Coffeehouse Chronicles…and Did You Hear That?

Whaddup Good People?

Yesterday was a travel day, and you know what that means, right? Dull. Boring. Nothing to chronicle. It's just the Doc on the radio chattering nonstop because he’s bored and can’t stand the quiet solitude in his coach. He wants someone to talk to other than the Mayor, right?

WRONG!

The new kids, Mr. and Mrs. McRib, were a little disappointed that they got little to no mention in yesterday’s Chronicles. Now, in my defense, I did mention them. I said that they were very quiet. We here in our little conga line that the Professor is hosting with his co-star, Da Coach, thought that since they were new, the McRibs were just getting the lay of the land. Trying to see how we did things as a band.

Well, yesterday, I surmise that they had come to the conclusion they had been silent too long. Mr. & Mrs. McRib came up with a plan to be noticed and entered stage right with a bang.

Literally.

Their front, right tire exploded.

All that could be heard on the radio was a high-pitched shriek, similar to that in a 1950s Alfred Hitchcock thriller. And then sobbing. It was a little over the top, but then again, when all you have to watch is the old black & white TV series on MyTV you come to believe that is how people react when something as traumatic as when a tire gives way. (Billy, you need to find Netflix)

It took us another twelve miles to slow the train and get it pulled off I-5 at the next exit, where we circled the wagons and came up with a plan. Cmdr. McCroc and I got into a car and rolled Code 2-high (for our civilian readers, that’s LAPD speak for “we-broke-every-traffic-law-possible-without-using-any-lights-or-sirens-because-we-can”) back to mile marker 90.

When we arrived, Cmdr. McCroc and I were expecting to find carnage. Just tire and fiberglass debris everywhere. We did observe that, but what we also saw was Mr. McRib blubbering and gazing at his motorhome through a cascade of tears. We could hear him wailing over the noise of the rumbling semis rushing past us a mere six feet away, “My beautiful RV!” We heard him cry.

Mrs. McRib was unsuccessfully trying to calm him, consoling him by patting him on the back, “There, there, baby. It’s gonna be alright.”

Mr. McRib only straightened up when he saw us approaching, used the back of his sleeve to wipe away his tears and the tiny bit of snot that had dribbled down from his left nostril, and asked us both, “Do you see what happened?”

McCroc & I looked at one another, then back at McRib, and assured him that we too could see what he saw. It was pretty obvious. He almost broke down again until McCroc told him not to worry. “Bro, I can fix that. My Dad’s a TV repairman.”

Surprised that I’d never known this in our 40-year friendship, I looked at McCroc, a question mark etched in my furrowed brow, “He is?”

“No,” he whispered raspily, “I just don’t wanna see him start crying all over again”

I nodded knowingly and turned to McRib, smiled at him weakly, and gave him two thumbs up.

We called back to the group, gave them the tire size, and waited for a tech to come and rescue us from the uncomfortable silence of watching McRib hug the tattered tire that used to adorn the front of his coach, not Mrs. McRib.

Three hours and a G-note later, we were back motoring up I-5 toward Eugene.

Whew! Long day!

Hey! That coffee ain’t gonna make itself!

Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles

(Pictures to follow)