I decided to keep Brad out of the loop and allowed him to peacefully slumber while I began to formulate a plan so dangerous that it would make the bomb dropped on Hiroshima seem like so many party favors.

It was a plan so monumental in nature that if precisely executed, it would be a stunt that Hollywood would pay through the nose to get on film. And, as I sat there sipping on a beer, I weighed the chances of its success; if I did well then we’d be back on the road in half an hour. On the other hand, if I made even the slightest mistake and botched it then the only thing I would succeed in creating was the world’s largest petroleum disaster ever recorded. This prospect alone caused me to consider some very serious issues before I moved forward with my plan.

I’ve been a firefighter since I was 16 and that job has allowed me to learn an awful lot about various fuels and their characteristics. Propane is, by far, the most unpredictable and certainly the most hazardous fuel to combat. All the fire training classes I attended taught the same things; in its natural state it is odorless – that rotten egg smell you detect is added during the extraction processes – it is invisible and, to make it even more fun, it’s heavier than air. That last attribute is what makes propane so surprisingly volatile because it will follow every natural low area and it will “puddle”. Then, there’s this other little fact to consider – its expansive properties are startling; propane is 270 times more compact as a liquid than as a gas. This means that one liquid gallon of propane will produce 270 gallons of gas. As long as a tank is intact – meaning no leaks – then it remains a liquid. What keeps it a liquid is pressure and how much pressure is inside any given tank depends upon the amount of liquid. It’s quite the vicious circle.

You know, the subconscious mind is capable of performing many surprising tasks and mine, just like that, decided to create, on purpose I should add, an intentional leak.

I took another sip and surveyed the parking lot around the languishing bus. Hardly seventy-five feet in front of me was a five-thousand gallon propane tank. Over there to the left were numerous gasoline and diesel pumps, and just behind me were an undetermined number of idling tractor trailers. Then of course there were the buildings, the people inside the trucks and then there was Don.

“Well…” I said, doing the calculations in my head, “…the fireball will consume a five block radius, at least I’ll take him with me.”

Next, I seriously considered calling the EPA so that I could get them involved in the catastrophe but I wasn’t all that sure I could coordinate their being able to arrive and get all set up before I launched the event. Then, as a last endeavor to do the right thing, I did a quick check on the prevailing winds and called Kansas to let them know they should advise their air traffic controllers that a fully laden school bus would soon be entering their airspace and when it touched down to call my Sister to let her know where Brad was at.

As far as everybody else was concerned, I placed my faith in God knowing he was perfectly suited to sort everyone out.

I returned to the tool boxes and felt it necessary to extract every tool I could carry. I reasoned that if it exploded, I didn’t want to be digging in the back of the bus looking for some stupid wrench - I wanted to be right there to watch it happen. I was certain that the valves on both tanks were suffering from the same problem so picking which tank to work on was easy – I chose to operate on the original broken tank because it contained the least amount of fuel.

The first thing to remove was the filler tube from between the two valves, next came the four bolts securing the valve body to the tank itself. My breaths shortened progressively as each of the first three bolts were loosened then removed. When I got to the fourth bolt I forced myself to stop and peer out from underneath the bus to be sure that ground zero was relatively deserted then took a deep breath, held it and loosened the final bolt.

The pressure inside the tank was enough to blow the valve body away causing me to yank back my hand with sufficient momentum to send it crashing into the frame of the bus. Ordinarily, I would’ve cursed but I didn’t have any time to do that or nurse the injury as I scurried from underneath it to rush inside and stand as close to Don as possible.

When I barged through the door he eyed me curiously, “What can I do to you now,” He said.

“Nothing,” I breathed heavily, approaching the counter, “Just waiting for it to warm up out there.”

“It’s the middle of September…I’m afraid it’s gonna be a while before it does any of that,” He opined.

“Ahhh, but Don,” I said, resting my arms on the counter and leaned way over to stare him in the face, “You shouldn’t be so sure of things like that – there’re Dipshits everywhere, wouldn’t you agree?”

Changing the subject, he asked, “Didja get your bus fixed yet?”

“Working on it now,” I said, taking a quick glance outside, “Just taking a break.”

I didn’t have the slightest idea how long it would take for the air to clear so I made up a time that seemed right; twenty-two minutes. “Cripes,” I thought, “I’m doing this crazy stunt on a wing and a prayer anyway, who needs a rocket scientist to help them figure out that if it hasn’t wafted over to somewhere else by then, then you simply wait another twenty-two minutes.”

When the time had elapsed the air around the bus was determined to be safe and I disappeared back underneath of it to remove the last bolt and extract the valve. Trying to work the float, I was surprised to discover how lo-tech the whole assembly was – it was stuck hard and fast because it had gone past center and then stayed there. Taking it apart was easy; it merely took a hammer and a drift punch to remove the pin and the whole thing fell apart in my hands. The valve, now stripped of the guts that made up the float, was identical to the one we previously installed on the other side. It took just moments to replace it and tighten the bolts.

Next, I turned my attention to re-attaching the hose and was startled to see that the valve on this side of the bus was exactly like the one removed from the other side in that it, too, was missing its washer. But, it never occurred to me to question the duplicity of that fact as I quickly attached the hose. Five minutes later all the tools had been stowed away and I climbed aboard to start up the bus.

All the noise must have been too much for Brad to continue napping, and, waking up he looked around and asked, “What’s up?”

“Well, I believe I just fixed this other tank…” I said, turning the bus around and pulled in front of the pump, “…and, if I can cajole Dandy Don to come back out, we’ll see.”

Just as I reached the door I stood in disbelief that we were having a grand stroke of luck; Don was now Greg! I looked at my watch, “Could it be,” I asked myself walking casually inside, “That in North Dakota 2 AM is a shift change?” If so, I wasn't about to tip my hand by saying something stupid like, “Where’s Don?”

I wanted it to look like I’d just drove up and upon entering the place I looked around as if I'd never stepped foot in the place before in my life.

“Good morning,” He smiled, “First customer of the day, what can I do to you?”

I told him what we needed and back out at the pump Brad and I stood anxiously by as Greg attached the filler nozzle to the valve then reached down to throw the switch. The moment he opened the nozzle my heart skipped a beat – the tank was filling!

We looked at each other in jubilation and the look in Brad’s eye said, “How did you…?”

Back on the road, Brad shifted through the gears and I explained how the tank was fixed. When I got to the part about letting all that propane go at once, his head spun around like whatzername’s did in The Exorcist. “Are you shittin’ me? What’s the matter with you…why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Cuz,” I said, laying down for a much needed nap, “I wanted you to see Kansas.” And with that I closed my eyes. What I didn’t elaborate on was the second part of my brilliant plan so I intentionally kept him out of the loop on that, too, because I wanted it to be a really nice surprise and he really didn’t need to dwell on such things while he was driving.

When I woke up we were somewhere near Bismarck and it was a bright, sunny Monday morning. I could plainly see that Brad was occupied in finding another propane stop, which meant it was almost time for me to unveil part two of my stunning plan.

After the newly repaired tank was filled I reached down to turn off the valve to the engine. While doing so, I looked up to see a face plastered with extreme confusion and as we climbed aboard I began the unveiling.

“What we’re gonna do, Bro,” I said, taking a quick look at him, “Ughh, say, you should prolly sit down there Brad. See, you’re the kingpin in this thing and if I hit a bump and you fall down and hit your head you might miss some of this.”

“Now, where was I? Right…we’re gonna drive on the broken tank until it runs out of fuel, when it does we’re gonna pull over, turn off that tank then turn on the full one. Ya with me so far?”

“Ughhh huh…”

“Okay, when that happens we’ll have plenty of fuel to reach the FJTP in Beach…”

“Uggghhh huh…” This time he had a 'What’s all this got to do with me?' type of look.

“Well, there’s a huge parking lot there, see and I’ll be sure to park way out back, Ok? And, and…I just want you to know that I’ll be right there watching you fix the other tank and I’ll talk you right through what I did beca….”

“Are you out of your freaking mind?” He asked, grabbing for the door handle.

“Brad, be sensible,” I said, locking my hand over his, “We’re going 65 MPH, you open the door at this speed and the wind blast alone will knock you out.”

“W-w-w-w-hy can’t we just lumber on home with the one tank? I-I-I-I mean we been doi…”

“Cuz,” I interrupted, “I ain’t gonna let this thing kick our ass any longer. It tasks me, that’s why.”

He kept complaining but I’d already made up my mind and since I had the gun and there wasn’t anywhere for him to go he reluctantly crawled underneath the bus to perform another tank expulsion episode.

As I promised I was right there watching him and as I stared at him through the binoculars from the next ridge over, I spoke quietly and deliberately into the radio to detail each procedure for him one step at a time.

Every thing went without a hitch and when the twenty-two minutes were up, I cautiously approached the bus, sniffed the air to be sure and patted my new hero on the back.

After we pulled the bus in front of the pump we were dismayed to find that the tank still wouldn’t fill despite removing the other float from that valve. In fact, we were completely stupefied. Since part two of my plan had partially failed, it meant we were still traveling on one tank, and, climbing back aboard, we were apprehensive with the next leg the trip because darkness was prevailing itself on us once again.

Leaving the parking lot we quickly covered the five remaining miles to the Montana line and when we crossed it laid cause for a happy moment but at the same time it meant we still had 652 miles to go.

Brad and I were still confused about why the other tank had failed to fill properly and the more we talked about it the more confused we were. Then, all of a sudden, Brad starting talking about the old valve and questioned out loud why it didn’t have a washer.

“I dunno,” I said, pointing, “But the valve over there didn’t have one either. I noticed it when I had the hose off last night.”

I like it when Brad gets an idea, his face beams like a lighthouse and this time the whole inside of the bus was illuminated and as he explained his theory, I couldn’t help but admire him.

See, the hose that connected onto the valve on the side of the bus had a close 90 degree coupling. That washer is attached to a spring-loaded shaft and as propane is pumped into the valve, the shaft is forced backwards and, if equipped, so would the washer be forced back, too. Brad’s theory was that the washer was jamming up against the 90 degree fitting, which technically wasn’t opening and therefore not allowing any propane into the tank.

It made sense! Both of the old valves had their washers removed and all we did when we installed the new valve was to create another problem! A good chance to prove his theory presented itself when the town of Forsythe, Montana came into view.

I took the exit and immediately parked at the Exxon station. It was 10 PM and as I dropped thirty-fives cents into the phone, I wondered if the number I was about to call had yet another person at the other end willing to help us out.

Our newly found friend’s name was Lonnie Anderson and he turned out to be the manager of the Home Oil Co. I explained our situation and our fear that we probably wouldn’t be able to make it to Billings and before I could even get to the whining part he told me how to get to his store. He also said it would take a little bit because he was twenty-five miles out of town and would get there as quick as he could.

I went outside shaking my head in the dire hope this would be the last time I would have to call anyone from their home again. We drove to where Lonnie instructed me to go and to while away a little bit of the time, we replaced the new valve with the older one. A few minutes later I heard a vehicle approaching and watched as it pulled into the lot.

We greeted each other and then Lonnie pulled his truck over to the bus and filled the first tank. Then, Brad and I watched breathlessly as he attached the nozzle on the tank we’d just been working on and when he opened his valve the tank began to fill!

“Yippee!” We yelled and jumped up and down. Of course, with an embarrassing 6-year-old display of emotion such as that, I felt compelled to explain the whole ordeal to Lonnie and as we moved into his office, he took a seat behind his desk. When the condensed version of the story was finally told, he sat there with a bemused look that said, “I want some of what you two are smoking!”

It was just then when I said to myself, “If we ever make it home, I swear I’m gonna sit down and write about this whole mess, and then I prayed that if God didn’t have anything pressing planned for me, would He please see His way clear in allowing me to live long enough to finish it.

We thanked Lonnie for his kindness and loaded up for the remaining five-hundred miles of the big adventure. For the first time in approximately 4348 miles both tanks were filled and I rested comfortably knowing I probably wouldn’t have to coax anyone from their home again.

We drove through the night and as the Sun crested higher in the Montana sky, I kept my thoughts to myself. I reflected on all the things that had happened on the trips to and from Virginia and thought of all the different people that were encountered along each path. Although they each had their individualities, they shared the same kindness for helping someone if they could. And, if any of the characters that played a part of these experiences should happen to stumble across this story and you remember me and that yeller bus, just know that I’ll remember each one of you forever.

At 10:27 AM on September 18, 2001 the bus came to a rest in the same position in our driveway that it’d occupied when I left the previous May. I opened the door and allowed Brad to climb down first as it seemed fitting that I should be the last one off because I was the first one on.

It seemed fitting that as I climbed down the steps and touched the earth of home, I held onto the handle a little longer than I probably needed to.

It also seemed fitting for me to turn to the East and wave – hell, why not, a lot of them waved at me.