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 loria
prepared herself for the worst. Her husband, probably the
most casual driver on this or any other planet, was planning
to drive cross-country on their vacation this summer. Try
as she might, nothing she did would change his mind. She talked
of the relative safety of air travel as opposed to auto travel,
traffic patterns made insufferable by road construction, detours,
bridge and tunnel bottlenecks, nothing worked.
He didn't get the message. “So you don't mind loading and unloading the car every couple of days, dusty roads, highwaymen?” she intoned one evening in late May. “Hold it,” he said, “what's this highwaymen business?” “You never read The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes when you were in high school?” she answered. “A highwayman was a bandit that roamed the Old West in the early 1900s and robbed, and otherwise molested travelers,” she went.
“Don't forget to pack the gun,” was his reply. He knew what she thought of his driving but he was determined to go. The itinerary would take them through New Orleans and Texas on the westerly leg of the journey, and the trip back east would include the northerly route, the black hills of the Dakotas, Lake Michigan, and parts of Canada.
In desperation, a few days before their departure, she had an inspiration. Hire a highwayman to waylay them on the very first day. Now how do I go about hiring a highwayman, she thought. She looked it up in the Yellow Pages, no listing. Closest was Highway Safety Equipment ... See “Safety Equip and Clothing.” Run an ad in the newspaper? That would entail interviews and many phone calls, too complicated.
At that moment the telephone rang. It was one of those computer calls selling some service for the pampered rich. There was a toll-free number to call. She hung up and dialed. “Maybe you can help,” she began and proceeded to explain her dilemma to the person on the other end of the line. “No problem,” was the cool reply, “we'll handle it.” The terms and agreements were entered with quick precision, there was no haggling over price.
As Gloria and Syd exited the tollbooth on the Jersey turnpike, heading south, a mysterious object appeared in front of them. It was about 30 feet above ground level and seemed to hover over the car as it sped on its way. Suddenly a loud voice came from it advising them to pull over. Syd looked at Gloria. “What the hell is this all about,” he barked. She could barely suppress a smile and appeared to be concerned.
The craft's lower section fell away, and a huge electromagnet lifted the car into its bowels. They were read their rights by a man in a French-cocked hat and a bunch of lace at his throat. He was dressed in a coat of caret velvet, britches of brown doe skin, and yes, his boots were up to the thigh. He warned them never to drive west of Newark lest they be arrested for trespassing without a trespass license.
Syd was suspicious. A highwayman on Route 1 in New Jersey? Preposterous! When Gloria's credit card didn't pass, his spirits soared. “Sorry ma'am, this card's been cancelled,” he overheard the whisper. As the car was lowered back to the roadway, he sighed in relief and sped away. Gloria slumped down into her seat and eyed him suspiciously. He kept his eyes on the road and was silent ...
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