Me and Bobby McGee

A few months ago, Brenda and I decided to take a break from camping at Henry Horton State Park in Chapel Hill, Tennessee, and drive into Spring Hill, eat at a restaurant, and go see the latest Indiana Jones movie.

As we were driving in, I pointed to some distant clouds and remarked, “That looks like trouble.”

Those words turned out to be a prophetic statement.

While eating, it grew dark enough outside at four o’clock in the afternoon that the restaurant had to turn their lights up.

Sitting by a window, we had a “ring-side seat” to what would have to be called a deluge. Like my good friend Robert Nanney would say, “It rained like pouring water out of a boot.”

The rain was accompanied by light and sound effects, blinding lightning and booming thunder.

We kept sitting there after our meal was finished, hoping the rain would let up. But if you follow our escapades, you already know that didn’t happen. You also know it would be ridiculous to ask if we had an umbrella with us. We’re not those kinds of people (unfortunately).

Movie time grew close, so we had to make a move. At the door to the restaurant, I could barely see my truck through the driving rain. I was about to tell Brenda that I would run(?) to the truck and pull it as close to the door as I could, but just then, I spied a dripping umbrella resting in the corner. (Obviously some of “those kinds of people” were in the restaurant. Smart alecks.)

“Look,” I told her, “I’m going to use that umbrella and walk you out to the truck, then return it and make a mad dash(?) to join you.”

She gave me a skeptical look but was agreeable to the idea given any other options.

The first part of that idea worked fairly well. I was able to deposit her in the truck relatively dry. But when I turned around to take the umbrella back, mother nature decided to take off her other boot and pour it directly on me.

Being the quick thinker(?) I am, I splashed to the driver’s side and got in while keeping the umbrella open. You do know, don’t you, that the time you get the wettest is when you have to close the umbrella so you can bring it inside the vehicle.

Oh yeah, and ask me if I wore my waterproof hiking boots to our outing. OF COURSE NOT. My “breathable” tennis shoes were soaked, as were my socks.

In that moment, I refused to close the umbrella. Rather, I closed the door onto the handle and started the truck.

Alarmed and thinking I’d lost my mind, which is common for us, Brenda asked, “What are you doing?”

“Watch this,” I answered.

Driving backwards, I slowly made my way to the entrance of the restaurant, bumping into the curb, pulling forward, scooting over, driving backwards, repeat, repeat, because those wonderful backup cameras are useless in the face of a flood of Noahic proportions.

When I rushed(?) inside the restaurant to return the umbrella, quite a crowd had gathered and were craning their necks. I thought they were trying to figure out whether to make a run for their cars or not. No. They were watching the idiot who was driving backwards with an umbrella sticking out the top of his door.

Back in the truck, with my windshield wipers clapping time, me and Bobby McGee headed toward the multiplex theater at fifteen miles per hour.

The forty-acre parking lot looked like a Tennessee Titans home game—jampacked, except for one open slot on the back forty.

Yes, before you ask, I let Brenda out in front of the theater.

Just before she got out, she laughed, “You could always use one of the Goodwill bags in the backseat to hold over your head.” (My wife and Goodwill deserve a story devoted solely to them. Suffice it to say, the first place she Googles when we travel is the location of the closest Goodwill store.)

I drove my way to the furthest corner of the parking lot where not even the streetlights were bright enough to illuminate the space. Once I parked and turned off the truck, I sat there, contemplating taking off my clothes, stuffing them into a Goodwill bag and walking to the theater where I would then go to the restroom, dry off with paper towels, and dress in dry clothes. Luckily (for everyone), Brenda’s suggestion, spoken in jest, suddenly seemed like a reasonable alternative.

Lifting a bag from the backseat, I sat it in the seat beside me and emptied it. Then I slipped it over my head. Lucky(?) for me it was just my size; it covered my head and shoulders.

With no other thought than wanting to join Brenda (thoughts like, how will I see where I’m going, how will I see approaching vehicles, will someone call the police because there’s a drunk man in the parking lot with a plastic bag over his head), I opened the door and got out.

Have you ever heard the sound of rain on a tin roof, how relaxing it sounds? Well, that’s NOT what it sounds like striking a plastic bag. It sounded like I was being attacked by killer bees.

I inched my way across the parking lot, focusing on the ground and the two feet of distance in front of me that I could see. At one point I was blinded by what I thought might be the light from an approaching train, or maybe it was just a car.

Finally, just before I ran out of oxygen inside my plastic bubble, I saw the sidewalk in front of the theater and nearly cheered at safely reaching the promised land.

The next moment, my head banged into the concrete-block wall of the building.

I walked into the theatre like I owned the place, removed the Goodwill bag with a flourish, and ignored the paparazzi using their phones to record for all to see the story of the drunk man wearing a plastic bag over his head in a thunderstorm.

I spotted Brenda and for a moment it looked like she was going to act like she didn’t know me. But then she came to me, took me by the arm, and escorted me like I was an Alzheimer’s patient.

Epilogue: We enjoyed the movie.

*Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume 1: I Didn’t Know Donkeys Could Laugh.