Chapter Twenty Eight
We passed an Amish Golf Course on the way. I wondered for a moment if I was hallucinating.
Deborah had struck up a conversation with Lisa about health and fitness. "I'm taking a yoga class three days a week, it has really toned up my stomach and thighs."
"I've got other ways of firming up my thighs, right Marty?" I looked at her in the rear view mirror and winced. Cynthia shot her a nasty glare. Mary Beth grabbed my arm and squeezed.
"We do it in a room that is at least a hundred degrees, it really loosens you up quickly." She was totally oblivious to the nasty feelings developing in the car in much the same way she was unaware that she had sent me to near death when she had called her own sinking automobile her "Baby."
"Some people don't need a warm room to be loose." Cynthia shot in Lisa's direction.
"I especially feel it in my groin." Deborah smiled proudly. Mary Beth spit out a laugh she had tried to stifle. Lisa threw back her head with a chuckle. Cynthia covered her lips.
We drove all around Vincennes, a city of about 20,000. We were stopped several times at railroad crossings that seemed to be just about everywhere. I swear that we were stopped by the same train twice. We drove past Vincennes University and the George Rogers Clark Memorial. We drove into Illinois via the ornate Memorial Bridge across the Wabash River. We drove around to the forest preserve. We came to another bridge that would take us back into Indiana across the Wabash again. It was a rather non-descript looking structure. It would be nothing more than a hiway with a concrete guardrail except for the green sign erected at it's entry..."Wabash River..Red Skelton Bridge."
Red Skelton was a comedian in the 40's, 50's, and 60's. He became a statesman and a painter in his later years. He did portraits of clowns. In the 60's he had his own television show on CBS. He would end each program by saying "Good night..and may God Bless." He was born in Vincennes and as a result got a bridge named for him. A bridge is the final tribute to a person that has outlived their usefulness. Naming a bridge after someone is like saying "Go ahead and die now!"
On my trip to heaven I saw him talking to God. He was still a comedian in heaven and had a flock of people following him around, laughing at all of his jokes. At the end of his discussion he looked at God and said "Good night...and may YOU bless." The laughter was deafening.
As the sun was sinking we arrived at the Holiday Inn motel and checked in to our rooms. It was right beneath hiway 41 but the traffic could not be heard inside the rooms. Bob immediately put on his giant swim trunks, grabbed his safety goggles and water toys and scrambled to the swimming pool. Frightened parents grabbed their children from the water and rushed them to their rooms.
Louis headed off to find the ice machine, his bucket under his arm. I took Oprah for a long walk. The women gathered together in one room and started a gab fest. I was afraid it might turn into a riot before the night was through and that gave me the energy to give Oprah an "extra" long walk. Granger and Coach found a basketball goal and started a game of HORSE. My son Louis sat with his mother by the pool and kept an eye on Bob.
I walked past every fast food restaurant that could ever be as I walked. There was every kind of really bad food known to man. Vincennes was my kind of town.
I walked a little too long into the night, past all the quickie restaurants and their signs, hoisted high above the street on giant poles in order to be seen from the highway. The neighborhoods became quaint and genteel, filled with lovely little homes with a European flair. I was getting very hungry and Oprah had become too tired to walk on his own. I came to a quaint little bistro, its lights cutting into the encroaching fog. It was called "The Feedbag", a terrible name embossed on a tasteful golden, lit plaque on the door. I opened the door partially and got the attention of a bus-boy that looked remarkably like the late, grunge rock singer Kurt Cobain.
"Listen, I am really hungry, is it all right if I bring my dog inside?"
His facial expression was empty and expressionless, but his voice was full of sweetness. "Sure, come on in, sit anywhere."
"Thanks, I've never been in Vincennes before and I'm a little lost...." He walked away in the middle of my sentence and began clearing a very dirty table across the room.
The room was packed full of people in animated discussion. Their conversations were not limited to the individual tables. Some were waving in sign language from one end of the room to the other. The mood was intense and still filled with joy.
"Hey Marty, come sit over here! Bring Oprah!" Who in the hell knew my name and that of my little furry companion? A white man and black man sat side by side in a booth 10 yards away. They were both wearing black, bolero hats and flashy shirts. They bore a striking resemblance to two of the greatest guitar players that ever walked the earth. As I approached the table I saw a young roguish black man sitting across from them. The white man extended an open palm to present him to me. "Marty, I'd like you to meet the legendary Robert Johnson."
"Bob." I tipped my head in approval. Stevie Ray Vaughan and Jimi Hendrix laughed hysterically at me referring to Robert Johnson as "Bob". They held him in highest esteem.
Kurt Cobain brought a heaping bowl full of perfectly fried chicken to the table and slid it softly onto the red speckled Formica. He extended a handful of napkins towards me and politely spoke. "Here's your chicken Marty, I think you'll like it... I made it especially for you." His face then burst into a fireworks display of glee. "Curt done good?"
"Curt done realll good." I smiled.
Deborah had struck up a conversation with Lisa about health and fitness. "I'm taking a yoga class three days a week, it has really toned up my stomach and thighs."
"I've got other ways of firming up my thighs, right Marty?" I looked at her in the rear view mirror and winced. Cynthia shot her a nasty glare. Mary Beth grabbed my arm and squeezed.
"We do it in a room that is at least a hundred degrees, it really loosens you up quickly." She was totally oblivious to the nasty feelings developing in the car in much the same way she was unaware that she had sent me to near death when she had called her own sinking automobile her "Baby."
"Some people don't need a warm room to be loose." Cynthia shot in Lisa's direction.
"I especially feel it in my groin." Deborah smiled proudly. Mary Beth spit out a laugh she had tried to stifle. Lisa threw back her head with a chuckle. Cynthia covered her lips.
We drove all around Vincennes, a city of about 20,000. We were stopped several times at railroad crossings that seemed to be just about everywhere. I swear that we were stopped by the same train twice. We drove past Vincennes University and the George Rogers Clark Memorial. We drove into Illinois via the ornate Memorial Bridge across the Wabash River. We drove around to the forest preserve. We came to another bridge that would take us back into Indiana across the Wabash again. It was a rather non-descript looking structure. It would be nothing more than a hiway with a concrete guardrail except for the green sign erected at it's entry..."Wabash River..Red Skelton Bridge."
Red Skelton was a comedian in the 40's, 50's, and 60's. He became a statesman and a painter in his later years. He did portraits of clowns. In the 60's he had his own television show on CBS. He would end each program by saying "Good night..and may God Bless." He was born in Vincennes and as a result got a bridge named for him. A bridge is the final tribute to a person that has outlived their usefulness. Naming a bridge after someone is like saying "Go ahead and die now!"
On my trip to heaven I saw him talking to God. He was still a comedian in heaven and had a flock of people following him around, laughing at all of his jokes. At the end of his discussion he looked at God and said "Good night...and may YOU bless." The laughter was deafening.
As the sun was sinking we arrived at the Holiday Inn motel and checked in to our rooms. It was right beneath hiway 41 but the traffic could not be heard inside the rooms. Bob immediately put on his giant swim trunks, grabbed his safety goggles and water toys and scrambled to the swimming pool. Frightened parents grabbed their children from the water and rushed them to their rooms.
Louis headed off to find the ice machine, his bucket under his arm. I took Oprah for a long walk. The women gathered together in one room and started a gab fest. I was afraid it might turn into a riot before the night was through and that gave me the energy to give Oprah an "extra" long walk. Granger and Coach found a basketball goal and started a game of HORSE. My son Louis sat with his mother by the pool and kept an eye on Bob.
I walked past every fast food restaurant that could ever be as I walked. There was every kind of really bad food known to man. Vincennes was my kind of town.
I walked a little too long into the night, past all the quickie restaurants and their signs, hoisted high above the street on giant poles in order to be seen from the highway. The neighborhoods became quaint and genteel, filled with lovely little homes with a European flair. I was getting very hungry and Oprah had become too tired to walk on his own. I came to a quaint little bistro, its lights cutting into the encroaching fog. It was called "The Feedbag", a terrible name embossed on a tasteful golden, lit plaque on the door. I opened the door partially and got the attention of a bus-boy that looked remarkably like the late, grunge rock singer Kurt Cobain.
"Listen, I am really hungry, is it all right if I bring my dog inside?"
His facial expression was empty and expressionless, but his voice was full of sweetness. "Sure, come on in, sit anywhere."
"Thanks, I've never been in Vincennes before and I'm a little lost...." He walked away in the middle of my sentence and began clearing a very dirty table across the room.
The room was packed full of people in animated discussion. Their conversations were not limited to the individual tables. Some were waving in sign language from one end of the room to the other. The mood was intense and still filled with joy.
"Hey Marty, come sit over here! Bring Oprah!" Who in the hell knew my name and that of my little furry companion? A white man and black man sat side by side in a booth 10 yards away. They were both wearing black, bolero hats and flashy shirts. They bore a striking resemblance to two of the greatest guitar players that ever walked the earth. As I approached the table I saw a young roguish black man sitting across from them. The white man extended an open palm to present him to me. "Marty, I'd like you to meet the legendary Robert Johnson."
"Bob." I tipped my head in approval. Stevie Ray Vaughan and Jimi Hendrix laughed hysterically at me referring to Robert Johnson as "Bob". They held him in highest esteem.
Kurt Cobain brought a heaping bowl full of perfectly fried chicken to the table and slid it softly onto the red speckled Formica. He extended a handful of napkins towards me and politely spoke. "Here's your chicken Marty, I think you'll like it... I made it especially for you." His face then burst into a fireworks display of glee. "Curt done good?"
"Curt done realll good." I smiled.
3 Comments:
This post has been removed by a blog administrator.
By Jennifer, at 7:57 AM
Do they have riding carts at an Amish golf course?
By Skokie Shakes, at 9:47 PM
Yes they do, and on chilly days you can cover your legs with the most gorgeous quilts
By Joe, at 12:03 PM
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