Brush with scamsters in Bushnell, Florida

My wife and I pulled off the I-75 freeway to gas up and get a bite to eat in a small town called Bushnell, Florida. With still over three hours to go on a ten-hour trip to Naples, we had reached that point on the journey where getting there was no longer half the fun. What better way to cure travel crabbiness and curb the appetite, we thought, than with cholesterol on Texast toast? We headed for Waffle House.

Route 48 west of I-75 in Bushnell is a fairly secluded and desolate neck of the woods. A slightly dilapidated motel with a weedy parking lot sits next to a gas station with pumps that predate the '79 oil embargo. Our Waffle House was across the street from them. The town is midway down the state directly across from Orlando. Those who have visited the Sunshine State know that an imaginary line runs across it separating the two Floridas -- the northern section with its mobile homes and confederate flags and the southern half with its septuagenarians and gated golf communities. Judging from our surroundings, we were north of that line.

The restaurant was pretty empty, but there was a lone woman dining at the counter and a couple sitting in the corner booth. The man and woman in the corner had a large duffle bag and a pink bookbag sitting on the floor beside them. He was yammering on his cell phone at volume ten about being broken down and needing the rear half of a drive shaft for a 92 Dodge pickup with extended cab. The waitress, who was as big around as she was tall, was trying to cater to his dilemma. She offered him a phone book and told him she knew someone who would help install the part if he could find one. An older woman who looked like Polly Holliday on crack manned the grill. Elaine and I took the booth closest to the exit.

The waitress asked what we would have to drink and she brought us a coffee and cherry coke. As we perused the sticky menus/placemats we were treated to more of the stranded man's phone conversations. We're sitting at a Waffle House . . . We're right off the expressway . . . I just need the rear half. He interspersed his phone conversation with demands of the waitress. Where am I at? . . . What's the phone number here? . . . Do you have a pen? The woman with him looked like hard living, but she couldn't have been more than 20. Twice I think she caught me staring at her.

The waitress came back to our table and asked, "Have you two figured out what you want to drink?", then realizing she had already served our drinks she burst out laughing. I wish I could be as easily amused as this woman. We ordered our food and chowed down like there was no tomorrow. That frycook sure could make a mean patty melt. By the time I was half-way done with my sandwich, the stranded man approached my table.

"You look like a movie star," he said pointing at me. "I just haven't figured out who you look like." His woman motioned for him to return to his assigned table. "Me and this cat are gonna go sign autographs," he said. It was then that the smell in the air changed from griddle shortening to fish. I just gave the courtesy smile and went back to shoving meat and fried onions down my throat.

Before we got up to pay, I looked outside and saw two other men with duffel bags crossing the parking lot of the retro gas station. Meanwhile the woman from the counter was outside rummaging around under her car seats for the change she needed to pay for her meal. When we made our way to the register the man on the cell phone became agitated. He wanted his check and he wanted it right then. When the waitress couldn't find it quickly enough, he wanted to know quickly how much they owed. When she asked if he still needed the number for the would-be mechanic he said that his situation had been taken care of. In the short time it took us to pay our check a white van with spiked rims pulled up in front of the restaurant. Other men, all dressed alike, were unloading duffel bags onto the sidewalk. It was weird. I asked my wife if she wanted me to drive. "No, get in the car," she said. We did.

As my wife backed the car out of the parking space, I watched the van to make sure it wasn't attempting to pull forward. I don't know what was going on, but part of me wondered if we had been marked for an episode of bumper car insurance fraud. We made it out of the parking lot with little circumstance, but we did keep an eye on our rearview mirrors to make sure we weren't being tailed by the duffel bag gang. I don't know for sure that some scam was about to take place but Elaine and I both got that creeped out feeling. That alone was enough to make us weary. We opted to stop somewhere else for gas.

The whole kerfuffle raised certain questions. Was the woman at the counter going out to her car to signal the rest of the duffel bag gang? And what was with all those duffel bags anyway? Did the van have any connection to the chatty Charlie in the corner or was that mere supposition on my part? Was the couple part of a larger organized crime ring? Maybe a cult? Does a 97 Dodge pickup with extended cab really require a two-piece drive shaft? Explain your answer.