It was mid-afternoon and Wyatt would walk to a cool conservative saloon on Ronald Reagan Way. Nancy’s Bar and Grill was one of his
usual pit stops after a long day at work. The air conditioning was cranked and the young man almost felt cold sitting alone.
He sat in a corner booth with his new book
and a bottle of local beer. If he thought the book was only forty pages long, the naive
traffic man would've been wrong. Flipping through hundreds of pages, he appeared stunned, but found
one long poem. It was the most that he had ever read. Wyatt slowly started to read The Highwayman and the nice poem struck a
chord with the young and lonesome reporter. It was like there was a love knot
between Wyatt and the poem. It was like Wyatt understood the “Highwayman.” Following
that day, he would read the poem in the morning, after work and always before
going to bed. Sometimes he acted out scenes while alone in his spare time just for fun. After he exhausted himself reading the same poem obsessively, he was desperate to integrate the poem into his wildly informative highway traffic report performances. Wyatt
transformed into the highwayman, and he vowed to ride off into the sunset. One
day he would go riding, riding, and ride north on a long highway heading all
the way to Canada. After changing out of his cowboy uniform for a final time, Wyatt
dressed into jeans and a red shirt
before his report. “Howdy folks! There’s a traffic bottleneck southbound.”
A
producer whispered in his ear. “Where’s the cowboy uniform?”
“I
hate my work uniform. This town is nothing but boots and spurs.”
The short-haired woman yelled, “No.” She
was visibly mad. “Shut the hell up! We’re throwing to a commercial.” She cursed under her breath.
Wyatt would start to speak Canadian with his
camerawoman. “Turn off the camera, eh. You need some bacon. Go play hockey with Guy LaFleur.”
“Okay, Wyatt.” She responded uninterested in any of Wyatt’s nonsense.
“Eh, don’t you understand the Canadian
language?” He spit on the floor.
“I don’t give a damn. I don’t want to
work with you.” She was repulsed.
“I’m gonna throw away the old cowboy
uniform for a winter coat made of Saskatchewan sealskin. I’m putting on a red
trucker’s hat and going riding, riding off into the sunset.” Wyatt smiled like
he had just won a prize fight.
The
angry manager of the community channel walked into the studio. He was
overweight and sweating. The middle-aged man was wearing a small cowboy hat and
chewing tobacco. “What the hell is going on around here?”
“I’m going to go riding, riding,
riding!” Wyatt said.
“Well
have fun riding, riding, riding. And don’t come back.” The manager knew that
the kid had talent, but his focus was off and dead air would have been better than broadcasting mad traffic rants.
“I don’t need Wheelerville. I’m going riding, riding on a bus northbound to Canada.”Wyatt was ready to pack his bags. “Oh, I
do so know how my camerawoman will miss me; but I must go riding, riding.” Revealing
a half-smile, he clenched a bus ticket, looking nervous but insanely happy. The bus
ticket had been sent in from a fan of the channel. It was a free ride out.
Before exiting the old studio, Wyatt exclaimed “The highway is for riding, riding, riding. And now, I’m off to where the wind
is a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. And this has been Wyatt McReynolds
reporting.”
He would finish a tirade and storm out
of the studio, tossing Bessie out on the sidewalk in anger. He wasn’t going to
need his lucky lasso anymore. His bags were packed and he stood at the bus stop waiting and flipping through pages from his big book of classic poems. A Greyhound bus
stopped for the patient traffic man. He boarded the bus. The driver smiled at Wyatt, closed the bus doors and put her foot down on the gas pedal; and rode off into
the sunset down a long lonesome highway paved with goodwill, good intentions and good dreams.
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