|
|
...the moon was non-existent. isn't that interesting? the word change still fits the tune. and the flavor. there is only one reason why a song the caliber of ABBA's classic would be playing in a constant loop in my skullbox so early in the day: yes, misadventure and doom. normally, '70's Swedish popstar nightingales would be relegated to a dark recess in the little grey cells, seldom to be heard again. only until special occasions, of course. the demon was invoked Tuesday, to be true. the big social event at work was the replacement of the junk food machines... and anything that dispenses fish/egg/cheese sandwiches deserves the tag "junk." Number-One-With-A Bullet. naturally, the normal gaping void of any creative/entertaining spark made everyone giddy with anticipation. pathetic? i would say, "yes." that afternoon, the CEO's secretary, an intelligent enough person (with familiar bi-polar mood swings), manifested through the intercom... trying to track down the maintenance guy who was putting the electrics in order. since this whole vendor-switch was her baby, she was wired with the anticipation of the cello-wrapped completion of her project. so, consequently, she "trilled" her "r's" hispanically when she announced the name, "Ferrrrrr-nando." this made good comedy... and one unidentified voice among the laughs, barely karaoke-grade, quivered the melody the has surely haunted the poor guy for all his days. and, like a waggly-tailed little dollop of testosterone, it has burrowed into the unsuspecting egg of my memory. this brings us to the crux of the story. blissfully travelling through the long tunnel of darkness on my way homeward, last night, the nagging suspicion that things were not "right", began to pester me like a mosquito of doubt. after thirty miles of strobing white lines and piercing headlights, i started to wonder whether the Miata's headlights were dirty, since they didn't seem to carve the dark so well. surely, the altenator wouldn't be malfunctioning again, after i replaced it two months ago? wrong, Boyo. cue the d�j�-vu of crisis management. i'd been lucky enough to limp the spunky little daughter of Nippon the eighty miles to safety in the driveway, not so long ago... like i have been so fortunate to do with most of the questionable transportation i've employed for the past twenty years. with any luck, i could go through the same motions of shutting down all unnecessary life-sustaining functions... like heater fan and music... and i'd be home and dry. but what would be the drama in that? just past the midway point of the lights of Warrenton, things got uglier... dimmer... and the tachometer began its insane arcs backwards. then the sputtering of the fuel pump. and then, the big sleep for the poor little red mistress. at three AM. "fuck," and "fuck," again. we ground to a halt on the shoulder, just off the highway and in the vicinity of a forlorn Craftsman house... on the uphill side of a long downhill grade. the precise point where the long-distance truckers bury the gas pedal to crest the incline. not the best place to ponder fate. surprisingly, the banshee of panic failed to make an appearance... so i methodically began getting my scenarios together: hiding the kutchie, digging out the cellphone, using the last gasp of the battery to power the hazard lights... and finding a safe place to disturb the sleep of my wife with my plea for rescue. predictably, thankfully, the first lights that pulled up to my bumper were those of a Virginia trooper... who had to signify with the riot of blue lights and siren. when he approached on foot, with service revolver holstered, i figured that i wouldn't soon be dining on bread-and-water, or have my asshole violated by a psychotic serial rapist. at least. since i wasn't wasted or hysterical, we got along fine. why, we even shared a chuckle. then, he was gone like a thief in the night, after he gave me the line about getting it towed away, quickly. after Yoko's rude awakening, i knew it would be a while before she'd appear.... after all, i was nearly an hour away, and she loathes driving at night. so... i started walking. to the tune of BobMarley's "Keep On Movin'": "Lord, I got to get on down." yes, it was cold. not sink-into-exposure cold, but unpleasant to the extremities nonetheless. after repeatedly dusting off a hundred-yard stretch of shoulder with my boot heels, it became apparent that i'd have to do something about my fingers... gloved, but numbing. that's when the survival skills awakened... "hey, there's a big lump of metal under that bonnet... and it's still warm!" then, pornographically, i caressed the twin cam covers. sensually. "who's your daddy?" and, yes, i smoked a cigarette in the afterglow of toasty fingers, after i'd found a pack of matches in the glovebox. all that was left to do was remain calm. pacing, accustoming my eyes to the alternate worlds of dim landscape, and explosion of headlights/rush of wind/bellow of diesel engines. hoping we wouldn't be punted into the abyss by a drowsing trucker. then, miraculously, the familiar configuration of Subaru lights. to be continued |
|
|
