Who knew that Jimmy Prosser’s Bad Advice article from January would open a Pandora’s Box of “Oh my?” We have received our second article – this
one answering the question of “Thanks! Whoever’s Bike I Stole Last Night” from Jean Scudder who desperately needed a bike. Read on for all the
details! Tom McKenna, who answered the question “Where in Ohio are you from” in our February issue, might have a run for his money to win that
half-opened PBR from the back of Jimmy’s fridge! All I got to say is ‘When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
Thanks! Whoever’s Bike I Stole Last Night
By Jeannie Scudder • Part-time Tybee resident • Working on being full-time • Looking for friends
Hand in hand with my husband, Wayne, after a fun filled night of Mountain Jam, Sweetwater IPA, and delicious football fare at Huc A Poos, our favorite
first night in town tradition, we strolled along the sandy lane in wistful discussion about our Tybee Island home search. He had just made his case for
the pink townhouse when I shouted, “Oh no!” “What? Don’t you like that one?” “It’s not that,” I said, and began to look around in earnest. “Do you see a
snake or an alligator!” he asked and inched toward me. “I can hardly see you in this dark night, no, I don’t see any critters. It is YELLOWSTONE,” my voice
quavered. “Not Yellowstone,” he said as more of a statement than a question. It can’t be. In spite of the moonless sky, I could see the fear in the whites of
his bulging eyes. “We have to hurry,” I said, and prayed I could make it to safety. “We are half a mile from home,” Wayne said. “We aren’t going to make
it!” I started to run and called behind to my husband, “Save yourself, I will meet you at the condo.”
His response was lost to me in the wind, but as I rounded the bend in the road at River’s End Campground, I spotted a bicycle. On closer inspection, I
noticed it was bright yellow, like happiness, with a tan flower basket, and it had lights! “Yes, there is a God,” I said up to the heavens. Don’t judge me, but
not for a second did I contemplate not taking what appeared to be a smiley faced emoji able to deliver me to the salvation of my home. I needed it and
Dear God, it was better for all of Tybee’s residents if I took it. Trust me. As I pedaled as fast as the mean Miss Gulch, from the Wizard of Oz, I practically
heard, Dun-da-da-da-dah-da, Dun-da-da-da dah-da.
Faster and faster I went. I rounded the corner in front of the police station and flinched with a millisecond of doubt, but delighted in the view of
Lighthouse Point. Almost. I AM ALMOST THERE! I drove through the parking lot and started to get off the bike before it stopped. I jumped off, tossed the
happy bike to the ground, and sprinted up the fifty-three stairs, two at a time, to our condo. Please let me unlock this door in time. Cramping up, I danced
back and forth on my feet. When the door swung open and hit the wall, I rushed to the nearest white porcelain seat, dropped my drawers that had already
given me swamp ass from the bicycle seat and sighed in relief. “Yes! I made it,” I said aloud. As I sat on the toilet, I relished the fact there would not be a
repeat of Yellowstone, not this day anyway. I laughed uncontrollably at the memory of that moment and the look on my husband’s face.
We were on a two month road trip across the country to celebrate our retirements, and it was our first full day at Yellowstone. We woke up that morning
with a sense of adventure and for me, a minor stomachache from the Bratwurst and beer I had at the brewery in Cody, Wyoming. When will I learn? We
planned to hike the few miles in and out to Mystic Falls. After we reached the falls, I had to pee. I tried to hold it, I really did. About a mile later, there
was no other choice. I had to defile Yellowstone. In an attempt to be a good citizen, I had packed a plastic bag and wipes in my backpack. There was no
intention of leaving more of a mark than necessary on this majestic setting.
There was a spot, behind several trees that seemed adequate. With my provisions in hand I hovered, like all women do at any public restroom and waited
for sweet relief. “Oh no,” I said aloud. “This can’t be happening.” “What?” my sweet husband asked. “I need another wipe.” “Okay,” he said, without
hesitation, “I’ll bring you one.” “NOOOOOOO,” I bellowed. “Don’t come any closer,” I said, and held my hand up to curtain my creation. It was too late. This
beloved man, my partner in all things, had already taken just one step toward me and saw the steaming pile of poo. “Oh my God, you took a crap!” he
exclaimed. I hung my head in shame. He tossed me the entire dispenser of wipes and plastic bag. Just as I cleaned up best that I could, I heard another
happy couple on the trail. I quickly put myself back together and started to walk in their direction. When we were in earshot, I said to my husband, “My
goodness, what is wrong with people, who would do that in a National Park?” He laughed at my need for decorum.
At our condo, relieved beyond relief, I rationalized that temporarily stealing a happy bicycle during a moment of desperation was nothing compared to
the federal crimes I must have committed by desecrating one of our country’s treasures. Wayne came home about fifteen minutes later and sheepishly
asked if “I made it.”
I said, “If I were a smoker, I’d be enjoying a cigarette right now.” He said, “Thank God, we can’t start crapping all over our potential neighbors. We want
to make friends here, Jeannie.” “Yes, I said, let’s just hope the person who owns the bicycle is just passing through.” Thank you, to whomever owns the
bike I stole last night!
12 TYBEE BEACHCOMBER | MAR 2019