The Remarkable Journey Of Weed Clapper

PROLOGUE Dear Murray, I’m trying to write this on the bus, but the bumps are a challenge... not nearly as much of a challenge as the fumes are though. I'll be asphyxiated before I ever get to Indiana. I'm sorry I got choked up at the station. It was really sad to see you and your folks waving good-bye. Thanks for saving the day by cracking me up with the straw-up-the-nose trick. That’s always a crowd pleaser. Tell your folks how much I appreciate them offering to take me in. I can’t believe the Pennsylvania Gestapo for Hapless Kids thought it would be better for me to live with a relative I don’t even know instead of with the family Goldberg. How many good-byes can a guy take? I’m looking out the window at nothing but miles of flat land. These may be America’s fruited plains, but there isn’t a dang fruit in sight. It’s the saddest expanse of nothingness I have ever seen. Even the Midwest cows look bored. Local farmers would be wise to stay vigilant. A news alert of a Bovine Suicide Pact wouldn't surprise me in the least. We hit a bump a while back and blew a tire, which was the only form of excitement we’ve had in hours. The bus driver stepped in cow crap, so now the whole bus reeks. I probably don’t need to point out the obvious metaphor for my life. I suggested to the driver that they change the name of the bus line from Greyhound to Grave-bound, because this trip through the wasteland seems terminal. Please don’t forget to take flowers out to my folks on holidays, okay? There’s a little bronze holder you can stick them in. And take Leland that stuffed animal I left him, but remember to put it in a plastic bag so the rain doesn’t ruin it. He’ll like that. I’ll finish this letter later. Right now I need to talk to the bus driver to find out where we are. I’m actually considering getting off the bus at the next stop. The one thing about being on your own is that you can disappear without too much fuss. Now that I think about it, I guess I’ve been doing that for a long time. Thanks for everything, Murd-man. Your pal, Weed Clapper August 23, 1960