Coffeehouse Chronicles and …errr, Did You Forget Something?
Hey Gang! Ready for some Chronicles? Let’s go!
We’re in Monterey at the jazz festival this weekend. The HB heard about how much fun it is from our good friend, Dot. I’ll introduce her later because I’m sure there’ll be some shenanigans, and she’s sure to be involved. She hasn’t done anything yet.
But I digress. The group ain’t that big this time. Last time, there were nine RVs in the caravan. This time, the crew is only half as big. So let’s see, who’s on this outing with us? Of course, you know I can’t go anywhere without my BFF and his better half, Cmdr McCroc and Mrs. Scurbbles. And then there’s the Right Rev Dr and the First Lady, they’re here too. Oh, and we have two new guest stars, the Captain & Tenille. Not what you think. They’re not a singing duet. She retired as a Captain from a major metropolitan law enforcement agency (the step-sister of the major metropolitan law enforcement agency that the HB & I used to be employed by), and that makes him, well, Tenille. (Sorry B, our nicknames pick us, not the other way around)
Okay, first of all, everyone is mad at your hero because we had a little earlier start than usual. I thought that if we met at five instead of eight, we could get an earlier start and beat the traffic through Pasadena. Nope. I was incorrect. Five o’clock is not early enough. Sweet Helen of Troy! When is rush hour in LA anymore?
Okay, I’ll take the hit on that one. My bad.
You know how we do it. Three hundred miles. That’s my limit. Cool. The spot is only 337 miles from our door. We got this. We usually break it up every hundred or so miles. The HB always looks for a truck stop or rest area where we can stretch the legs, grab a Pepsi, and maybe fill ‘er up with some diesel.
Heading up the I-5, the usual stop is Wheeler Ridge, at the bottom of the Grapevine. It’s a good place to stop because we’ve just been white-knuckling down the 8% grade for five miles with about 60,000 lbs behind us. We can definitely use a break to unclench a little bit and maybe let the brakes rest.
We pulled up into the truck stop at the pumps, and the Right Rev looked at me wide-eyed as he fanned his brakes, “Whoo-whee!”
The ladies bounded out of the rigs to see what they had cooking in the kitchen. Pro tip: the vittles are pretty good at truck stops. Try the chicken.
We got all gassed up, the girls came running out with the food all bundled up in their arms and just before we start to move toward the parking area to scarf down the coffee and breakfast burritos, a tiny little voice comes over the radios. “Did anyone misplace their keys?” Mrs. Scrubbles asked. “I found a set of keys.”
The HB and I looked at one another, checked our pockets, looked back at each other, and shook our heads simultaneously. “Not us,” I said into the mic. We’re good.”
Everyone else ack’ed up too. The Right Rev said no, and the Capt and Tenille were on the other side using unleaded, so they were sure it wasn’t them, so Mrs. Scrubbles ran back up to the counter and left the keys with the cashier for the poor soul who dropped them, and then we were off!
Up the I-5 some more, west on the CA-46 to the 101. Nice leisurely drive, another stop for a stretch and a quick nappy-nap and then we were off again.
Here’s where the complaints start. We hit a small town north called Chualar and the Google said to head west again. So I did. Cmdr McCroc starts to whine about how I have him on another two-lane road. “HEY HERO!! WHY AREN’T WE ON THE BIG ROADS ANYMORE??? WAHH WAHH.”
Awww, geez McCroc. C’mon. You ran the busiest patrol division in the biggest sheriff’s department in the free world. Certainly you can handle two lanes for 19 miles and 27 minutes, right? Suck it up buttercup.
We arrived at the spot. Not bad. Thousand Trails usually disappoints me, but we’re looking good this time. Right next to the beach. Oh yeah. This is nice. The HB jumped out of the coach, got everyone’s paperwork from the office, came out, and then started directing traffic. “Everyone pull down the way so we’re not blocking the road! You can unhook the cars up there. HUT! HUT! HUT!”
The HB was regulating. I did as I was told. Heck, I’m no dummy; I’ve been with this woman for 36 years. She said move, and I moved. Wisely, McCroc, the Right Rev, and Tenille fell in line, too.
Just as I started disengaging the towbar, the First Lady ran up to us. “Did you say you found some keys?” she asked the HB and me frantically.
“No, that was Mrs. Scrubbles. What’s up?”
“I think those were the keys to our towbar.”
Oh no.
All eight of us stared down at the towbar that attached the CR-V to the back of the Right Rev Dr’s rig, wondering what to do. I, for one, was not relishing the thought of a 200-mile drive back to Wheeler Ridge and the 200 miles back. But, contrary to what Yoko Uno would probably say, ‘Psh, that foo is on his own!” We are one band. It’s one sound.
The loud sobbing that the was coming from the Right Rev and Tenille attracted the attention of campers nearby. Two of them walked up, and one suggested, after eyeing the situation, grinding off the lugs attaching the car and tow bar. The thought of buying more tow parts just made the Right Rev cry louder. The other camper suggested loosening the nuts with a socket.
The Right Rev’s face brightened up. He wiped away his tears and snot bubbles with the back of his sleeve. “You mean we can do that?”
Five minutes later, they were two separate vehicles again.
As we unattached the car from the back of the RV, all of the ladies were huddled around the HB and her phone as she called back to Wheeler Ridge. “...uh, those keys that we found and left for whoever lost them.”
“Yeah, we found the owner. Can you hold onto those for us? We’ll be back.”
“You can? Thanks.”
Whew! Crisis averted.
I need a nap.
The bottom line is that we’re here. The place is nice, the company is nicer, and we’re going to enjoy the weekend. The HB said so!
Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!
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