“That serious, is it.” He seemed more amused than compelled by my newfound swearing skill. “Then I guess I better pitch in. But make it quick. I can do my tire check while you’re at that. Remind me, which bag is yours?” When I pointed, he gave me another one of those looks. “Don’t see that kind much anymore.”
Kneeling on the concrete while the traffic of the busy Great Falls depot went on around me, I unlatched Gram’s old suitcase and dug out the autograph book, stuffing it in the pocket of my corduroy jacket. While I had the suitcase open, I reluctantly tucked the black arrowhead in under the moccasins; I hated not to be carrying it as a lucky piece, but I didn’t want to risk being jabbed in my sitting part all the way to Wisconsin, either.
Missions accomplished, I returned the suitcase to the baggage compartment as best I could. Headed to climb back on the bus, I nearly bumped into the driver coming around the front. I still was on his mind, apparently. “Say, I saw you come straight off the Rocky bus—did you get your Green Stamps?”
I plainly had no idea what he was talking about. “They’re a special deal this summer, long-distance passengers get them for their miles. You’re going quite a ways across the country, aren’t you?” I sure was, off the end of the known world. “Then, heck, go in and show your ticket to the agent.” He jerked a thumb toward the terminal. “Hustle your fanny, we’re leaving before long.”
My fanny and I did hustle inside, where I peered in every direction through the depot crowd before spotting the ticket counter. Miraculously no one was there ahead of me, and I barged up to the agent, a pinchfaced woman with a sort of yellowish complexion, as if she hadn’t been away from the counter for years, and rattled off to her while waving my ticket, “I’m supposed to get Green Stamps, the driver said so.”
“Those.” She sniffed, and from under the counter dug out sheets of stamps, about the size you would put on a letter but imprinted with a shield bearing the fancy initials S&H, and sure enough, sort of pea green. Next she checked my ticket against a chart. “Sixteen hundred and one miles,” she reported, looking me over as though wondering whether I was up to such a journey. Nonetheless she began counting out, telling me I was entitled to fifty stamps, a full sheet, for every hundred miles I was ticketed for. As the sheets piled up, I started to worry.
“Uhm, I forgot to ask. How much do they cost?”
“What the little boy shot at and missed,” she answered impassively, still dealing out green sheets.
Really? Nothing? Skeptically I made sure. “The dog bus just gives them away?”
“Believe it or not,” she muttered, little knowing that was the most convincing reply she could have given me.
Pausing, she squared the sheets into a neat stack. “That’s sixteen,” she announced, studying the chart again with a pinched frown. The one extra mile evidently constituted a problem for her. “What the hey,” she said, and tossed on another green sheet.
“Wh-what do I do with them?” I had to ask as I gathered the stack of stamps off the counter. Handing me what she called a collector book, which was right up my alley, she explained that I was supposed to stick a sheet onto each page and when enough pages were filled, I could trade in the collection for merchandise at any store that hung out an S&H sign. “You’ve always wanted a lawn chair, I bet,” she said expressionlessly.
“Uh, sure.” Shoving the Green Stamp haul into my opposite jacket pocket from the autograph book, I turned to dash to the bus. Behind me I heard her recite, “God bless you real good, sonny.”
? ? ?
ALREADY THIS WAS some trip, I thought to myself as I dodged through the depot crowd, enriched with a pocketful of trading stamps and a blessing, not really sure I was glad of the latter if that implied I might need it. In any case, I scurried out and vaulted back into the impressive silver-sided Greyhound. The same seat was available and I dropped into it as if I owned it.
There. I felt more ready. Now if I was trapped with someone who wanted to talk my ear off about canned succotash or similar topics, I could head them off by asking for their autograph and get them interested in my collection. It was at least a plan.
As the loudspeaker announced the last call for the eastbound bus, which was us, I waited tensely for whatever last-minute passenger would come panting aboard and, as surely as a bad apple falls tardily from a tree, plop into the seat next to mine. And sure enough, the sound of someone setting foot on the steps reared me half out of my seat to see. But it was only the driver, who shook his head to himself as I sank back down and he started a passenger count with me, then slid in behind the steering wheel. The next thing I knew, we were pulling out of Great Falls and lurching onto the highway.