Me, A Friend, A Sourpuss, A Cave - Is That Dueling Banjos I Hear?

The only thing we have to fear is the unknown.

Before The Fran and Dave Experiment, I was just an average shlub, I suppose, living a pretty average life, except for that summer of 1988 when I lived in my friend's meadow for a while. This was a lark anyway. Like most people, I have a backlog of stories but I was not going to tell them here. My reasoning was that they belong to a time before we started living this way and do not properly belong. My wife begged to differ; she thought I should put them out there. While I've been told I can rip a good yarn; people are my wife's department. She understands them better than I do. I have more of an outsider's perspective. Her judgment has saved me lots of trouble, once even my life, so I don't take it lightly. For instance, I should have checked with her before I told the world about my quirky peristalsis. I know she won't spare my feelings, you see.

 

Well, here is a story suitable for lining your birdcage. And it's true, for what it's worth.

Years ago I wanted to go caving so I called my friend Dave. He brought his friend Patrick. I wanted to go to Tub Cave down in the Swago Creek area in southern West Virginia.

 

The cave is easy to find once you know where it is. There's nothing tricky about getting back from it either. When you exit the cave, you just turn left and walk downhill, at least for where we were parked. There should have been nothing complicated.

 

Dave generally has an unerring sense of direction. I have no sense of direction, although I'm great with a map (Go figure). Many times I would start off for a destination and Dave would walk off in another direction without a word. I learned to just file in behind him.

 

I swear, when we left from that cave, we turned left. It was a cold, severely clear, starry night. I know what's supposed to happen: within a certain amount of time, we were supposed to have had to contend with the "Garden of Hell", an extremely nasty locust tree patch with huge stickers. It didn't come. You'd think I'd be relieved, but I wasn't. It meant we were lost.

 

"We're lost," said Dave.

 

"We must be on the far side of the mountain," I put in. "Of course, this is impossible; I know we turned left."

 

Patrick said nothing. If I may be permitted the liberty of interpreting his expression, it said, "I'm sorry I went out in the wilderness with you clowns."

 

"It's a long walk back to the other side. It's late, and it's going to be a long night," said Dave.

 

"I'm not looking forward to this," I said. "It's freezing."

 

Patrick's expression added, "I hate you clowns."

 

Noticing Patrick's reticence, I asked, "Well, Patrick, what do you think?"

 

He just shrugged. His expression said, "I wish you'd die."

 

His expression's opinion didn't count.

 

We had been walking what seemed an eternity and freezing to our joints when a couple fellows happened by in a pickup truck. "You boy's need a lift?" the driver called. We were in the back in nothing flat.

 

The driver was a big, strapping young fellow, and there was an older gentleman in the passenger seat. The truck stopped in front of a modest bungalow and the fellow in the passenger seat left the truck.

 

Presently, from the back of the truck, I caught sight of him in his hunter's cap and checkered coat, walking on his knees and a shotgun under his right armpit. He had my undivided attention. I glanced over at Dave and, boy, were his eyes big! Patrick's expression showed plenty of fear. I know it blasphemed, and I felt it was in part directed at me.

 

The situation did not promise to improve. The man was crawling to a woodpile that was shoulder height. I watched in fascination as he went behind it, head, shoulders, and shotgun in view. My mental point of view shifted and I was mentally about thirty feet in the air looking down. My mental POV found it rather funny. It wanted to laugh out loud, but of course, it was not in the line of fire. The flesh and blood part of me was ready to bolt over the side and head back for the hill.

 

Until such time as my evasive skills might be needed, I whiled away my possibly last seconds on this earth by playing a game.

 

 

Announcer: Dave Carvell, let's see if you can answer the following question; this is for all the marbles, now: name me at least one plausible scenario to explain what you are now seeing that does not end in your immediate death.

Me: Oh, um. I'm stumped, Alex. I need more time.

Announcer: I'm sorry, we're just about out. If your life insurance is paid up, we'll have some fabulous consolation-

Me: Wait! Could it be that his legs are not functioning properly. A-a-and he's just carrying his shotgun inside. You know, out here in the country, they are sometimes casual about fire-

Announcer: Well, lets see… Yes, he's going indoors!

Audience goes wild.

Patrick's expression didn't say anything; it just looked relieved.

 

The driver said, "One of you fellows can come on in for the rest of the drive." I took him up on it – anything to warm up. "You might have noticed," he said, "that ole Bill's crippled." Oh, I noticed.

 

 

 I don't recall if Patrick joined us on any more outings after that. He struck me as a bit of a sourpuss.