Now it came to pass that HAROLD WHO and the WEST TEXAS JESUS, out cross-country joyriding, journeyed up through the land of microbreweries and vineyards and good independent bookstores, past white-capped Mount Shasta, and into that region called Oregon. And here they paused to refresh themselves at a place of rest where there were outdoor faucets gushing rust-colored water, chained-down picnic tables, and brick facilities, both for men and for women, of which HAROLD had much need to avail himself.
And as our self-styled scribe came forth from the place of ease, a great clamor arose from a hard-used station wagon that had stopped near the Loser Cruiser in the parking lot—a clamor not of timbrels and lutes, but of a much anguished voice crying out, “Bob! Bob! Take me to fucking Roseburg, Bob.”
And another voice, very wroth, shouting, “I ain’t taking you nowhere, you no-good drunken son of a bitch.”
And behold, two men conducteth an affray, one inside the station wagon and well stricken with years, the other in the prime of his manhood and as tall as the cedars of Lebanon, who sought to pull the thrashing ancient out of the front seat.
And the tall man saith, in a voice as loud as the ram’s horn on the day of reckoning, “I don’t care if you are my brother-in-law. Get out of my car, you COCKSUCKING BASTARD.” And he would fain beat the rheumy-eyed elder, who wished nothing more than to be carried to Roseburg, and he did lay upon his shoulders and head many thudding blows, whilst a goodly number of wayfarers stood about, and were mazed, and knew not what to do. But one man in a semi hauling Douglas fir logs got on his CB and called 911 as the beating proceedeth.
Then spake the WEST TEXAS JESUS to that craven HAROLD, saying, “Best get your ass down there, boy, and put a stop to that business.”
“Hurry up,” added my uncle. “Otherwise that’s going to end badly.”
Otherwise? I was utterly persuaded that it was going to end badly whether I intervened or not. The only difference was, if I got involved, it could only end badly for me.
But the battle did rage on, and “Take me to Roseburg, brother Bob,” wailed the old man in the car, and he did cling to his sloshing bottle of WILD TURKEY with one hand and the steering wheel with the other, for he was much loath to be pulled out of the car of BOB. Who, in a towering rage, seized the elder’s cardboard suitcase and strewed its sorry contents galley-west over the parking lot. But when BOB bent over to take his brother-in-law’s leg and draw him out, the old rip’s foot snapped up and struck him full in the nose, causing BOB’S LIFEBLOOD to gush forth.
“What are you waiting for, that big fella to kill him? Get on down there,” the Undocumented Jesus said and, though much affrighted, HAROLD WHO ran toward the station wagon, not like the roebuck running to the doe at break of dawn, nor yet the fleet-footed Jacoby Ellsbury of the Boston Red Sox stealing second base, but he got there soon enough, and, NATURAL CRAVEN though he was, interposed himself between the loving brothers-in-law and lifted his hands in a placating manner and said, “Gentlemen, please. Is there some way I can be of assistance here?”
Whereupon BOB, with his bloody nose still flowing copiously, said, “Yes, you can help me drag this son of a bitch out of my car.”
At which the elderly brother-in-law rared back and hurled his now empty Wild Turkey bottle at BOB, narrowly missing HAROLD’s head.
Minor Regional Writer Killed in Drunken Melee at 1–5 Rest Area
Ooo-ahh, oo-ahh, oo-ahh, waileth the sirens of the police cars summoned by the Doug fir trucker. “Are you tied in with this outfit in the station wagon?” the first cop to arrive asked me.
“Never saw them before in my life.”
Wild Turkey, however, pointed right straight at me and shouted, “He said he’d take me to Roseburg, officer.”
The cop frowned. “You sure you want to do that, buddy?”
Off to the side, the Jesus of West Texas was nodding vigorously. I knew exactly what he was thinking. Not only did the Samaritan in his parable pick the robbed man up out of the road and clothe him in his own raiment and set him on his ass, he took him to the nearest inn and paid the innkeeper in advance for extended care.
Yes, yes, mouthed the nail-driving, pedal-steel-playing, unemployed Jesus, hands extended palms up, imploring me as if my very salvation hinged on driving this old sociopath up to Roseburg.
“I’ll pass,” I told the cop.
“Good choice,” he said in his most official-sounding voice, and here, believe you me, endeth the Parable of the Reluctant Samaritan, from The Apocryphal Gospel of BOB.