Hebert's California Dream

The following excerpt is drawn from Hebert Returns to America, by Josef Graf, a compendium of humor that deals with modern issues.

 

High school was tough on me. I made out poorly when I took to highlighting notes with a black magic marker.  I took Introduction to Shakespeare and was disappointed. William never showed up the entire semester.

One afternoon, my friend, Rassy, and I were in a grade 11 science class, enduring a pedantic lecture on the moral life of boron. My mouth was both throbbing with pain and effervescing. I had ignored the cardinal rule of Chemistry class: never lick the spoon. Out of the blue, a notion struck Rassy which he couldn’t help voicing.

“God, I can’t stand this!  Why don’t we go to California - or would you rather inhale more of this crap, Hebert?”

“Are you kidding? If you’re serious, then hey, let’s go! I’d much prefer a grove of sunny palms than another minute of this pointless babble.” It was mid-winter, and the call of sunny climes was in the air. We were a couple of coyotes ripe for change.

Rassy and I worked out some logistics, which consisted primarily of an altruistic pooling of money for the relocation. Rassy put in $800, and my half added another twenty.

 

Three days later, we were on a bus heading west, a ride uneventful until we came to the Rockies, where driver Charley “Manic” Hooble took the wheel for a shift. Hooble had totaled 6 busses in the past year, but was a nephew of the CEO of Gray-Fleabitten-Mutt Busline, so was assured a lifetime slot despite his atrocious performance.

As the bus lurched and rocked its way down steep terrain, shuddering around corners and hurtling against guardrails, a hobo from behind imposed his muskrat odor and swarthy features upon us, proceeded to introduce himself as Clebe, and entertained us with an account of the one and only romantic adventure in his life.

“I loved that gal - I used to call her my little Bee-s**t, because she was my honey! That’s what it is, you know - a hive is just an outhouse for the bees.”

Clebe couldn’t remember anything before May 23^rd, 1957 (so adopted that as his birthday), when he had awoken to find himself in a meadow under a tallulah tree. He had bonded with the tree and, although unable to sustain the relationship when he had to travel on, every time he came across a tallulah he experienced deep filial passion. He was a rebel by nature anyway - rather than abide by arboreal parental counsel to stay in one place, to put down roots, he tended to up and take to wandering like a shiftless mink. Three days was his limit for staying in one place.

Luck swung Clebe’s way when he’d entered a contest and won a lifetime pass on Gray-Fleabitten-Mutt Busline. From that day, he was freed from the existential anxiety of procuring room and board. When he needed sleep, or wanted shelter, he’d board a long-distance bus. And, setting free his inner scavenger, he satisfied his hunger on leftovers at bus stop cafes. All Clebe needed for social life could be had on board a bus. In fact, that was where he’d met his little Bee-s**t.

It was on a westbound run out of Buffalo, NY. By Kansas, they were smitten with each other, and by Las Vegas, had given way to matrimonial ambition with a quickie marriage between bus changes. Honeymoon ran from Vegas to LA.

For months, the newlyweds had drifted like swans in blissful swoon back and forth across North America. But, ultimately, it was the swoon that became responsible for their parting. Bee-s**t, in a particularly euphoric mood, had one day missed re-boarding the bus, which had carried a snoozing Clebe 300 miles before he awoke to find himself, once more, a solitary figure.

Three years of fruitless searching like a lost, lone raven, up and down, back and forth across North America, had resulted in nothing more than a faint memory of Bee-s**t’s perfume. Presumably, Bee-s**t, also, was searching for Clebe, up and down, back and forth across the continent.

Ultimately, one day, a statistician on a New Orleans to Miami run who had lumbered down the aisle like a lop-sided raccoon and parked himself beside Clebe, had estimated for him that the chances of a meeting taking place were approximately 14,000 to one (give or take four percentage points, nine times out of ten).

 

Author’s note: The reader can explore more on the outcome of the unrequitable nomads, in a future story: What cards will Lady Destiny deal? Will they ever meet again? Was Bee-s**t pregnant when they parted? Will Clebe change his socks before they rot off his feet?

Author's Note

Excerpted from Hebert Returns to America, by author Josef Graf. Further viewing available on the site � www.evsite.net

Reviews

[CaptainWak]

Heh. Definitely worthwhile.