.”
“Yeah. What gives with him anyway?”
“Who knows for sure? Sometimes I think they give out
promotions to officers and NCOs who can talk you into re-enlisting.
Not me, Uncle Sam. My time is up in 102 days and it’s good-by Army
Air Force and hello world. Lance Ivers is back in town.”
“So where are you headed when you get out?”
“Back home of course. But just for a visit. My mom’s
been hounding me pretty regular like about spending Thanksgiving
and Christmas back there.”
“Where are you from?”
“Upstate Michigan. Right about where Lake Huron and
Lake Michigan meet at. That’s what I love about Route 66. You hop
on it in Los Angles and it’s a straight shot all the way to
Chicago. Only four maybe five more hours once I hit Chicago and I’m
home sweet home. But when I stay for just a while it’s going
are you, boy?”
“Twenty three, sir.”
“How many years have you been in so far?”
“Four and a half, counting my time on Monkey
Island.”
“You see what I mean? You only need fifteen and half
more years and you could retire at thirty-eight. Maybe get yourself
a government job or buy a farm and work some more until your Social
Security kicks in. Then you put up your sign that says, Gone
Fishing. How about it?”
Jason cocked his head and pursed his lips. Thelma
cleared her throat, elbowed him, and whispered, “No.”
“Tell you what. Talk it over with your pretty wife on
your honeymoon. Let me know what you decide once you get back. You
need some dough for it?”
“Yes, sir. I haven’t had any paydays for almost a
year now. I don’t know how much Thelma has left after her train
ride way out here.”
The captain pulled out his wallet and counted out its
contents, which he shoved into Jason’s hands. “You can pay me back
when you get the back pay you’re owed.”
***
“Boy am I glad you two showed up when you did. You
were just in time.” Corporal Lance Ivers pretended the steering
wheel of his 1939 Oldsmobile was a pair of bongo drums. He tapped
out a beat in time with the big band’s song blasting through the
car’s lone speaker. “I was getting a case of cabin fever number
nine back there at the base. Forget California.” He started to
sing. “Las Vegas here I come. Right back where I started from. Turn
on your neon signs. Nevada here I come.”
At McDonalds Famous Barbeque in San Bernardino, Lance
ordered three burgers, fries, and sodas to go. “We can eat on the
run. I don’t know why they bother selling that barbeque. Their
burgers are the best there are.”
He pulled onto Route 66 and headed
north to Barstow. After tossing the remnants of his lunch out the
window, Lance continued singing along with every tune he could find
as he turned the radio’s dial. In Barstow, he topped off the fuel
tank and bought six more sodas. He smacked his lips as he finished
the first and tossed the bottle over the car’s top and onto the
sand next to the road’s shoulder. “I can’t drink beer because it
makes me too sleepy. But that doesn’t mean we can’t sing that
famous tune loved by sailors and soldiers everywhere, Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the
Wall .” He elbowed Thelma in her
ribs.
With the temperature at 109 degrees and body odors of
the two next to her combining to make her carsick, Thelma climbed
over the front seat and sought refuge in a nap on the back seat.
She listened as the duo in front sang, sometimes sharing the lead
vocals, sometimes harmonizing, but usually off key. The swaying
motion of the car and monotonous lyrics first hypnotized her and
then began to lull her to sleep:
Eighty-eight bottles of beer on the wall
Eighty-eight bottles of beer
Drank one down
Passed it around
Eighty-seven bottles of beer on the wall...
She drifted off to sleep at bottle number eighty-six.
After the song ended, Lance turned to weightier subjects, such as
life as a civilian. “I heard the captain giving you his spiel about
signing up for six more years.”
“Yeah. What gives with him anyway?”
“Who knows for sure? Sometimes I think they give out
promotions to officers and NCOs who can talk you into re-enlisting.
Not me, Uncle Sam. My time is up in 102 days and it’s good-by Army
Air Force and hello world. Lance Ivers is back in town.”
“So where are you headed when you get out?”
“Back home of course. But just for a visit. My mom’s
been hounding me pretty regular like about spending Thanksgiving
and Christmas back there.”
“Where are you from?”
“Upstate Michigan. Right about where Lake Huron and
Lake Michigan meet at. That’s what I love about Route 66. You hop
on it in Los Angles and it’s a straight shot all the way to
Chicago. Only four maybe five more hours once I hit Chicago and I’m
home sweet home. But when I stay for just a while it’s going
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