I imagine Sunday began just like every new day here in the Mission Valley in that the Sun peaked over the mountains signaling the end of darkness. For me, however, I was creating artificial darkness with the bed's comforter wrapped over my head and was thoroughly enjoying the experiment right up to the time the earthquake happened.

"Wake up!" The voice said. "Wakey, wakeyyyy!" And I felt my shoulders first being pushed one way then being pulled back the other. I cracked the envelope just enough so that sufficient daylight could filter in to help me recognize the earthquake.

"Hiya Brad," I groaned, "what's up?"

"We've got to go weigh the bus, remember? He said, as he shook me again.

The previous evening we talked about weighing it not for any legality issues but for how handy it would be knowing what it weighed at various critical stages of the trip - like when I cross a bridge. That was when the movie screen in my mind started playing a vivid motion picture...

Construction Zone

then another...

Prepare to switch lanes!

then the next...

Welcome to Deep Gorge

and then, just as as the bus speeds onto the bridge, he passes the last sign...

Caution! Gross vehicle weight not to exceed 6 tons!

I postulated on how a crucial moment like this would not be the time to ask, "Saaayyyy...I wonder what this bus weighs?"

We loaded up for the trip to Ronan and during the ride it occurred to me that both propane tanks should be filled before weighing it in the off chance there's a bridge to cross immediately after a fuel stop. There are two places in town where you can get bulk propane; Cenex, which is the equivalent of everyone's Farmer's Cooperative and George's. I prefer dealing with George because I like him. Well, that and the fact Lisa, his daughter, runs the propane end of the business and is considerably more attractive than Dave is at Cenex.

George Atkinson's entire family must have grown up in the place as they seem to make up the lion's share of his workforce. Today, in some of the smaller, under-developed countries of the world, I believe this sort of thing is referred to as 'indentured servitude'. Oddly, it would seem they could have bought their freedoms long ago, but they continue to stick around because they either enjoy being there or they get a free tank of gas every now and again.

I'd sure like to tell you the full name of his station but I'm afraid it is beyond my capacity to do so. In fact, you'll be hard pressed to find a handful of people in town who could. Like me, they just say "George's." In my almost thirteen years of living here, he's changed the name so many times that the ink in the new phone book barely has a chance to dry before he changes it to something else. When I first got here it was George's Husky then for a moment it was George's Exxon before switching it to George's BP. Now, there's a Conoco sign sitting out front, so I'm thinking that could be it. I toyed with various plausible reasons for the sundry titles and tossed up that he must get a special deal from whatever gasoline supply company he uses at the time.

I allowed my imagination to soar...

The window flies open and Lisa hangs her head out to yell at her Father who happens to be across the lot letting the air out of someone's tire.

George - caught in the act - snaps to attention, and looks around as if he's certainly innocent of everything.

He takes the long wooden stick and measures the levels in the tanks and sure enough, discovers them to be almost empty.

He goes inside to begin the arduous task of making the numerous calls to a host of gasoline suppliers...finally finding one, the phone answers.

"Ummm...this is George...George in Ronan."

 

"Hiya, George!" She says, smiling, "Tanks about to run out again, are they?"

 

"Ahhh," He hesitates, "...they're getting close. Got any specials today?"

 

"Absolutely, you called just at the right time - today we've got a dandy," She replies, "for every tank you fill we'll give you a free set of Ghinzu knives!"

 

George's wheels start turning, hummm...Christmas is coming up, why not?

"It'll be there tomorrow," She says, "you still have the sign?"

 

"Yeah, it's out back I think...it's the blue and white one, right?

 

"That's the one," she says, "Oh, and be sure to tell Chris not to hang it upside down this time, huh?"

 

I filled up both tanks and drove over to Westland Seed, which is located on the extreme western edge of Ronan. It's not the only place capable of weighing the larger and heavier vehicles but it was the closest. Now, there's a tag that is fastened to the inside of the bus which states the loaded vehicle weight was not to exceed 26,500 lbs and on the way over Brad and I made a one-dollar bet as to who would be the closest guess. I said 25,900 and Brad guessed 30,000.

"What!???" I said, spinning my head to look at him, "You're off your nut."

You see, I was confident in my guess because the empty bus weight was 12,500 lbs. I figured the seats to weigh 500 lbs, so that would leave a gross weight of 12,000 lbs. Therefore, that left 14,500 lbs of stuff to go in it. I was fortified by my belief in that before we ever started to load the bus, I went by each machine and wrote down what I reasonably suspected it to weigh - sometimes even giving them a ridiculous amount. Like the bandsaw for instance. I happen to know it weighs 475 but I wrote down 1,000 and continued in like manner, making sure to consider all the smaller tools and even the books and magazines. So, I just knew this was going to be a quick dollar and was having a hard time deciding on what to spend it on - I did know it wasn't going to be Dial 10-10-220.

Pulling onto the scales Brad stayed onboard because if there was a bridge to cross immediately after a fuel stop and I picked up a hitchhiker, I wanted to have every pound accounted for. We waited for the signal to leave the scales and went inside to the weighmaster's desk. He handed me the ticket.

"Ummm, Kenny, I'm afraid there must be some mistake," I said, "we're in the bus...," I pointed out the window, "see the yellow bus?"

"That's right, Joe." He replied, "That's your ticket."

I peered at it and gulped. Brad looked over my shoulder and I turned to see that he was smiling. "My dollar, please." He said, as he extended his palm. In total disbelief I squinted at the ticket then shot a glace at the weighmaster.

"29,820 pounds?!" I asked incredulously. "POUNDS!? Are you shittin' me, Kenny?" I instantly became skeptical and looked at Brad then back to Kenny. "Did this Bozo," I thumbed to Brad, "put you up to this? He'll do anything to win a bet, ya know. Heyyyy...alright, I'm on to your little game now...you're in for half aren't ya, Kenny? Why, you little miser, you'll stoop pretty low for a measly fifty cents, won't you? Now, cough up the real ticket you little weasel!"

It was all too true, I thought, staring at the ticket. "Sweet Jesus," I breathed, "I'm almost 2 tons overweight." There was nothing left to say so we returned home and during the short trip all I could think about was each tiny bump and every bridge between here and Virginia.

Arriving back at the house I was extremely careful on where to park the bus and even backed it ever so cautiously up the driveway to minimize having to turn it around lest I find the drain field or some forgotten stump hole in the process. Tomorrow was Monday and it wouldn't do for anything to go wrong.

Continue to CHAPTER FOUR