Milkshake To Go

Seventy seven some odd days ago on February the twenty eighth during day light hours a mamouth GreyHound bus pulled up to a curb. A curb in a town called Crossfield.

Prior to this event of monumental proportions I, along with my kid brother Jeremiah, partook on the seven billion mile hike from a basement called home to the desolate bus stop. Each carrying a piece of luggage that seemingly increased in mass the further we traveled made the journey all the more painfull. Our arms literally burst into flames. . . except they didn't. They just really hurt. Before Jeremiah turned to go back home he offered a milkshake. I had an entire miniute or two before the scheduled arrival of the bus so off we went across the street to the Burger Barron. Impatiently pacing from the window to the counter were Jeremiah stood ordering the milkshakes of coldness I couldn't help but think, what if? What if I miss the bus? What if I already missed the bus? What if. . . my blood ran cold. The bus was there.
Waiting.
"The bus is here!" I stammered.
"Then GO!" Jeremiah shrieked, "go!".
So I, milkshakeless, went. Waving the right to look both ways before crossing, I walked speedily across the street to the bus. Finding my luggage unstolen and intact I handed Mr. Bus Driver Man my ticket and boared the bus. Milkshakeless.
Just as Mr. Bus Driver Man was about to kick the bus into hyper drive a tinted figure approached the bus, with a milkshake in each hand.

Long story short: I enjoyed sucking the cold, pail white innards of a cardboard cavity through a straw all the way to Calgary (home of the metal-minded chess champion). All thanks to the kindness and gererosity of my kid brother, Jeremiah. Thanks a million. And one.


Milkshakes.