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Honorable mention
 Das Bus (a mostly true story)
 Larry V. Brown

Some things in your life you never forget, and you can imagine them as if they had just happened. One such event occurred in my life when I was a very young man, with the innocence of youth, with all the time in the world, as they say, full of piss and vinegar. The year was l963, and I was out of school for a quarter trying to make a few bucks to go back for another. I believe the minimum wage was a buck and a quarter, and I was making little more than that, but it was enough in those days.

A friend of mine, Max, had a little more than he could handle financially, and to ease things, he needed to get rid of a '61 Transporter he had. This guy was one of the greats, but if it weren't for bad luck he wouldn't have any at all. His pride and joy was a female boxer, registered of course, and Max wanted to have her bred. Borrowed a stud, registered of course, with visions of sugar plumbs dancing in his head, counting the pups he was going to sell, how many dollars easy money. Of course the stud died before ever touching the female. One sniff, lights out! The indignant owner made Mad Max cough up $150 to cover. Remember the minimum wage, $l.25. Hurt Max real bad, which is how I came into possession of Das Bus, the aforementioned '61 Transporter, a splittie. A standard, the one with the small round glass taillights. Underpowered, stark, a rarity and one of the ugliest forms of transportation in the early sixties for a cool guy, whose previous car was a mildly customized '50 Ford, nosed and decked, lowered. twin smithies. Not the fastest car, but when you're cool, it really doesn't matter. Fast belonged to the kids with big bucks.

Everyone knows of Georgia red clay. It'll stain your bare feet red on the bottoms for months at a time. Any how, Das Bus and I were tooling down one of the infamous red clay dirt roads one cold and misty Georgia night, trying to stay in the ruts, cause if you ever slid out, it was the ditch for sure. Mud kept slinging up on the windshield, and I would turn the wipers? on to clear so I could halfway see where I was going. The wipers? would hang up periodically, and I found if I thumped the windshield in the vicinity of the offending wiper it would resume it's streaking motion. This happened several times, and upon the wiper? hanging up again, I gave the cold windshield another thump, when it shattered into at least twelve thousand fragments. Trying to see out was kinda like looking out a fly's eye. Remember the scene in THE FLY, the original version with Vincent Price? Remember when the cloak fell off the Fly and you were looking through his eyes? Damn what a scary movie! Leaning across the passenger's seat, so I could see out the right half of the windshield, I managed to navigate Das Bus back home.

The next day I used the same procedure to get to my insurance agent, a wonderful old guy with a beautiful daughter, but hey, that's another story. Well, my agent, Mr. Green, looked at my windshield, said I was covered and all we had to do was fill out a report for the home office. I answered each of his questions, telling what happened. He balked at my story, saying let's just say a rock hit it. I said man, I can't do that, and he looked at me incredulously and filled out his report. Under cause, THUMPED WINDSHIELD, IT BROKE. State Farm paid, I was happy, Das Bus was happy. From that time on, whenever our paths would cross, Mr. Green would simply shake his head. He has since gone on to a better place, as has Das Bus. They were both good and loyal friends. Would like to see them again. Still drive a Volkswagen bus, a Vanagon Westie. Still have my insurance with State Farm. Somehow, though, it just isn't the same. Sometimes in my mind's eye the Westie magically transforms into Das Bus as I ride down a lonely Georgia red clay road on a dark, cold misty night. When that happens, the night isn't the only thing that gets misty.