Leaving Le Roy, Illinois was a milestone; it meant we had a better than even chance of arriving back in Montana without hearing the bus cough and sputter as it coasted to a halt along the side of the road – a clear signal it was out of fuel. From here on I knew where I had stopped before and if they hadn’t moved them, then I had a reasonable amount of certainty those places were still there. Then I realized we were still several hours away from Minnesota so I wasn’t about to bet anything just yet.

What we didn’t have was a way to determine our chances of arriving back without experiencing any other mechanical problems. It made me wish I had a crystal ball but I know now that if I had one and looked into it then, I would have gone running off screaming into the night. The next scene might’ve showed me sitting cross-legged in the middle of the Loony Bin floor sticking sewing needles through my eyelids. But, there’s no way I would ever know because immediately after I saw what was about to happen I would have dropped and broke the damn thing as I began my course of reckless abandon.

Brad and I had been discussing the broken propane tank off and on during the entire trip. All kinds of theories were spawned then rejected for all kinds of reasons and we were in no position to begin any experiments or to investigate inside the tank without some form of assurance we were on the right track. When we arrived in Fargo, North Dakota the narrow yet functioning track we were on was ripped right out from under us while we sat smack dab in the middle of the FJTP parking lot.

It was about 10 PM when I pulled into the lot and parked in front of their pump. All seemed quite content; it was a quiet, chilly night. Muted sounds of highway traffic could be heard in the distance and the all too familiar throaty rattles of diesel engines were idling nearby with their drivers inside taking a nap. And, there was the all too familiar throaty rattle of Rip Van Brad snoring away behind the seat. I paused long enough to smile at the blessed creature then reached down to perform a two-handed chicken choke on him. Luckily for him he woke up, which is what I could’ve said I was trying to do if he suspected I was up to something a little more sinister.

“What’s up?” He asked, rubbing the sleepers from his eyes, “Where are we?”

“Fargo…Flying J,” I said, grabbing my jacket as I jumped off the bus, “We should be back on the road in a jiffy!” And I went inside to collect the attendant. The short hop between the pump and the door left little time to suspect that we were about to come face-to-face with a lunatic.

Inside were all the things I was used to seeing; the coffee pot was over there, the restrooms were just there in the corner, the restaurant was around that other corner and right inside the door, standing behind the fuel counter was Don.

He did nothing to exhibit the level of his lunacy.

“Good evening,” He said, which was just about the sort of thing you’d expect to hear out of a lunatic, “What can I do to you?”

“I’d like to have some propane dispensed into our vehicle waiting just yon,” I pointed, “If you’d be so kind.” I figured that since he started it I’d lavish on it.

“Very fine, I’ll get right on it.” And then he turned to walk around the counter. I instantly noticed he walked slightly bent over and with a severe hobble.

“Good Lord,” I said to myself, “The tires on the bus are gonna rot before he gets out there!” You know how when someone walks slower than you, you tend to walk at their speed? Well, I felt like I was growing old doing that with him so I circled around him and made small talk.

“How’d you screw up your back, Don?”

“I fell a long time ago, just got it fixed.”

“That’s…” I made another pass around him and waved my hand toward his back, “…Fixed?”

“Should’a seen it b’fore.”

Lunatics are crazy people.

Just before dawn we reached the bus and Don hooked up the nozzle to the tank then reached down to throw the switch on the pump. Now, up until that point he’d done the exact same thing everyone else had done. The next step I watched everyone else do was to s-l-o-w-l-y open the valve to begin filling the tank. Don must’ve taken a walk during that part of the propane pumping class because he didn’t perform that step…he opened her up full bore like he was pulling the ripcord on a parachute.

The next thing I heard was an awful screech then the sort of hammer sound you hear when you suddenly turn off the water. He closed the valve and tried it again. Nothing.

“It won’t fill,” He said simply, turning to look at me.

“No shit?! I wonder why not? What have you done? It’s been filling fine ‘til now, you idiot! You’re not supposed to open the valve like that! Do you realize you just screwed up the only working tank we have?!”

“Well, it’s cold, I’m gonna go back inside.” He said, turning to hobble off.

I yelled after him, “I hope you make it inside before your boots freeze to the pavement!”

Brad and I stood there unable to believe what we’d just witnessed and we really had to refrain from grabbing my pistol then run inside to shoot up the joint. Instead, we backed the bus underneath the lights and turned it off to sit and discuss our options. Presently, we determined the startling truth was there were no options; we had to fix one of the tanks.

Now, there’s something I’ve kept from you. During the two months we lived in Virginia I purchased a new valve to replace the bad one. But, I never got around to replacing it because I wasn’t sure which valve was the culprit. Earlier I told you each tank has two valves; one on the tank itself and another fastened to the side of the bus with a filler tube connecting them. And, as Brad and I sat there inside the bus, drinking mass quantities of beer to squelch our tempers, I picked up that new valve and looked at it and as I tossed it from palm to palm, a thought occurred to me.

“Ughhhh, Brad,” I said, “What if it’s the valve on the side of the bus and not the one on the tank? We could easily replace it, right?”

“ Yeah…” He thought out loud, “We got all the tools we need right here on the bus.”

We went straight to the toolbox and gathered up a bushel basket full of tools and while Brad held the flashlight, I dismantled the filler tube and removed the valve from the side of the bus – it took all of 5 minutes. Now, I may not be able to listen to a motor and diagnose a problem, but it doesn’t take a Mr. Goodwrench to compare two parts to see they’re different. Everything between the old and new valve were identical…except for the backside of the old one – it didn’t have the washer the new one had!

“Brad!” I squealed, “Look at this…what a stroke of luck, look here…” I said, showing the valves to him, “When Don pulled the ripcord it musta forced the washer off the valve! Say, where do you reckon it went?”

By this time it was around midnight and the late hour had our brains fogged but one of us should have paid more attention to that last question, as it would have saved us a whole lot of trouble.

We put the new valve into service, stowed all our tools away then pulled the bus back in front of the pump. We high-fived then jubilantly went inside for a cup of coffee and to get our real-life gremlin back outside to pump our fuel.

Again he attached the filler nozzle but this time I had a pipe wrench that I kept slapping in the palm of my other hand.

“Ummm….Don,” I offered as a means to ease the awkwardness of the situation, “Before I do anything rash, let’s come to an understanding. I want you to reach down and open that valve nice and slow. So slow that I can count them hairs on the back of that…” I pointed, “…hand there because if I lose count I’m gonna jerk a knot on your head with this wrench.” I said, waving it in front of his face.

He followed my instructions exactly and still the pump ground to a halt signaling the fact that no fuel was being pumped into the tank.

It was déjà vu all over again.

“It won’t fill,” He said simply, turning to look at me.

“Don’t…” I violently shook the wrench, “…piss me off, Don!”

“Well, it’s cold, I’m gonna go back inside.” He said, turning to hobble off once again. But, this time he stopped ever so slightly and glanced back at us. “I’m not coming out here any more,” He said, “Your bus obviously has a mechanical problem that needs to be fixed.”

As I watched his epoch journey across the lot I couldn’t help but wonder if his Mother liked him at all.

I parked the bus back under the lights where it was before and we sat inside trying to figure out what went wrong. But, we were tired and decided that sleep was probably the best friend we could ask for. Brad settled down where he’d been hardly thirty minutes prior and I tried to nap on the driver’s seat, which immediately answered one of my nagging questions; I wonder why we never hear of any school bus drivers falling asleep at the wheel?

It was brutally apparent Bert and Ernie used that type of seat for just that reason, so sitting there listening to Brad’s snoring crescendo, I did nothing but think about the two tanks.

“What is it,” I thought, “About these two tanks that they share the same reason for their failure?” I picked up the old valve and studied it as I thought about the new valve. “Where did that washer go to?” I asked myself. “It can’t just be floating around in the tube there somewhere, can it?”

Then it hit me, “Floating! Good gravy,” I said, “That has to be it!”

It was a split second thought but just like that I remembered something Stan in Minnesota said after he tried to fix the original broken tank. “That valve is probably an auto shut off type and I don’t have any of them." He did elaborate on what made the valve shut off automatically, it didn't register then.

It made perfect sense - it has to use a float!

Finally, the answer to my big problem had been solved and in so doing another had instantly taken its place at the front of the line; how do I evacuate the propane still in the tank?

The answer was one that would require several more beers to build up the courage to try it.

Continue to CHAPTER FIFTEEN