Synopsis: Tim is interviewing Skechenko in order to learn the origins of the missing Roger Kiser. Skechenko is narrating the story with facts related to him by Roger. Because Roger so strongly disliked the Arkansas family that adopted him the narration is subject to some exaggeration.
Previously, Roger’s father became infatuated with a police scanner forcing most of the family to use an outhouse. This is the last straw for Roger. He decides to try and escape his unhappy Arkansas home. Fate is about to help him.
The reading picks up with Tim and Skechenko.
Skechenko threaded his fingers together and waited for Tim’s notes to catch up. “You see, this is where Roger’s story takes a truly strange direction, literally.”
Tim dotted a few Is and dashed his pencil across the tops of a few Ts. “Um, ok, he was adapted by a family in Arkansas and they were a bit on the country side. I’m sure Mr. Kiser was exaggerating a bit.”
Skechenko sighed. “Well, if you think he was blowing things out of proportion with what I’ve already told you, wait till you hear this.”
************
The next morning began as regularly as any other. Just after the break of dawn, several ATVs roared by the house throwing rocks and dirt against Roger’s bedroom window. The plinking and popping of richoteing rocks made enough noise rouse him.
Bleary eyed, he stepped into the kitchen just as father was emerging from the restroom with a pronouncement. “Pack your bags y’all! We’re headed to Mount Anna! I just heard someone on the scanner talking about this great place without dry counties or speed limits!”
“But our station wagon isn’t going to get us there. I’m headed into town to trade it in for the nicest, sweetest, biggest camper you’ve ever seen.”
The masses cheered as father marched out the front doors without finishing the buckles on his overalls. With the flare of Ceaser, he entered the decomposing mass of steal and glass and coaxed the engine into turning over. The wart next to mother’s wedding band gleamed a bit as she wished him away.
An hour later, he was back with a decommissioned school bus. Everyone, except Roger, was delighted with exchange. Cecil and Amos tore the back seats out to clear space for the family’s valuables. Most of the larger items were placed in a beat up horse trailer, which was hitched to the back using non-conventional methods. Everyone else busied themselves by throwing their belongings into wide garbage bags. Most of the livestock had to be left.
A few cousins also loaded the bus until mother reminded them that it was Saturday and there was no school.
Roger packed his clothes and valuables in a large, cardboard box. He also threw a few things in an old backpack, including his origami book. There were no seats left when he finally loaded the bus so he just placed his box near one of the back windows and used it as a seat.
By three o’clock, a number of the extended family (and a few strangers, eager for a spectacle) crossed the gravel road to wish good fortune. Like alcohol into the bloodstream, news travels from trailer to trailer with intoxicating speed.
On a crisp December morning, mother, father, their many children, Roger, and two chickens waved goodbye to the family (mostly cousins). The benedictions continued until the exhaust from their over sized and overburdened vehicle made their waving forms undistinguishable. It was in this way that Roger Kiser left Arkansas.
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“Pa? Do they play Razorback football up in Mount Anna?”
The driver’s seat rocked a bit as father’s profile emerged from one side. “They’d better! Or I may just turn this thing around! Sewwweeeeeee!”
From every direction, echoes erupted. “Sewwwweeee! Sewwweeee! Sewweeee!”
Kiser pressed his forehead against the window’s filmy glass. He knew this would only encourage pimples but he didn’t care. Like the spirited chants of this family his angst was steadily creeping toward climax. For the last six days, he had been striving to convince them that Mount Anna was actually the state of Montana. And if that was the case, then they should be traveling directly north instead of choosing roads that seemed to be going up hill.
There were several other reasons why the migration had descended into chaos. Father was concerned about “those crafty fellers from the bank” and whether his parole officer was following his trail. He had been ordered not to leave the state. Father’s grand plan included avoiding any roads that might appear on a map. Additionally, he randomly changed direction every half-hour.
Instead of gradual patches of snow, Roger was treated to the high plains of Texas and panoramic views of the semi-arid Southwest. Finally, they ended up sitting at the border waiting to pass into Mexico.
Two days later, at a far cast, dust-covered gas station, Roger finally convinced mother who eventually persuaded father to purchase a map. Due to the fact that only Spanish speakers populated this settlement, father’s conversations were forced to take on a strangely multicultural tone.
“No! I am looking for a mapo! You know, a (mucho bad wordo) mapo!”
An understanding was reached, a map was attained, and “the Ark”, as Roger had taken to calling the bus, took a more northerly route.
***********************
Besides what might be released from the bus (nuts, bolts, clouds of smoke, candy wrappers, tabloids, or human excrement), there was the rough cosmetic condition of the paint and lack of any semblance of recent bodywork. Chemistry and time had given the bus’s yellow exterior long accents of deep, reddish rust color. The lettering along the side of the bus had once read, “Phillips County Schools” now read, “lips Count c ool.” It didn’t make any sense but that wasn’t the point.
Inside the Ark was a world onto itself. Most of Roger’s fellow passengers slept, stared straightway into the changing scenery, or played games that entailed the exchange of blows. By this point a few of the younger, more stubborn participants probably required medical attention.
For those who needed to relieve themselves between stops, an adventure became necessary. First, one had to climb, squeeze, and crawl though the massive hodgepodge of personal belongings that absorbed the rear half of the bus. An old bed sheet with fishing weights tied to the bottom hung around the rear driver’s side corner. Behind this a rough wooden box was nailed to the floor. Once the top was removed, the only thing separating the user from the speeding asphalt below was a stiff down draft.
The Ark wasn’t equipped with a radio, so Kiser’s only distraction from the endless miles was to suffer through the inane comments of his family. “The dogs there live in large towns they dig right in the ground. They’re all yellowish tan and twice as big as a healthy squirrel. They don’t just dig holes like the stupid dogs back home do. They live there.”
Father was referring to prairie dogs, although it was difficult to hear him over the pandemonium the bus’s engine produced. Each function he forced upon the poor engine was meet with the agonizing sound of grinding metal. Just below the shaking hood was the uneven glow of small flames.
Most of the dials and gauges had simply died or registered whatever information seemed appropriate to it. Kiser had a hard time believing a speedometer that read one hundred and twenty unless they were rolling off a cliff.
Father was able to yell above the din. “When you go hunting for those tasty prairie dogs, just set up your lawn chair, point your shotgun at the holes, and open a beer! Pretty soon one will poke its head up, and say, Here I am shoot me! That’s where mountain hot dogs come from. The best anywhere!”
“Do the dogs really say, ‘Just shoot me.’ pa?”
Father replied, “No boy, what they really say is, ‘Go ahead and pee wherever you like there’s nobody out there to see you.”
