A Plague Year

“It did. I kept my lump of coal to prove it. I got it under my bed.”

“Man, that’s hard. That’s cold!” He hit his brother on the shoulder. “Jimmy Giles, how could you marry a woman who would do that?”

“That was before I met her,” Jimmy explained. “She wouldn’t do it now.”

“Well, that’s small consolation for little Arthur here.”

Warren reached up and poked Arthur. “It’s bad enough that he has to live over the fires of hell. Right, Arthur?”

“Amen.”

“The flames that burn eternal.”

“Amen.”

“You’re not gonna let them flames burn me, right, Arthur?”

“No, sir, Uncle Warren. No, sir.”

“You’re not gonna let me burn.”

“No, sir. I am not.”

Warren kept talking through Pennsylvania and most of Maryland. Then his voice started to drop, and so did his eyelids. After a long silent stretch, I reached into my backpack, pulled out my journal, and started to write about what had happened so far.

I was surprised when Warren’s eyes popped back open and he asked me, “What are you writing there, Tom? Homework?”

“Sort of. It’s a journal, for extra credit.”

“What do you have to write about?”

“Anything I want. Now I’m writing about our trip.”

“Yeah? This trip? Can I read it?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“I’ll wait till you’re finished, if that’s cool.”

“All right.”

Warren leaned over and looked down at a page. His eyes widened. “Hey! You wrote about Frosty!”

“Yeah.”

He laughed with delight. “That is so cool.”

Soon after, somewhere in Virginia, Warren fell asleep for good. By then, Arthur had been driving for ten hours. Jimmy said, “Pull off at the next exit, Arthur. We need a pit stop—gas, food, bathroom break. Then I’ll take her for a while.”

Arthur put on the right blinker and slowed our truck-car combination down. “A pit stop sounds good. I don’t know about you driving, though, Jimmy. What about Warren taking over?”

“Warren? He’s out. He’s down for the count.”

“I can keep driving for a while.”

“No. Don’t you worry about me. I’m a professional driver. You need some sleep. You can take her into Orlando in the morning.”

So we left the interstate and rolled into a gigantic truck stop with a gas station, a picnic area, and a food court. Jimmy used a credit card to fill up the truck’s large tank. Then Arthur drove us down to the extra-long spaces reserved for big rigs.

Jimmy said, “We’ll leave Warren in the truck, for security.”

Arthur snorted, “Fat lotta good he’s gonna do.”

“Ah, don’t worry. None of these old boys’re interested in Christmas trees. Or Geo Metros.”

Jimmy, Arthur, and I walked together across the wide expanse of parking lot. It felt great to stretch my legs and breathe in the cold night air. Inside the food court, we all ordered hamburgers and fries. Jimmy ordered some for Warren, too.

When we got back to the truck, Arthur tried one more time to talk Jimmy out of driving, telling him, “I’m really fine, you know. Let me take it for a few hours more.”

Jimmy was firm. “No. You need to sleep.”

“But what if something happens?”

Jimmy thought about that. “Okay. You sit up front with me. If I see any flashing lights in the rearview mirror, I’ll pull over, and we’ll switch places real fast.”

So we continued our ride south with Jimmy, suspended license and all, at the wheel. Arthur and I wolfed down our burgers and fries. This had an immediate and powerful effect on Arthur, as he was asleep within minutes.

I was tired, too, but I felt I could not go to sleep. Somebody had to stay awake with Jimmy to make sure that he was awake.

Jimmy was totally focused, though. Totally professional. He remained alert, driving the speed limit, getting the job done for as long as I was looking at him, which was not for long. I, too, conked out some time before midnight.

When I felt us slowing down and turning, I checked my watch; it showed 4:00 a.m. I asked Jimmy, “Where are we?”

“Georgia,” he drawled. “The Peach State. Good place for a pit stop.” He hopped out and filled the truck with gas again. By the time he drove us back to a space, Warren and Arthur were awake, too, and hungry.

Warren held up his bag from the night before like it was a dead rat. “What’s this thing?”

Jimmy told him, “Dinner. You might want to toss that now.”

“I just might. It’s breakfast time, bubba.”

The four of us walked stiffly across the lot. Arthur turned back once to check on his car, but it was obviously safe. There was no one else in sight.

We all purchased the same thing—egg and bagel sandwiches. Warren and Jimmy got huge cups of coffee.

Arthur and I pulled out cans of soda from Aunt Robin’s cooler. They were still cold, but the ice was all melted, so Arthur dumped the water out into the parking lot.

Then we set off again, with Arthur back behind the wheel.

Soon a bright red sun rose up on Thanksgiving Day. The holiday season had begun, like no holiday season I had ever known. Warren pushed in a Christmas cassette, and we completed the last leg of our journey in a happy mood. We exited the Florida Turnpike at Ocoee, turned right, and pulled into the parking lot of the Colony Plaza Hotel. That was to be my home, and Arthur’s, for the next three nights. It was to be Warren’s and Jimmy’s home for the next ten nights, or until all the trees were sold.

Warren got out and walked into the hotel lobby to get us a room. While we waited, Jimmy lowered the front wheels of the Geo Metro to the ground and disengaged it from the truck. Arthur started the car up and pulled it into a parking space.

I stood there, wearing just a T-shirt, thinking, I’m in Florida! I’m really in Florida. I took a minute to duck into the truck and grab my notebook and pen. I’d be keeping them with me at all times. I didn’t want to forget anything about this trip.

Warren came back out and announced, “Room two seventeen, boys, just like last year. Maybe that’s an omen.” He opened the driver’s-side door of the truck. “Now let’s go sell some Christmas trees.”

We pulled around the back of the hotel and headed west. A divided highway named Maguire Road intersected the main road. Just as we turned onto Maguire, though, Warren slammed on the brakes. He pounded the steering wheel and yelled, “No! No! This can’t be!”

I leaned forward to see what was wrong.

Our lot was directly before us on the right. It was a rectangle of dirt about fifty feet long. Directly beyond it was a second lot, a lot that was supposed to be a Jiffy Lube. Instead, as its signs announced, it was once again a BOY SCOUT CHRISTMAS TREES lot.

Warren pounded and screamed some more. This time he went way beyond “No! No!”

I stared at the Boy Scout lot in the distance. It was lined on three sides by chicken wire. It had large, professionally printed signs. The lot also had a pair of green porta-potties sitting at the back.

Warren shouted, “That Peterson guy told me it was a Jiffy Lube. What the hell!”