Coles Point, VA …and Hey?! Is That the Mayor?

Good Saturday morning, Chroniclers! Gotcher cup? Let’s go!

Friday started off with a bit of a shock, not really, because we've come to expect extremely spotty cell and internet service. I think may I have morphed into a Gen X’er. I just have to have my internet. Not necessarily to keep looking at my phone to check my TikTok subscribers (of which I have zero, bee tee dubs), but to do everyday things, like check on the house and the watering and ensure the pool has not turned a shade of dark green. Sending deep gratitude and thanks to the HBs boyfriend, the Mickster, and my pal, Hong Kong Phooey, and our grandson for keeping things running smoothly at the homestead whilst we galavant all over the country.

Mick goes the extra mile by driving the cars around the block every few days to keep the batteries charged. I have no doubt there have been a few trips to Home Depot in the truck because, well, it’s a truck, and Mick feels the same way about Home Depot as Cmdr. McCroc & the doctor do about Costco and Walmart.

Allow me to carry on. The day started as per usual, with me sitting down and keeping you all up to date on the goings-on of the Starship CA Love. I had written out my copy, presented it to my editor (me), and was prepared to make the post when I realized, to my horror, that I only had one dot! There’s no 5G in the sticks, people. I mean, am I supposed to revert back to the Dark Ages? Pre-Droid and iPhone? (It would be appropriate for one to gasp, reach up, and clutch their pearls at this point.)

It would seem that I was not the only one feeling the same way. I looked around, and I happened to catch a blur circling my BFFs RV, holding his phone up toward the heavens in what was an obviously futile attempt to get a signal.

So I asked him, I mean, wouldn’t you? “Hey, McCroc, wassup?”

“I can’t get a signal, and I need to call my credit card company.” He hissed.

Apparently, some Russian hacker that the FBI hadn’t nabbed yet had gotten ahold of the number on his Black Card and charged it up. If you’re curious to know how much it costs for a family of four to fly first class from Costa Rica to Dubai on Air Emirates, McCroc can tell you, to the penny.

I came up with an idea. We should get into the Ghost. That’s his car. It’s white. Not a surprise because his SUV is white, the car Mrs. McCroc has garaged and drives is white and so is their limo, it’s white too. All of their cars are white. Why? I can’t tell you, but they are.

Anyway, I suggest to him, “Let’s jump in the Ghost and drive back toward town. I’ll keep checking the signal while you're driving, and when it’s strong enough for you to call the credit card people, we can stop, and you do that. And meanwhile, I’ll post my stuff so that the Chroniclers are kept up to date on your newest pair of rubber shoes; deal? We can kill two birds with one stone.”

McCroc smiled and said to me, “You’re so smart. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Ya welcome,” I said, smiling wryly at my BFF.

And off we went on what turned out to be a six-and-a-half-mile drive. Now let’s pause a sec to think about this: You have two black guys driving down back roads of a small southern town…hmmm? Has anyone seen this movie before? Me too. I can assure you that we were on high alert.

We found a spot with superior cellphone reception, pulled safely off the road, and took care of our business. I kid about the safely off-the-road part because McCroc had only pulled to about eighteen inches off the roadway, stopped, and activated his four-way hazard indicators (his invisible forcefield that kept cars from smashing into the back of us). How do I know this, you ask? Because the vortex of wind that shook the Ghost every time an eighteen-wheeler went by us in excess of 70 MPH, which not only shook the car like we were in a California earthquake, it would suck the back end of the car closer and closer to the road’s edge with each pass. In my humble opinion, we needed a heavier car or for my BFF to be more prudent with where he parked it—or both.

With the Chronicles posted and McCroc’s credit score in jeopardy no longer, we headed back to the Camp Out.

With all the energy I’d expended and the adrenaline of surviving several near-death close calls, I was in need of some sustenance. Maybe a sammich would make me feel better? …and a nap, I needed a nap.

The day went on, and at dinner time, we got the crew together to head to the fish fry. I forgot to mention that we’re kind of famous. We came to the Camp Out from the furthest. People know this because they’ve seen our license plates. Well, that and we were all wearing t-shirts with “California Love” emblazoned upon them.

So, as we’re walking together in mob formation, other members of the Camp Out start singing our anthem as we pass, “California knows how to party …California knows how to party …In the city of L.A. …” That’s all anybody remembers verbatim, but we get the drift: they’re happy we made it out to party with them.

It was at this point I realized something. As the rest of us were walking, waving, and smiling somewhat like we were in a parade, there was one member of our group doing the most. Samantha Stevens was doing the same as the rest of us; she was smiling and waving. However, she took it a step further. She would stop at every campsite, smile broadly, and shake hands with everyone looking them earnestly in the eyes. As I paid closer attention, I heard her say, “Hello. California love, here. Samantha Stevens for Mayor.” And then she would press a red, white, and blue campaign button into their hand. It had her picture and the words “YOUR NEXT MAYOR” prominently typed on it.

Is that what she did? Dragged us across the country as campaign fluff? I am so on to her now! She probably did that head nod thing to get us on this trip. “You wanna go across the country with me, right?”

Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

One band, one sound.

#coffeehousechronicles