Old Man Ferguson's Corvette

Another brush with excellence from my forthcoming book, We Found the Vacuum Cleaner.

Some years ago when the interstates were still only 55 mph, half a dozen of us were wasting a perfectly good Saturday evening at Bertie’s Pie and Coffee Shack at the Waddle County Fair. Pretty soon Old Man Ferguson strutted up, grinning like he’d just got away with one in church.

I believe I told a little about him once before.

On this quiet October evening, the new Pasture High School math teacher, Jay James, came tagging along with him. Those of us that were already there thought that was a little unusual, but okay.

Ferguson straddled a folding chair, leaned hard on the table, thoughtfully removed the straw from his mouth, pushed his dirty cap back on his head and ordered a thick slice of Bertie’s World Clazzberry pie—with whipped cream and two scoops of ice cream on the side.

“And do the same thing for Mr. James here, too,” he crowed.

“Oh, no. I don’t…” Mr. James protested.

“Yes, you do. Bring him the same thing. This is a piece of pie you’ll never forget, son.”

Old Man Ferguson did not spend his money that way. This apparently was an event!

Bertie's World Clazzberry pie

When young Mr. James arrived in Pancake Flats to take the teaching job, he drove into town in a gleaming red Corvette. Siren red we called it. It was equipped with a speedometer that started at 55 mph.

He also brought an openness and a friendliness that soon had us all poking our heads under the hood of his beautiful Corvette. Nobody ever touched anything on it—we just looked. It was too pretty, too not-Kansas, too intimidating, too Corvette to do anything but stare in lustful wonder.

That night at the fair, nobody said anything while the two men waited for their pie. Soon it arrived and in a solemn, celebratory gesture, Old Man Ferguson took his first bite. His head fell back and his dirty cap tumbled to the grass. Nobody moved. Ferguson closed his eyes and let the raspberries roll around in his mouth while the whipped cream oozed along his lips.

This indeed was an event!

Bertie finally asked, “Well, Fergie, this is not like you, honey. What’s the occasion?”

Young Mr. James carefully broke the silence, “I let him drive my car, and…”

“He did! He did, indeed! I didn’t even ask. He offered!”

All of us drop-jawed at both of them. Ferguson probably doesn’t even have a driver’s license. All the troopers and all the sheriff’s deputies know him. Besides that, his old pickup is slower than his old combine.

“We were tinkering on it and I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride, that’s all.” Mr. James told us.

“It were a great ride, too. Hundred miles an hour. Easy. That was real nice." Ferguson looked lovingly at Mr. James. “Real nice.” He took another slow spoonful of pie.

“Tell ‘em what happened next, James, sir.” Then he turned to us and said, “You boys aren’t going to believe this, but it’s true. It happened. Yes, indeedy!”

“Well, nothing really happened," James said. "We were out on the interstate. There wasn’t too much traffic, so I let him drive my car.”

There came from us a community “No!” Even Bertie stood awed.

Old Man Ferguson put down his spoon, picked up his dirty cap and banged it on his thigh. “I drove that car. I did.” He put his cap on, carefully and proudly.

“I made that car go eighty-five miles an hour.” He paused reverently. “I never done that before. I always wanted to.” He paused and then respectfully said, "And this boy here…"

“But wouldn’t you know it? One of them Kansas State boys saw me a-flying and took out after me.”

One of them Kansas State boys...

“I couldn’t resist, boys! I always wanted to see if I could outrun the law. By golly, it can be done. I was just going to go up to a hundred, like he done, but I guess I pressed the pedal a little too hard.”

He took another bite of pie. Three teenagers tried to order some pie, but Bertie hushed them and told them to wait.

“Before I knew it, that thing down there said we was going a hundred and thirty miles an hour. A hunnerdn thirty! Honest! I never felt so great in all my life. I looked in the mirror and that trooper was wa-a-a-y back there.

“This boy here, he just sat there and let me drive her.” He put a solid hand on Mr. James shoulder. "I coulda drove plumb to Denver and never seen the sun set. We was going fast, wasn't we, James?"

Young Mr. James nodded his head.

“Then it occurred to me that I might be getting this boy in trouble. I didn’t want that to happen, did I? So then I let up on her and pulled over. We had to wait a bit for that trooper to catch up.”

He walked up to the window real slow like. Had his hand close to his hip; looking us over real good. When he saw me, he ‘bout fell out.”

“’Is that you, Ferguson?’”

“I just said, ’Fraid so,’ and sat there grinning at him.”

“He looked at me real hard, like he weren't sure if I was who I was supposed to be. Now who else could I be? I was a little embarrassed, him starin' like that.”

“'Mr. Ferguson,’ he says, ‘it’s been a long day for me. I’m real tired and my shift ends in just a few minutes. I don’t know why you're driving the way you are; I know it's not normal of you, but…oh, hell, here’s what I’m going to do. If you can give me a reason why you were driving like that—a reason I’ve never heard—then instead of writing you a ticket, I’ll buy you a piece of Bertie’s pie.' He got his pad out like he was getting ready to write that ticket."

“I said, ‘Well, sir. You remember that my old lady ran off with that Kansas State Trooper a few months ago?’”

"He said he remembered."

“I told him, 'Well, I thought you was him—trying to bring her back.'"