Chapter 35

The train hummed to a stop on the west side of town.  The broad dry plain so often associated with the stereotypical Oklahoma protruded from the dull horizon.  Bojargis was hesitant to go outside for fear that he might lose his senses or mind -- 'what was this place' he thought 'that so faithfully refuses to distinguish itself in any memorable or appreciable way?'.

This judgment was unfair, though -- Bojargis had only seen a small fraction of Tulsa's charm.

He stuffed the Walkman into his fanny pack and set out on foot.  He had an address written down, virtually, in his brain and he would find it soon.

Bojargis had done no research in advance of his journey as to the whereabouts of his destination.  Much to his fortune, it was not hard to find -- due to construction and a shifting political climate, Ticonderoga Trail had been designated the temporary new 'main street' and 44434 was right next to the interim City Hall.

He walked a block away from the train station and boarded the first bus that hummed to a stop.  "Driver, take me to 44434 Ticonderoga Trail" he said.

The driver replied with a confused reply and a proclamation that orders typically are not delivered as such.

"That's all fine and well, Mr. Driver Man" Bojargis countered "but I've got four dollars that says you're going to take me to straight to 44434 Ticonderoga Trail and you're going to like it, too."

"Four dollars?" the driver inquired.

"That's about the size of it.  You best not delay any more, though -- time's a wastin'."

The driver looked at his watch and took another bite of the Baby Ruth bar stowed in his cupholder.  "Make it twenty-seven dollars and you got yourself a goddamn deal."

Bojargis spat out of contempt.  He grabbed the book the passenger in front was reading (a newly purchased copy of Danielle Steel's The Ranch) and tore it in half.  He withdrew twenty-seven crumpled one dollar bills from his fanny pack and threw them on the floor at the driver's feet.  "Get on with it, then" he shouted.

The bus lurched forward with a raucous surge.  Bojargis flew backwards, completely unprepared for a lesson on inertia.  He leapt at the nearest overhead grab rail and caught it like a flying squirrel grasping a tree branch from a groundward descent.

Two blocks and about twenty seconds later, the bus screeched to a skidding halt.  Bojargis gazed outside and saw the numbers 44434 engraved on a plague at the gate of a handsome stucco mansion.  "Fucking shit!" he exclaimed.