Copyright 1995(c)

                           JUST THE FACTS, MA'AM
                           By Patsy Sauls-Quaile

     I look out the window and the land is flat and spotted with
pine trees. There is no floor show and I wonder if I should have
gone with a Lauren Bacall retrospective instead, but then I
remember why I'm here.
     I'm a reporter. That's why I'm here. And I've managed to
position myself at the rear, near the restroom, with a clear view
of my traveling companions. And boy are they wei... uh, unique.
     Originally, the idea was to travel in the wake of Charles
Kuralt who was on the road for so very long... check up on the
Kuralt stories and bring America 'the rest of the story' like Paul
Harvey. Imagine my disappointment when the first story I followed
up on -- Chester Durand, who had saved the largest ball of string
in history, proved such a disquieting experience. You'd think
Chester would have been smarter than to position his collection on
an incline, wouldn't you? He took it well, though. As he watched
string unwind into the valley next to his farm, he simply muttered,
"Easy come. Easy go." The sight of a man's dreams stringed to death
was enough to persuade me that Charles may have been on the cutting
edge of something one could only fall off the face of the earth by
pursuing.
     Life is ugly, though, and I collected my thoughts and sought
to salvage something, deciding ultimately that commentary on my
fellow man would be a worthwhile journalistic endeavor. So, here I
am. On the Bus.
     Society is class-conscious when it comes to buses. Nobody who
is anybody rides them. In the schematic of mankind, there is a
subtle demotion attached to bus riders. Perhaps not so much bus
riders who ride twice a day,... to work and home, but certainly to
those who ride buses from geographical site to site... like from
California to Maine. These are the deadbeat dads and loose women
who don't maintain voter's registrations. This is the fascinating
scum on chicken soup, which is scooped off and ignored. Until now.
     I, Wesley Edgar, inquisitive investigative reporter, am the
only one who saw the clear gap in information. Only I recognized
the need to complete the cycle... fill in the gaps between "On The
Road With Charles Kuralt" and "The Rest of the Story with Paul
Harvey." I saw, and I rushed to serve, but that terrible string
incident put me off.
     I don't have my own motor trailer. I have neither a microwave
nor ready access to a shower, but, as I often tell myself,
deprivation is the animus of a good reporter. Charles had it soft,
but I've got it hard... and I like it that way.
     "So..." I say conversationally, popping open my laptop
computer and preparing to record another personal story of one of
the little people, "what's your story?" I ask the ill-kempt
passenger next to me.
     "Get away from me, you fruitcake," says the scruffy, bearded
figure with slouch hat pulled low over his eyes.
     Ah. A live one.

                                    END