But who can I call?
Two Jehovah's Witnesses were here the other day. They left me a card with their local phone number on it. Should I call them? They believe in funerals, don't they? I'm not sure. To hear them tell the story, after you die the switch goes off, everything turns black, and that's it. No pearly gates, no angel wings, no 72 virgins, no nothing.
No one answered.
The young man at the Council on Aging suggested the service clubs. The Lions, the Eagles . . . yes, I'll do that, just to see how far I get after they find out I'm not a member, and that no one in the family I don't have anyway is a member. (And then, maybe I'll give the Packers and Patriots a try.) But actually . . . no more phone calls. I'm done talking to soyboys and lipstick lesbian cat ladies, and other assorted members of Generation Dumblebumble.
Uber wants $400 for the round trip to Flint and back. For that much, you can make the same round trip to California. What do I want? I ask myself. Sunny beaches, pretty girls in bikinis, or poisoned water?
Amtrak goes to Flint from Port Huron. There's one train a day, that leaves here at 20 after six in the morning and gets to Flint at 7:30. The return train from Flint leaves at 9:55 PM and arrives in PH at 11:30. That, except for all the time to kill in the City Of Poisoned Water, is almost doable. It may have to be.
Fortunately, as things turned out, it didn't have to be.
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