Reader rollins4mvp works in London's financial district by day. By night, however, the Pennsylvania-born businessman turns writer, thinking of his days across the pond and penning fiction. His piece below describes an unusual life -- and even more unusual friendship.
Rufus P. Waynewright has seen better days. He is a proud man, a veteran. He served his country with the kind of distinction and valor that makes a man more than a man; it makes him a legend. He fathered two boys, who were now grown with families of their own.
He was husband to a beautiful wife, Millie, with whom he shared 38 years, before she died early last year. She was his life, and he was hers. Since her passing, the days and weeks simply ran together, with no distinction between one moment or the next. Eventually, he left his grief behind, picked the pieces, and started a new life. He wanted to see the world. He wanted to be young once again. He wanted to live for her.
It was in a quiet suburb of Pasadena that he first encountered Dave, on a nondescript corner, on a nondescript day, thinking nothing of the obvious foreshadowing their meeting brought. After striking up small talk with Dave, a friendship blossomed. They began meeting to watch the big game, or discuss punctuation, or just enjoy each other’s company.
After much restless talk by Rufus about seeing a world he had only read about, Dave was more than happy to comply. He suggested a getaway, an adventure that “harkens back to their youth,” and that would remove them from the overwhelming boredom of the suburban life they had become enslaved to. The destination -- Old Mexico.
Rufus never thought he’d end up here, standing next to his neighbor on a “boys’ weekend” to Coronado. The VW van Dave had rented in order to create a period-piece quality for their trip had long since broken down. They were now bound by the tattered Greyhound bus schedule, stolen from a Circle K mini-mart somewhere outside Oceanside. The next bus to Baja, by way of Tijuana, was not due to leave for another six hours. Dave suggested they buy a couple of Miller High Lifes from the corner liquor store and make their way to the poor man’s country club, which in this case was the corner of La Placentia and Emerald.
As they stood under the dim streetlight, slowly sipping the ever-warming swill from the brown-bag sleeve, an impending sense of dread began to overtake Rufus. He asked Dave for the bus schedule, so he could plot his way back north. Dave just smiled.
“Brother….we ain’t in Mexico yet. We’re not quitters, are we?”
Rufus, not known as a quitter, relented to Dave. He foresaw a wasted weekend of sideshows featuring midgets and women with loose morals. There was a reason he had never been to Tijuana. He was beginning to remember why. During the 87-minute bus ride across the border, Dave regaled him with stories of his bizarrely abnormal childhood and formative years: Hebrew school until the age of 12 (despite his Protestant ancestry); vagabond shoe repairman during his early 20s; Renaissance faire days as the town crier;and finally an obscenely early onset of gout, followed by rickets, followed by remitting, relapsing dyslexia.
Rufus had his doubts. He pegged Dave as the kind of guy just looking for attention. He was most likely the youngest child, suburban upbringing, and probably even home-schooled.
As the Greyhound finally limped to its destination, Dave bounded off the bus with the enthusiasm of a sugared-up juvenile diabetic. Rufus’ exit carried less excitement.
“Where should we start?” Dave inquired. “If we hurry we can catch the spelling midget with the lazy eye!”
Rufus felt defeated. This is not what Millie would have wanted.
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