Dancing-with-Baptists-Createspace-Final--A4

DANCING WITH BAPTISTS
“If the kid is anything like his old man he’s probably already in a body bag,” the Marine
said with the dark humor of war. The Marine tore off a hunk of his BLT between his goldtooth
smile.
The waitress put Greg’s glazed donut in front of him. It was cold, which was okay
with Greg, but he did wonder why it took longer to bring a cold donut than a club sandwich
on toast. The waitress reached across the counter with the dirty coffee carafe to re-fill Greg’s
coffee cup just as Greg started to dunk his donut. When the coffee pot collided with Greg’s
donut hand the bad timing shot hot java across the sticky green Formica countertop. The
tsunami of sugar, cream and Folger’s cascaded off the counter and headed directly for the
Marine’s uniform slacks.
With lightening reflexes the Marine jumped off his stool. His gold tooth no longer
showed. The waitress swooped in with a dirty dishcloth but instead of damming up the
coffee, she hockey-pucked Greg’s donut, coffee cup, and remaining hot coffee into Greg’s
lap. Greg did not have the Marine’s reflexes.
Before she could say she was sorry, the bus driver stood at the door and announced
the bus’s immediate departure. The waitress ripped Greg’s ticket from her pad, held it in
Greg’s direction, and then said, “That’s okay hon. Forget about it.” Greg would have loved to
have forgotten about it if his steaming boxers weren’t suddenly forged to his right thigh.
Grabbing his gym bag, Greg limped out the door and onto the steps of the bus. The old bus
driver examined Greg’s broad wet spot and said, “Don’t worry ‘bout it. When you get my age,
happens all the time.”
The good news was that there were enough
seats for everyone to sit on the next leg to Las Cruces. After all the events at the diner Greg
was not sleepy. He sat there in the sticky trousers and decided to finally start Chap’s book. He
had not been able to bring himself to read it up until now. The marine in uniform, the
questions, the people; it all somehow reminded Greg of his friend. Maybe reading his words
would help his sudden aloneness. Greg unzipped his gym bag, moved boxers and medic
whites aside and uncovered the three-inch thick pile of paper. There was enough daylight to
read by. The sleeping rider in the window seat next to Greg adjusted toward his window,
leaving Greg more room to get comfortable to begin. Across the aisle sat a sweet little girl
and her mother. Greg thought that they were probably on their way to see Grandma. The
little girl smiled at Greg and he smiled back. Maybe he and Melinda would have a little girl
like that one day. One day after having Greg the Third, of course. The little girl looked back
at Greg again with Chap’s manuscript in his hand.
“Look Mommy,” she said, “that man wet his pants like Joshie.” The bus laughed.
That was it! He forced Chap’s manuscript into the seat pocket in front of him, picked up his
gym bag and headed for the latrine.
Just as Greg reached for the small door handle of the onboard bathroom, the door
flashed open and the small entire portal filled with the Marine. Still no sign of the gold tooth
and white choir. He stepped past Greg into the aisle, and Greg entered and locked the small
door lock. While it was apparent the clubsandwiched-Marine had been in there, it was
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