My mother and her boyfriend had worse luck than I did. They had ripped up the envelopes containing the prophetic numbers without so much as a glance. The government and its socialist agenda was not going to tell them; which, planet they could or could not live on. Beside, the family garage had been full of diesel and fava beans since the cuban missile crisis. Ten years ago, when they lost their jobs, they traded their house for a school bus. It had always been a dream to visit each state capital in alphabetical order. I had been in my late twenties, and I had ridiculed them. After she left, I ran the 20 miles to their bus. It was parked in Carson city. The roads were chaotic. People moving south, people moving east, people moving west, people blocking off roads to the north. My mother and her boyfriend were packing with their hands in the air.
“We can’t stop the children from getting on the bus.”
I looked around and indeed random children of a variety of ethnicities speckled the seats.
“Where are they coming from?” I looked through the window, beyond the greasy fingerprints, children were crossing the brush in pursuit of the familiar yellow beacon. I looked back to see my mother with tears in her eyes. She was kneeling next to a middle eastern girl with a Barbie lunch box
“Where are your parents?” The girl shrugged her shoulders. My mother collapsed.
“We’re driving to Kansas. You don’t want to go to Kansas.” Her boyfriend, Jimbean, began to pick them up by their bird like shoulders and throw them out the emergency exit, but they would just run to the front, skin knees and all.
“You’ll have to ask them to pay.” I said. I suggested twenty dollars. Her face turned red with anger.
“No one has twenty dollars,” she said. They locked the bus with four kids still inside. My mother screamed from a crack in the window to the crowds of children who had begun to collect around the bus.
“I’m sorry, that’s all we can handle.” Some began to walk away. Some began to throw rocks.
Under each seat was a box of canned food. Large barrels of diesel were strapped to the roof and filled the back four seats. The fumes were nauseating. I handed each of the children a handkerchief to cover their mouths. The front of the bus was full of whiskey. Each bottled wrapped delicately in bubble wrap.
“You know you can hurt the booze?” I said.
“I know, but I like to try,” he said with a smile as he opened the doors, so I could be on my way. I turned to see my mother pursing her lips to keep from collapsing in terror of the unknown.
“What happens if we run our of food?” She said, with her head on my shoulder.
“You’ll hunt.”
“I’m not your father. I’m afraid of mice and possums.”
“You’ll farm.”
“I don’t want to!” She was grinding her teeth. “I want it to be like it used to be.” The children were staring now. I thought about my wife in a new world.
“We’re not supposed to live forever.” I also was afraid of mice and possums, but had to save face.
“Why don’t Jimbean and you, and everyone…” I motioned to the four young children sitting between a dozen bottles of whiskey and a dozen barrels of diesel. “Come with me.” Jimbean and my mother looked at each other, they curled their lips, and shook their heads.
“We don’t want to be a bother.” I got off the bus and waved as it turned up a cloud of dust and drove away. They might do well for themselves in Kansas. Thousands of acres of prairie still unoccupied, even though, Laura Ingalls Wilder, had made it sound so appealing. I chased the children west with large growls.
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