Not wanting to spend a cajillion bucks to leave my car at the airport in Dallas while on summer vacation at home, I opted to take the Waco Streak from my apartment to DFW—only a jillion bucks. The Streak is a 14-passenger van that takes anyone who needs a ride and pays of course, to the airport and will even pick you up upon your return if requested. Pretty neat, huh?
At 9:23 a.m. I received a phone call from the van driver/chauffer letting me know he was at the gate. “Julia, this is Wendall from the Waco Streak, good morning to ya! We’re here at your gate if you’re ready.” Gosh, he’s chipper in the morning, I thought. Based on the way people sound on the phone I try and guess what they’ll look like in person. (Is that judgmental?) While gathering my two suitcases and making sure the lights were off and the AC was down, I pictured Wendall being a man about 40 in Dockers and a polo.
I locked my door, said bye to Gretchen (that’s my car), and made my way through the gate where Wendall and his white van were waiting. He was not 40, nor was he wearing Dockers. On the contrary he was about 60, peppery-hair thinning on top but ample below as it was pulled back in a low, ratty ponytail. Small glasses reflected against his tanned skin and his wrangler jeans kissed the top of his black cowboy boots.
After Wendell helped me load my luggage, I slid the van door open and scooted down the first bench-seat I saw. Behind me were two women. They were just how I picture myself at 70—traveling with a friend, passport hanging from my neck, and on the way to my third cruise. I never got these ladies names but I learned they were from Waco (like I couldn’t tell by their thicker than molasses accents), used to work at Baylor, both were widowed and had grown kids out and about in the world.
They commented on how cute my apartment appeared from the outside and pondered how long the condos had been there because they had never seen all the new developments happening on 15th Street. “This part of town has always been a little behind” was how they described it.
On our drive to pick up our next passengers we chatted about the trip they were about to embark on to Siberia, Hungary, Budapest, and other places along the Danube they couldn’t remember the names of. The white haired lady said she wasn’t as excited as she was about their last adventure, but what did she know, maybe she’d love it. Then we chatted about where I was headed and why did I come to Baylor all the way from California? (If I had a dollar for every time I got asked that…)
The ladies chatted to themselves for a while inquiring of the other whether or not the paper had been delivered on time recently and that it was not there when they woke up at 6 most days. This made them reminisce about the old days when the paperboys threw the paper at the house and it always seemed to land in the flowerpot. At this point I wasn’t sure if they felt old, or I felt young, but I definitely felt a generation gap between my seat and their’s.
After bumping our way along many dirt roads, deflating the red-haired lady’s perfectly sprayed do, we finally came to the end of the road past all the horses and cows, when an older woman in a mumu flagged us down. An older man and a younger tattooed and pierced man joined the van. I couldn’t help but notice the eyebrow ring, tongue ring and tattoo, and don’t think for a second the ladies in the back didn’t either. They were very curious.
“Do you have a ring through your tongue?” asked the white-haired lass.
“Yes ma’am, since I was 14. My mom took me,” replied the young man.
Then the red-haired lady chimed in with, “I suppose if my son had ever asked, I would have taken him to get his too.”
I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. I laughed again when the subject turned to tattoo’s, and we inspected the boys inked calf.
“Just don’t ever get a girl’s name on you,” advised the redhead, “That’s something you’d regret.”
The young man assured her he would not, and that his next tattoo was to be something religious his friend was drawing up for him, and he couldn’t wait for the 16-hours it would take to ink it on his back.
Ew.
The old man in the front seat was this boy’s grandfather and they were on their way to Scotland to their family clan gathering. The grandfather had been before but his grandson had never flown further than from New Orleans to New York, and he thought that was long! Anyhoo, we found out, (we, as in me and my new friends on the bench behind me) that the duo packed their kilts and all, and were to march in a parade. “Now you can tell us what they wear under those kilts,” said the red-haired lady. Nothing shocked me anymore. In fact, I thought it might be kinda fun to go on a cruise with these gals. They’re probably the life of the party.
After making a bathroom break on the hour and a half journey (that’s when happens when three of the passengers are over 70) and spotting some colorful bikers we cruised on in to DFW to depart to our various destinations.
The Scots left us first, and I was next. Before I got out the redhead asked me how old I was. When I said, “20,” she said what a great age it was, and not to rush getting older. I said, “Oh no, I’m not rushing, but I do already have some gray hairs.”
“Don’t yank ‘em out,” chimed Wendell from the front seat, “Gray hair is beautiful.”
I got out of the van, lugged my bags up the escalator and thought about the last two hours. I had learned about my Waco neighborhood, the Danube, Waco newspaper schedules, tattoo’s, eyebrow and tongue rings, kilts, and aging. Much more than I bargained for, that’s for sure.
