Getting Wired

The rest of the caravan had CBs. If we'd had one, we'd have known that when we stopped at a tiny, tiny place off the main highway, it was because one of our fellow travelers was having an internal emergency (I thought it was just because the place was picturesque. And that they had glow-in-the-dark condoms in the men's room.) The CBs were useful for maintaining a relatively uniform cruising speed, keeping track of stray caravan members, and pointing out the sights. In Texas, that means whenever anybody saw a tree.

Burford decided he wanted a CB. Philo told Burford he'd be lucky to find what he needed at a truck stop for less than a hundred bucks. At the next truck stop, we parked right next to this guy:

He mainly carried big radios, for truckers, but had one used auto CB.

He didn't think much of what we were doing. I told him I thought it was awesome. "Somewhere between awesome and gruesome," he said and went on to suggest that we'd missed our rendezvous with the Hale-Bopp Mothership.

To his credit, he was willing to be amused, sort of. And for the radio, antenna, and installation he was willing to charge only thirty-five bucks. On one condition: that we don't credit him--at least not for the install. (The antenna magnet wasn't strong enough, so Burford just sticks it out the rear air vent.) I told him we'd credit "Casualty CB." That seemed to satisfy him.

So just forget you've seen the above photo, okay? (And tell him Deuce of Clubs sent you!)




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