The Club didn’t last long.
It wasn’t the dues, which were nothing. It wasn’t being worried about being elected recording secretary or something if you missed a meeting. There were no officers, no directors and no meetings.
It was born of an idea that occurred to Doc one day. He said the members of the Mule Barn truck stop’s philosophy counter and world dilemma think tank should organize. After his third cup, Doc turned to the others and said sitting there having coffee day after day without any real purpose just didn’t seem right. Doc said, “There are so many things a real organization can do.”
“What would those things be, Doc?” Steve asked.
Then Dud piped up. “Would we have to wear funny hats and have a secret handshake and a password?”
“Absolutely,” Doc said. “Otherwise, how would you know who was one of your brother club members and who wasn’t?”
Mavis said, “What’s your secret password? Regular or decaf?”
“I don’t think we should let women join,” said Bert.
Nobody nodded until after Mavis had topped off the cups and had gone into the bowels of the kitchen.
“Okay,” Steve said. “Let’s get this straight. No meetings. No name for The Club, right? No officers. No dues to pay. All we have to do is give our shoes to some orphans, right?”
“And feed kids in third world countries.”
“I don’t know any kids in third world countries. Could we feed one or two around here, just to kinda e-e-e-ease into it?”
“I don’t think so,” said Doc. “We gotta come up with a third world country and then find out who’s in charge of feeding kids. Then we can send them something.”
“I move we adjourn this meeting,” said Steve.
“There are no meetings,” said Doc.
Since no one could name a third world country without a map or listening to National Public Radio, The Club died a quiet death.
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Brought to you by Saddle Up: A Cowboy Guide to Writing
1 comment:
I always enjoy a visit with Slim and the boys. Hope opening day was a success.
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