10.26.2006
10.24.2006
more adventures in cars: driver's ed.
another essay in what might become a series.
***
Driver’s ed came late for me. I went through the summer between my sophomore and junior years. I’d started school a year early, and discovered years down the road that this was one of the pitfalls, sitting in the back of a room filled with students a year behind me. Ah well. At least I’d be getting to drive soon enough. Besides, my mom had been letting me “drive” on and off for short, controlled distances since I was probably twelve or thirteen. It wasn’t as if I was a greenhorn with this whole driving thing.
The only other person in my class who was also in my grade was Amber, a girl who was early in school like I was, although she was slightly older than me. She’d never been behind the wheel before, but we signed up for the same driving group because we at least knew one another. The driving part, the only part I cared about, seemed miles away; first there were all these videos and lectures given by our ancient teacher. He also taught freshman English and coached men’s basketball. My freshman year he had taken the team to the state championships, only to lose to a powerful, all-black team from Detroit. Our little white, country-boy class C school had still done mighty well for itself, though, and Mr. Leonard was thought of as a local legend. Especially since the last time the boys had gone to state, in ’79, he had been there as head coach, too. English, which had always been fun for me, as opposed to say, Algebra, was decidedly not under his tutelage, however. Once when we were reading aloud from Romeo & Juliet, a quick glance over to his desk revealed his great shaggy head thrown back, mouth open, soft snores providing cadence for the lines read by ambivalent 14-year-olds.
Finally we got through to what mattered, and Mr. Leonard, Amber and I and a couple of soon-to-be-sophomores clambered into a late-model Ford Escort together. We drove around locally for weeks, taking Red Arrow up through Stevensville and eventually St. Joseph, navigating the tricky one-way brick paved streets and parallel parking. How many times Amber hit the curb, I can’t remember. I do know I always cringed when it was her time in the saddle, and I would look for anything green out the window I could find. Since childhood, it had been my soothing color, and if I was carsick, just seeing it calmed my stomach. Kind of like Dramamine, only visual. I don’t know, I don’t understand it, either.
“No, no, left, left, left, left.” Mr. Leonard’s voice would say, as we popped up on the sidewalk for the 37th time. “You have to straighten out before you reverse again, it’s important to keep track of the car in front of you when you’re parking.” Then he would sigh.
“Ok, let’s try it again.”
From the backseat, my eyes would roll and send a silent prayer of thanks to heaven that even in town, Michigan was heavily wooded.
I have to say, I was the best driver of the four of us. Not just because I’d practiced a lot, but because I was just naturally good. I became the wheel, the accelerator, the car. That is, until Mr. Leonard would mash down on the brakes in the passenger seat.
“We’ll keep it under sixty out here,” he would say, nodding serenely. I would bunch my brows. We were on the interstate! The speed limit was seventy, because you were supposed to drive seventy; and that was just a suggestion. Eighty seemed like an even better number. But here I was, stuck with log-sawer, curb-jumper, having my style and my speed cramped. I sighed with my best air of martyrdom. Once I got rid of these people, I could steer with my thumb and do eighty-five. They would never know.
I thought back to last winter, when my mom would let me drive around the church parking lot, spinning donut after donut in the silver Plymouth that would one day be mine. That was when I first learned how to brake; also, how to keep control of your vehicle. Or lose it, if that’s what you wanted. My friends and I used to nearly pass out cold nights, when we would be out in one of their old jalopies, having a fine time in the high school parking lot. Our faces would press to the fogged glass with centrifugal force, the air inside thick and close; the product of too many teenagers, coats, and not enough air. You just had to be careful of the light posts, and the lone rogue stop sign. Nate forgot about the latter once, and then we proceeded to remind him pretty much every day of high school.
As always, the time behind the wheel would be over far too quickly. Mr. Leonard would remind me about the ten and two position, and the importance of indicating when I would change lanes. My dad never did, so I didn’t figure it was important. But I just had to put up with this for a few more weeks, and then I would have my golden ticket- a DRIVER’S PERMIT. Then I would be invincible. Well, sort of. Invincible to the point of being able to drive with anyone over 21 in the passenger’s seat. Which meant my parents. Ok, so I was invincible to the point of driving with my parents. But this was jackpot, goldmine, King Tut’s tomb. I felt like such a greenhorn; nearly all of my friends in my grade had been driving a year already, and a couple of oldies had even been driving at the end of our freshman year. The tables were about to turn.
Finally the last day of driving was here. My tummy felt warm and I couldn’t stop smiling. Freedom awaited; I only had to make it through one more session. Mr. Leonard showed us the permits at the start of the lesson, I suppose to provide that one last sticked carrot for inspiration. As usual, we slung our backpacks in the trunk of the car, along with jackets and anything else we had. I’m sure Amber probably had a purse. I didn’t. Purses were retarded. It was now mid-September, and a windy day to boot; I remember shivering between peeling off my jacket and throwing it in the trunk and clambering into the driver’s seat.
Things progressed swimmingly. Driving went great for all four of us; even Amber’s skills had to be grudgingly admired. As a sort of token parting gift, Mr. Leonard allowed us to turn on the radio, but softly and in the background. It didn’t matter how loud it was; he was approving the Verve as a soundtrack for our learning process, so I wasn’t going to begrudge the old codger. We were all happy, and even chatted about inconsequential things: the weather, the changing of the leaves, the chances that the football team could make playoffs this fall.
All too soon we were finished, back in the parking lot at school, the engine on the Escort idling in the fall chill. I almost felt nostalgic. I reached over and gave the dashboard a loving tap. This machine would always have the distinction of being my first, and for that it was both lucky and loved. Mr. Leonard got out of the car and went to the trunk with me to retrieve my belongings and sign my PERMIT. I reached in and got my jacket, shrugging it on as he told me what a good job I’d done. I smiled in response, knowing he was just telling the truth. Then I reached for my backpack and the world ended.
This was a new backpack, one my mother had just gotten me for the start of the school year. It was olive green, my favorite color, and from the Gap, my favorite store. It looked vaguely tactical, and had some nice clips on the back of it, like maybe you weren’t quite sure if I was going to school or going to climb the Adirondacks, but you were sure I was going somewhere. Well, this pack had a little pouch towards the bottom of it, to hold essential, quick grab items like pencils, wallet, candy, rubber bands, lint, and in my case, a maxi pad. The worst part of this scenario is that my pouch was slightly open, and currently empty of all contents except for the maxi pad, which flew out and began fluttering away across the parking lot in the September wind.
I froze in place. My bag was still half-slung to my shoulder, my mouth hanging open. It was a cruel, cruel joke. Mr. Leonard followed the motion of the pad with his eyes, and before either of us realized what he was doing, he stretched out a long, dexterous leg and pinned the edge of the plastic, mauve colored pad wrapper to the ground. He looked at me beseechingly, as we both realized his TOE was on my PAD. I would have been just fine if the earth had opened up, or perhaps if the four horsemen of the Apocalypse would make an appearance. The pale horseman of Death would be just fine with me, if we could get specific. But no. There was no trumpet, no rumble of the cracking of pavement. Seconds ticked by. The pad flapped in the breeze, hitting the side of his shoe.
Swiftly and with agonizing slowness I reached down and picked up the pad, stuffing it back in the traitorous pouch and zipping it shut. I think I may have mumbled “Thank you,” but there is an excellent chance I didn’t. I am certain I didn’t meet his eyes. He handed me the permit and I can’t even remember if he said words to me. There was an excellent chance he didn’t. I slunk away, like a fish slipping back into water, quickly walking to where my mother was sitting in our family minivan, the engine idling in the cold. I didn’t feel like driving home. I could only pray she hadn’t seen the entire exchange. There was an excellent chance she did.
***
Driver’s ed came late for me. I went through the summer between my sophomore and junior years. I’d started school a year early, and discovered years down the road that this was one of the pitfalls, sitting in the back of a room filled with students a year behind me. Ah well. At least I’d be getting to drive soon enough. Besides, my mom had been letting me “drive” on and off for short, controlled distances since I was probably twelve or thirteen. It wasn’t as if I was a greenhorn with this whole driving thing.
The only other person in my class who was also in my grade was Amber, a girl who was early in school like I was, although she was slightly older than me. She’d never been behind the wheel before, but we signed up for the same driving group because we at least knew one another. The driving part, the only part I cared about, seemed miles away; first there were all these videos and lectures given by our ancient teacher. He also taught freshman English and coached men’s basketball. My freshman year he had taken the team to the state championships, only to lose to a powerful, all-black team from Detroit. Our little white, country-boy class C school had still done mighty well for itself, though, and Mr. Leonard was thought of as a local legend. Especially since the last time the boys had gone to state, in ’79, he had been there as head coach, too. English, which had always been fun for me, as opposed to say, Algebra, was decidedly not under his tutelage, however. Once when we were reading aloud from Romeo & Juliet, a quick glance over to his desk revealed his great shaggy head thrown back, mouth open, soft snores providing cadence for the lines read by ambivalent 14-year-olds.
Finally we got through to what mattered, and Mr. Leonard, Amber and I and a couple of soon-to-be-sophomores clambered into a late-model Ford Escort together. We drove around locally for weeks, taking Red Arrow up through Stevensville and eventually St. Joseph, navigating the tricky one-way brick paved streets and parallel parking. How many times Amber hit the curb, I can’t remember. I do know I always cringed when it was her time in the saddle, and I would look for anything green out the window I could find. Since childhood, it had been my soothing color, and if I was carsick, just seeing it calmed my stomach. Kind of like Dramamine, only visual. I don’t know, I don’t understand it, either.
“No, no, left, left, left, left.” Mr. Leonard’s voice would say, as we popped up on the sidewalk for the 37th time. “You have to straighten out before you reverse again, it’s important to keep track of the car in front of you when you’re parking.” Then he would sigh.
“Ok, let’s try it again.”
From the backseat, my eyes would roll and send a silent prayer of thanks to heaven that even in town, Michigan was heavily wooded.
I have to say, I was the best driver of the four of us. Not just because I’d practiced a lot, but because I was just naturally good. I became the wheel, the accelerator, the car. That is, until Mr. Leonard would mash down on the brakes in the passenger seat.
“We’ll keep it under sixty out here,” he would say, nodding serenely. I would bunch my brows. We were on the interstate! The speed limit was seventy, because you were supposed to drive seventy; and that was just a suggestion. Eighty seemed like an even better number. But here I was, stuck with log-sawer, curb-jumper, having my style and my speed cramped. I sighed with my best air of martyrdom. Once I got rid of these people, I could steer with my thumb and do eighty-five. They would never know.
I thought back to last winter, when my mom would let me drive around the church parking lot, spinning donut after donut in the silver Plymouth that would one day be mine. That was when I first learned how to brake; also, how to keep control of your vehicle. Or lose it, if that’s what you wanted. My friends and I used to nearly pass out cold nights, when we would be out in one of their old jalopies, having a fine time in the high school parking lot. Our faces would press to the fogged glass with centrifugal force, the air inside thick and close; the product of too many teenagers, coats, and not enough air. You just had to be careful of the light posts, and the lone rogue stop sign. Nate forgot about the latter once, and then we proceeded to remind him pretty much every day of high school.
As always, the time behind the wheel would be over far too quickly. Mr. Leonard would remind me about the ten and two position, and the importance of indicating when I would change lanes. My dad never did, so I didn’t figure it was important. But I just had to put up with this for a few more weeks, and then I would have my golden ticket- a DRIVER’S PERMIT. Then I would be invincible. Well, sort of. Invincible to the point of being able to drive with anyone over 21 in the passenger’s seat. Which meant my parents. Ok, so I was invincible to the point of driving with my parents. But this was jackpot, goldmine, King Tut’s tomb. I felt like such a greenhorn; nearly all of my friends in my grade had been driving a year already, and a couple of oldies had even been driving at the end of our freshman year. The tables were about to turn.
Finally the last day of driving was here. My tummy felt warm and I couldn’t stop smiling. Freedom awaited; I only had to make it through one more session. Mr. Leonard showed us the permits at the start of the lesson, I suppose to provide that one last sticked carrot for inspiration. As usual, we slung our backpacks in the trunk of the car, along with jackets and anything else we had. I’m sure Amber probably had a purse. I didn’t. Purses were retarded. It was now mid-September, and a windy day to boot; I remember shivering between peeling off my jacket and throwing it in the trunk and clambering into the driver’s seat.
Things progressed swimmingly. Driving went great for all four of us; even Amber’s skills had to be grudgingly admired. As a sort of token parting gift, Mr. Leonard allowed us to turn on the radio, but softly and in the background. It didn’t matter how loud it was; he was approving the Verve as a soundtrack for our learning process, so I wasn’t going to begrudge the old codger. We were all happy, and even chatted about inconsequential things: the weather, the changing of the leaves, the chances that the football team could make playoffs this fall.
All too soon we were finished, back in the parking lot at school, the engine on the Escort idling in the fall chill. I almost felt nostalgic. I reached over and gave the dashboard a loving tap. This machine would always have the distinction of being my first, and for that it was both lucky and loved. Mr. Leonard got out of the car and went to the trunk with me to retrieve my belongings and sign my PERMIT. I reached in and got my jacket, shrugging it on as he told me what a good job I’d done. I smiled in response, knowing he was just telling the truth. Then I reached for my backpack and the world ended.
This was a new backpack, one my mother had just gotten me for the start of the school year. It was olive green, my favorite color, and from the Gap, my favorite store. It looked vaguely tactical, and had some nice clips on the back of it, like maybe you weren’t quite sure if I was going to school or going to climb the Adirondacks, but you were sure I was going somewhere. Well, this pack had a little pouch towards the bottom of it, to hold essential, quick grab items like pencils, wallet, candy, rubber bands, lint, and in my case, a maxi pad. The worst part of this scenario is that my pouch was slightly open, and currently empty of all contents except for the maxi pad, which flew out and began fluttering away across the parking lot in the September wind.
I froze in place. My bag was still half-slung to my shoulder, my mouth hanging open. It was a cruel, cruel joke. Mr. Leonard followed the motion of the pad with his eyes, and before either of us realized what he was doing, he stretched out a long, dexterous leg and pinned the edge of the plastic, mauve colored pad wrapper to the ground. He looked at me beseechingly, as we both realized his TOE was on my PAD. I would have been just fine if the earth had opened up, or perhaps if the four horsemen of the Apocalypse would make an appearance. The pale horseman of Death would be just fine with me, if we could get specific. But no. There was no trumpet, no rumble of the cracking of pavement. Seconds ticked by. The pad flapped in the breeze, hitting the side of his shoe.
Swiftly and with agonizing slowness I reached down and picked up the pad, stuffing it back in the traitorous pouch and zipping it shut. I think I may have mumbled “Thank you,” but there is an excellent chance I didn’t. I am certain I didn’t meet his eyes. He handed me the permit and I can’t even remember if he said words to me. There was an excellent chance he didn’t. I slunk away, like a fish slipping back into water, quickly walking to where my mother was sitting in our family minivan, the engine idling in the cold. I didn’t feel like driving home. I could only pray she hadn’t seen the entire exchange. There was an excellent chance she did.
10.23.2006
dumbs
ok, so I feel kind of bad even whining about this, because it's not like, oh I have to pick which leg to saw off... it's two really good things that I'm forced between. But I will whine anyway. Over The Rhine is playing the 2nd of December at the Double Door in Chicago, and the 16th of December at the Taft in Cincinnati. They have a few other holiday shows this year, but those two were the must-sees... Chicago for the fact that I'd also get to see Mark, Bruce, and Jen- as well has have another epic roadtrip of monumental proportions with the illustrious Bobbie O'Connor. And the Taft? Well, it's the Taft. The show of all shows from the band of all bands- their annual extravaganza in their hometown, complete with a packed crowd, flowers, candles, and Karin's voice driving the ancient opera house to distraction. Ahhhhhhhhh.
Problem is, I recently got accepted into the Indianapolis Symphonic Choir, which performs the 2nd and 3rd of December. Also, my (only) godbrother (do those exist? my parents are his godparents...) Jeff is getting married the 16th of December.
Other slight dumbities are that my brother just got me hooked on WoW, and he took his computer to visit Tan-Tan for four days. And I just stepped on a kernel of popcorn. My life is so hard!! I'm going to go listen to my favorite song, "stabby rip stab stab" and write apathetic things in my journal about tight pants.
The one positive thing is that I have some jelly bellies.
Problem is, I recently got accepted into the Indianapolis Symphonic Choir, which performs the 2nd and 3rd of December. Also, my (only) godbrother (do those exist? my parents are his godparents...) Jeff is getting married the 16th of December.
Other slight dumbities are that my brother just got me hooked on WoW, and he took his computer to visit Tan-Tan for four days. And I just stepped on a kernel of popcorn. My life is so hard!! I'm going to go listen to my favorite song, "stabby rip stab stab" and write apathetic things in my journal about tight pants.
The one positive thing is that I have some jelly bellies.
10.16.2006
solo
I'm not sure
at which point I started living
so reclusively
but it's true.
Basement spiders in their darkness
provide my inspiration.
The first snowflake falls.
I am alone
beyond
infinite imperfection.
To thine own self be true:
is honesty enough
when understanding
eludes grasp
connection
coupling
duet
the song isn't haunting
unless it's sung
alone.
at which point I started living
so reclusively
but it's true.
Basement spiders in their darkness
provide my inspiration.
The first snowflake falls.
I am alone
beyond
infinite imperfection.
To thine own self be true:
is honesty enough
when understanding
eludes grasp
connection
coupling
duet
the song isn't haunting
unless it's sung
alone.
10.13.2006
something I wrote a while ago: Cars.
For the last couple of years I’ve had problems with cars. Granted, they haven’t been amazing vehicles in the first place. One might even say I got what I deserved, or perhaps paid for. Nevertheless, the automobile has proven to be my personal nemesis. I am incredibly well intentioned when it comes to such things- the inanimate object in general. Though, I suppose, this is the exact opposite of what a car actually is, one expects it to be anything but stationary. I always mean to look after my vehicle meticulously, and have it never fail me. In actuality, it usually looks like a used bookstore threw up into the backseat, and I’m shelling out several hundred dollars every other month or so for a new hose or parambulator or gatlin converter or whatever.
Initially, I had an old Plymouth when I started driving. It had been my mother’s car, and then she got a van I think, and I got hers. The oil pressure used to bottom out when I took long, sharp right turns (such as getting off the interstate). Eventually it self destructed in a shattering rattle-fest of broken cylinder caps or something. This was after the infamous timing-belt incident of 1999. I then inherited a red Neon made in the ’95-’96 era, zippy and compact, just like I love in a car. I got my first ticket in this vehicle, and then my second and third. The accident would come later, with Al- but I am getting ahead of myself.
In my junior year of college, the Neon started getting creepy. I mean, Creepy McCreepster creepy. The initial problem was with the driver’s side door/window. What happened was that the window started being tricky to roll up; then, one day, it simply fell down into the door. Goodbye, Mr. Window. This is ok, because I went to a conservative little college in a conservative little town in the middle of Indiana. Nobody locks anything there anyway. Also, I reasoned, if it rained in the car, it would be very easy for it also to evaporate this way. About this time the car took on an odor that could most closely be compared to the boys’ dormitory. Mixed with dead things.
The door also stopped working entirely very shortly thereafter, and the entire plastic/vinyl/fabric inner lining of the door, with the handle, etc. somewhat fell off. By somewhat, I mostly mean entirely, but certain things like the window crank prevented it from completely leaving it’s steel innards behind. I started noticing a clicking noise about this time, but ignored it. Getting into the little car proved to be the most enjoyable part of the entire escapade- one simply ran at the window, and jumped in, feet first, Dukes of Hazzard style. It was low enough to the ground that it might be described as a similar height of low hurdles in track and field. The only difference with this comparison is that when running low hurdles, you’re not actually jumping into the small, broken hole of a rancid eight-year-old economy car. Let us not, however, be bothered with these details.
And now, back to the clicking. We finally figured out what it was, me and my posse, driving around after dark one evening. I’m sure we were going to Crazy D’s, there is nothing else you would be doing after dark in Indiana but driving 15 miles to the truckstop on the interstate, which served terrible coffee and breakfast any time of day. Breakfast with entirely too many items for it to be under six dollars, but it was. The clicking was my dome light, and it flicked on and off uncontrollably, like a bizarre strobe light deciding to throw a rave in the backseat of my decrepit automobile. There was no way you could control the light show, either- an effort to either turn on the dome, or turn it off, was met with the same disastrous result. And it was intermittent, with no predictable “beat” like a regular strobe would have. It scoffed at the bass thumps of my Jackson 5 cassette, it likewise sneered at my Ben Folds.
In the midst of all this I found myself wishing to be a cow on the side of the road, or perhaps a person. I would see a car, going about 70 miles an hour down a country road, full of giddy, laughing college girls with somewhat crappy, decade old music filtering out through at least one open window (the driver’s side, remember?). And the dome light would be blinking. This was funny to me, more funny than the light blinking in the first place, more funny than the fact that I drove a piece of trash. But just funny to be a cow, eating or something, maybe sleeping or shitting large patties in a field, and look up and see this little blinking thing. Would the cow think I was a ghost? I secretly hoped so, but I knew I would never find out.
At the end of my junior year, also known as the year from hell, I got Al. Al was a silver Escort station wagon, made in 1993. Al was delightful. Thirty miles to the gallon, he was capable of hauling a PA and numerous instruments, or perhaps six of your closest friends, or perhaps most of your wardrobe and recent trash. He had a CD player. He had a roof rack. I bought a sheepskin steering wheel cover, and I knew I was set. This would be the car that took me places. Things would start happening to me now, in this car. This was it.
Things went well with Al for a few months, until about mid-summer. On the way back from a cross-country road trip, heavily loaded with skis and powered amps and many pairs of shoes, Al broke a little. It was very hot, perhaps 106, and we were on the border of Kansas and Colorado, in an appropriately named town of Kanorado. Seriously, somebody needs to win the Nobel Prize for that one. But what happened was that the air conditioning broke. It sort of exploded. I was on my way to the Kansas Visitor’s Center (HOT COFFEE! The sign advertised. Whoo… wasn’t that just what I wanted in this ultra-cool climate.) and was about 10 feet from the door when I heard a familiar sound. At least, I thought it was a familiar sound; it sounded like when semi-truck drivers let air out of their tires. Only it was Al, punching himself in the air-conditioning. The sound was closely followed by a scream- the alarmed sound my traveling companion made to alert me to the disaster. I made my way back to the car, steam/smoke/I wasn’t sure what was billowing out from under the hood.
“Pop the hood, willya?” I called. It popped, obediently. I made sounds like “hmmm….” and “well….” while I looked around under there, not for the life of me knowing what anything was or how it worked in conjunction with anything else. I knew what conjunctions were, though.
“It looks fine,” I said, lowering the hood again and latching it authoritatively. I wiped my hands together for good measure. Mechanics have dirty hands. I then sauntered back up to the welcome center, knowing this would be the only air conditioning I would see for a while. The next several hundred miles were spent with the windows down, the both of us in bathing suits and track shorts, leaning together over the console to keep our outside arms from getting fried in the sun. We doused ourselves with water, and sweat ran between our shoulders at a constant trickle.
I had my first and only accident in Al. Sure, I think I got a couple of more speeding tickets in him, perhaps, but I ran a red light right in the middle of my college town and broadsided this guy. Just plain as day, he was making the turn and I didn’t stop. I had a friend and one of my professors’ kids in the back seat. My friend and the six-year-old girl had been talking, the kid was getting ready to eat a cookie. We were babysitting and taking her to see a play at the college after some sandwiches downtown at the park. And I was paying attention to them, and smacked this rusty, compact pickup truck from the early eighties right in the kisser. Or what happened was it looked like I punched his lights out, and he’d gotten Al in the mush. The truck had been sort of a deep red/maroon color, and the only damage to Al at all was a long, reddish streak the pretty much covered the front bumper. For the rest of Al’s happy life, he would be in drag.
Al’s final issue was the breaks- both literally and figuratively. By the time that I figured out the “BRAKES” warning light wasn’t just a computer malfunction, but actually indicated there was a problem with my breaking system, it was far too late to repair it for any sensible cost. Really. They should make lights that let you know if you should pay attention to the actual warning lights. How many people do I know that have “check engine soon” lights that don’t mean anything? Let’s just say a lot. Oh, it’s just a computer chip, they always say. This alarms me initially, then simply numbs me to any vehicular problems altogether. Oh, it’s just a computer chip, I decide, looking at the dashboard anytime something new turns on. I don’t need to pay some mechanic two hundred bucks to tell me this when I can just say it for free. The problem was, my brakes were really bad. And I mean really bad.
“Nine hundred bucks?” I said to the hapless repairman, at the Brake Stop in the west Highlands in Denver. “For Al?” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, where the proud king of the road sat high up in the air, suffering the indignity of having his pipery looked at by everyone. He nodded.
“Your master brake cylinder is blown, I imagine you’ll lose your front brakes any day now,” he replied, helpfully. He pushed his cap back on his head. “You’ve already lost your rear brakes… that may explain the fishtailing you’re seeing out there on the interstate when you try to brake at high speeds.” I nodded knowingly. He turned and looked at my friend. “She,” he said, pointing at me, “is a brave woman.” I turned around and looked at Al. He looked so vulnerable. He needed me, he needed my protection. I sighed.
“You don’t happen to be in the military, do you?” the mechanic asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Though I briefly debated explaining the virtues of pacifism to him, I realized that that was neither the time nor the place. I shook my head no, slumped my shoulders forward, and told them to bring the champ down. Against the mechanic’s strong recommendation, I drove the old boy away, back to the cramped basement apartment where my friend lived, and I was visiting. I cleaned Al out, somberly filling a garbage bag with vehicular incidentals, and a very stale cookie I found under the driver’s seat. Kid probably never even realized she didn’t eat it. Then I went in the apartment, picked up a newspaper and started skimming, until I found something that looked promising- and thus, I found the Troops.
I remember thinking as the garage door opened at this guy’s house how big the Troops was. Huge. This huge, white box, sitting there patiently on large truck off roading tires, just waiting for me to come along and buy it. I didn’t need a truck. I needed my Al back, I thought mournfully. Prudence stepped in, however, and reminded me that brakes are important, and as much as I loved Al, we were going to have issues if he couldn’t stop. I got in the Isuzu Trooper, which was covered in minor, cosmetic dings and sported a major crack in the windshield. I liked the Troops immediately. I took these blemishes to be marks of character, badges of honor- certainly not drawbacks. Also, I wouldn’t worry about one of my drunk friends running it into something and ruining it when I loaned it out, as I was sure I would. I perpetually have the type of friends that need cars.
Also, it got horrible gas mileage, was hard to parallel park, and weighed a frigging ton. There would be no heroic adrenaline-pumped moments for me, holding my car up while trained bears pulled a flaming baby from underneath my back tire. I would just stand there and watch the little faggot die.
“I’ll take it,” I told the man selling it, “for friends,” that I instantly felt shady about. I signed my title over to him for Al, letting him junk the mightiest of mighty warriors for me. I gave the old boy a loving pat on the rump, and sniffled a bit, trying not to look to odd in front of Shady Central in the driveway, who was holding my old set of keys and looking disinterested. Neither of us were good actors. I then got in the Troops and pulled away, riding high and in style. For only three thousand dollars, I was now the proud owner of an SUV. Now all I needed was road rage, a caramel macchiato, and a cell phone glued to my ear, and I would be the average American driver. My palms itched with anticipation.
Initially, I had an old Plymouth when I started driving. It had been my mother’s car, and then she got a van I think, and I got hers. The oil pressure used to bottom out when I took long, sharp right turns (such as getting off the interstate). Eventually it self destructed in a shattering rattle-fest of broken cylinder caps or something. This was after the infamous timing-belt incident of 1999. I then inherited a red Neon made in the ’95-’96 era, zippy and compact, just like I love in a car. I got my first ticket in this vehicle, and then my second and third. The accident would come later, with Al- but I am getting ahead of myself.
In my junior year of college, the Neon started getting creepy. I mean, Creepy McCreepster creepy. The initial problem was with the driver’s side door/window. What happened was that the window started being tricky to roll up; then, one day, it simply fell down into the door. Goodbye, Mr. Window. This is ok, because I went to a conservative little college in a conservative little town in the middle of Indiana. Nobody locks anything there anyway. Also, I reasoned, if it rained in the car, it would be very easy for it also to evaporate this way. About this time the car took on an odor that could most closely be compared to the boys’ dormitory. Mixed with dead things.
The door also stopped working entirely very shortly thereafter, and the entire plastic/vinyl/fabric inner lining of the door, with the handle, etc. somewhat fell off. By somewhat, I mostly mean entirely, but certain things like the window crank prevented it from completely leaving it’s steel innards behind. I started noticing a clicking noise about this time, but ignored it. Getting into the little car proved to be the most enjoyable part of the entire escapade- one simply ran at the window, and jumped in, feet first, Dukes of Hazzard style. It was low enough to the ground that it might be described as a similar height of low hurdles in track and field. The only difference with this comparison is that when running low hurdles, you’re not actually jumping into the small, broken hole of a rancid eight-year-old economy car. Let us not, however, be bothered with these details.
And now, back to the clicking. We finally figured out what it was, me and my posse, driving around after dark one evening. I’m sure we were going to Crazy D’s, there is nothing else you would be doing after dark in Indiana but driving 15 miles to the truckstop on the interstate, which served terrible coffee and breakfast any time of day. Breakfast with entirely too many items for it to be under six dollars, but it was. The clicking was my dome light, and it flicked on and off uncontrollably, like a bizarre strobe light deciding to throw a rave in the backseat of my decrepit automobile. There was no way you could control the light show, either- an effort to either turn on the dome, or turn it off, was met with the same disastrous result. And it was intermittent, with no predictable “beat” like a regular strobe would have. It scoffed at the bass thumps of my Jackson 5 cassette, it likewise sneered at my Ben Folds.
In the midst of all this I found myself wishing to be a cow on the side of the road, or perhaps a person. I would see a car, going about 70 miles an hour down a country road, full of giddy, laughing college girls with somewhat crappy, decade old music filtering out through at least one open window (the driver’s side, remember?). And the dome light would be blinking. This was funny to me, more funny than the light blinking in the first place, more funny than the fact that I drove a piece of trash. But just funny to be a cow, eating or something, maybe sleeping or shitting large patties in a field, and look up and see this little blinking thing. Would the cow think I was a ghost? I secretly hoped so, but I knew I would never find out.
At the end of my junior year, also known as the year from hell, I got Al. Al was a silver Escort station wagon, made in 1993. Al was delightful. Thirty miles to the gallon, he was capable of hauling a PA and numerous instruments, or perhaps six of your closest friends, or perhaps most of your wardrobe and recent trash. He had a CD player. He had a roof rack. I bought a sheepskin steering wheel cover, and I knew I was set. This would be the car that took me places. Things would start happening to me now, in this car. This was it.
Things went well with Al for a few months, until about mid-summer. On the way back from a cross-country road trip, heavily loaded with skis and powered amps and many pairs of shoes, Al broke a little. It was very hot, perhaps 106, and we were on the border of Kansas and Colorado, in an appropriately named town of Kanorado. Seriously, somebody needs to win the Nobel Prize for that one. But what happened was that the air conditioning broke. It sort of exploded. I was on my way to the Kansas Visitor’s Center (HOT COFFEE! The sign advertised. Whoo… wasn’t that just what I wanted in this ultra-cool climate.) and was about 10 feet from the door when I heard a familiar sound. At least, I thought it was a familiar sound; it sounded like when semi-truck drivers let air out of their tires. Only it was Al, punching himself in the air-conditioning. The sound was closely followed by a scream- the alarmed sound my traveling companion made to alert me to the disaster. I made my way back to the car, steam/smoke/I wasn’t sure what was billowing out from under the hood.
“Pop the hood, willya?” I called. It popped, obediently. I made sounds like “hmmm….” and “well….” while I looked around under there, not for the life of me knowing what anything was or how it worked in conjunction with anything else. I knew what conjunctions were, though.
“It looks fine,” I said, lowering the hood again and latching it authoritatively. I wiped my hands together for good measure. Mechanics have dirty hands. I then sauntered back up to the welcome center, knowing this would be the only air conditioning I would see for a while. The next several hundred miles were spent with the windows down, the both of us in bathing suits and track shorts, leaning together over the console to keep our outside arms from getting fried in the sun. We doused ourselves with water, and sweat ran between our shoulders at a constant trickle.
I had my first and only accident in Al. Sure, I think I got a couple of more speeding tickets in him, perhaps, but I ran a red light right in the middle of my college town and broadsided this guy. Just plain as day, he was making the turn and I didn’t stop. I had a friend and one of my professors’ kids in the back seat. My friend and the six-year-old girl had been talking, the kid was getting ready to eat a cookie. We were babysitting and taking her to see a play at the college after some sandwiches downtown at the park. And I was paying attention to them, and smacked this rusty, compact pickup truck from the early eighties right in the kisser. Or what happened was it looked like I punched his lights out, and he’d gotten Al in the mush. The truck had been sort of a deep red/maroon color, and the only damage to Al at all was a long, reddish streak the pretty much covered the front bumper. For the rest of Al’s happy life, he would be in drag.
Al’s final issue was the breaks- both literally and figuratively. By the time that I figured out the “BRAKES” warning light wasn’t just a computer malfunction, but actually indicated there was a problem with my breaking system, it was far too late to repair it for any sensible cost. Really. They should make lights that let you know if you should pay attention to the actual warning lights. How many people do I know that have “check engine soon” lights that don’t mean anything? Let’s just say a lot. Oh, it’s just a computer chip, they always say. This alarms me initially, then simply numbs me to any vehicular problems altogether. Oh, it’s just a computer chip, I decide, looking at the dashboard anytime something new turns on. I don’t need to pay some mechanic two hundred bucks to tell me this when I can just say it for free. The problem was, my brakes were really bad. And I mean really bad.
“Nine hundred bucks?” I said to the hapless repairman, at the Brake Stop in the west Highlands in Denver. “For Al?” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, where the proud king of the road sat high up in the air, suffering the indignity of having his pipery looked at by everyone. He nodded.
“Your master brake cylinder is blown, I imagine you’ll lose your front brakes any day now,” he replied, helpfully. He pushed his cap back on his head. “You’ve already lost your rear brakes… that may explain the fishtailing you’re seeing out there on the interstate when you try to brake at high speeds.” I nodded knowingly. He turned and looked at my friend. “She,” he said, pointing at me, “is a brave woman.” I turned around and looked at Al. He looked so vulnerable. He needed me, he needed my protection. I sighed.
“You don’t happen to be in the military, do you?” the mechanic asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Though I briefly debated explaining the virtues of pacifism to him, I realized that that was neither the time nor the place. I shook my head no, slumped my shoulders forward, and told them to bring the champ down. Against the mechanic’s strong recommendation, I drove the old boy away, back to the cramped basement apartment where my friend lived, and I was visiting. I cleaned Al out, somberly filling a garbage bag with vehicular incidentals, and a very stale cookie I found under the driver’s seat. Kid probably never even realized she didn’t eat it. Then I went in the apartment, picked up a newspaper and started skimming, until I found something that looked promising- and thus, I found the Troops.
I remember thinking as the garage door opened at this guy’s house how big the Troops was. Huge. This huge, white box, sitting there patiently on large truck off roading tires, just waiting for me to come along and buy it. I didn’t need a truck. I needed my Al back, I thought mournfully. Prudence stepped in, however, and reminded me that brakes are important, and as much as I loved Al, we were going to have issues if he couldn’t stop. I got in the Isuzu Trooper, which was covered in minor, cosmetic dings and sported a major crack in the windshield. I liked the Troops immediately. I took these blemishes to be marks of character, badges of honor- certainly not drawbacks. Also, I wouldn’t worry about one of my drunk friends running it into something and ruining it when I loaned it out, as I was sure I would. I perpetually have the type of friends that need cars.
Also, it got horrible gas mileage, was hard to parallel park, and weighed a frigging ton. There would be no heroic adrenaline-pumped moments for me, holding my car up while trained bears pulled a flaming baby from underneath my back tire. I would just stand there and watch the little faggot die.
“I’ll take it,” I told the man selling it, “for friends,” that I instantly felt shady about. I signed my title over to him for Al, letting him junk the mightiest of mighty warriors for me. I gave the old boy a loving pat on the rump, and sniffled a bit, trying not to look to odd in front of Shady Central in the driveway, who was holding my old set of keys and looking disinterested. Neither of us were good actors. I then got in the Troops and pulled away, riding high and in style. For only three thousand dollars, I was now the proud owner of an SUV. Now all I needed was road rage, a caramel macchiato, and a cell phone glued to my ear, and I would be the average American driver. My palms itched with anticipation.
10.09.2006
oh baby, it's alright
Days like today make me wonder. Sometimes I think, when I write something really spectacular, or maybe just really sellable, I'll be sitting on some talk show somewhere, and the host will say, "So, what did you do those first few years between college and when you were published?" and I'll say, "oh, just fooled around, mostly." Or maybe I was just mostly a fool.
Does the doubt ever go away? Will I always be uncertain that I'm doing the right thing? Every time I attempt to be responsible, make good decisions, and work hard, I seem to be further behind than I was before. The only good news is that I've got all the time in the world.
I made it into the Indianapolis Symphonic Choir today. Barely under the wire- but enough. Enough is enough and I'm in; my mom is buying me the black performance formal as a birthday gift. I'm singing alto 2. And Handel rolled over in his grave as I botched the sight-reading of "He was despised."
Oh well. 1 out of 3 ain't bad.
Love and love and peace.
Does the doubt ever go away? Will I always be uncertain that I'm doing the right thing? Every time I attempt to be responsible, make good decisions, and work hard, I seem to be further behind than I was before. The only good news is that I've got all the time in the world.
I made it into the Indianapolis Symphonic Choir today. Barely under the wire- but enough. Enough is enough and I'm in; my mom is buying me the black performance formal as a birthday gift. I'm singing alto 2. And Handel rolled over in his grave as I botched the sight-reading of "He was despised."
Oh well. 1 out of 3 ain't bad.
Love and love and peace.
9.26.2006
odder otter
I call him back and we have, as Brad Etter would say, a 10,000 dollar moment. Perhaps not a full meeting of the minds, but I speak my peace, and he and I are as reconciled as we can be at present.
Is it possible to be reconciled to someone you don't trust? If you are at peace with someone to the point of accepting whatever type of friendship you can have with them, but have no expectations, is it reconciliation? I don't know of a word to describe it otherwise- just an elusive "okayness" that we tenuously have reached. But that is okay, too. As far as I am able, to be at peace with my fellow man- I believe this is what he and I so desire. However, we live our lives differently, so we will have to proceed accordingly. Honestly, I don't see much possibility for interaction, so it may not matter anyway- but it was certainly nice for him to take that next step.
I find myself at the mate factor with Yashah- we talked and talked and talked. As always, there are a great many things about this life that make sense. Is there ever a perfect way? Should I find the eschaton descending onto my shoulders, I imagine I would make my way to them. Does this make me a coward for not doing it now? I believe God is glorified in my learning, in my scholarship, in my intellectualism. I believe God put those things in me for a reason. Harking back to Eric Liddel, the great Olympian runner, I feel His pleasure- not when I run, but when my mind is engaged, working towards some elusive concept, discovering God's truth, hidden or no, in all things. Would He call me to turn away from a gift He has given me? This is my struggle on the matter. This and my inability to box God into a literalist theology.
God is not hidden. He longs to be found. In gratitude, in reconciliation, in the company of friends. Being here, being unencumbered by work or schedule, with mate and books and notebook and pen is just about as close to heaven as I could hope to be.
Is it possible to be reconciled to someone you don't trust? If you are at peace with someone to the point of accepting whatever type of friendship you can have with them, but have no expectations, is it reconciliation? I don't know of a word to describe it otherwise- just an elusive "okayness" that we tenuously have reached. But that is okay, too. As far as I am able, to be at peace with my fellow man- I believe this is what he and I so desire. However, we live our lives differently, so we will have to proceed accordingly. Honestly, I don't see much possibility for interaction, so it may not matter anyway- but it was certainly nice for him to take that next step.
I find myself at the mate factor with Yashah- we talked and talked and talked. As always, there are a great many things about this life that make sense. Is there ever a perfect way? Should I find the eschaton descending onto my shoulders, I imagine I would make my way to them. Does this make me a coward for not doing it now? I believe God is glorified in my learning, in my scholarship, in my intellectualism. I believe God put those things in me for a reason. Harking back to Eric Liddel, the great Olympian runner, I feel His pleasure- not when I run, but when my mind is engaged, working towards some elusive concept, discovering God's truth, hidden or no, in all things. Would He call me to turn away from a gift He has given me? This is my struggle on the matter. This and my inability to box God into a literalist theology.
God is not hidden. He longs to be found. In gratitude, in reconciliation, in the company of friends. Being here, being unencumbered by work or schedule, with mate and books and notebook and pen is just about as close to heaven as I could hope to be.
9.18.2006
didn't see the headlight
Ahhhhhh, Monday, bloody Monday. These are my long days, Mondays and Thursdays- today made especially so by the 7 am meeting that leads were required to attend. Looks like I'll be in the cafe Wednesday all day, which will be fun.... mostly because I know I'll be able to leave and not be stuck there permanently. I remember working at the Pavilions store last year, looking out at those lucky ducks cruising around on the book floor in their normal clothes. I was stuck behind a grinder and sanitation pails, dried milk on my shoes and apron around my waist. Quad venti breve? Sure, no problem. Who cares if I know about Flaubert?
As an aside though, I love working for Barnes and Noble. I'm dead serious. I wouldn't be in retail in any other job; they are the bees knees, people.
So today when I was driving home from the clinic, I hit a bird in Plainfield. It was flying so slowly, in a straight line away from my windshield ahead of me, and I hit it anyway. I didn't mean to! It was just reluctant about moving quickly and then thunk, it smacked the windshield and lolled on my hood for a few moments before rolling over the side of the troops. It made me sad. I think it was a sparrow.
It made me remember that one time when Draco brought me a nearly dead bird. I think I'm going to categorically say I'm not in favor of them.
As an aside though, I love working for Barnes and Noble. I'm dead serious. I wouldn't be in retail in any other job; they are the bees knees, people.
So today when I was driving home from the clinic, I hit a bird in Plainfield. It was flying so slowly, in a straight line away from my windshield ahead of me, and I hit it anyway. I didn't mean to! It was just reluctant about moving quickly and then thunk, it smacked the windshield and lolled on my hood for a few moments before rolling over the side of the troops. It made me sad. I think it was a sparrow.
It made me remember that one time when Draco brought me a nearly dead bird. I think I'm going to categorically say I'm not in favor of them.
9.16.2006
200
This is what I do.
Deep breath
Center.
Warm hands reach out
to touch the back
on this table.
Oil.
Smooth,
or resisted
the expanse is covered just the same.
Just the same.
Work along ribs
the latissimus dorsi
the great knobbled spine
forever separating the two halves
one
from
the other.
The apex of the neck-
the great head
resting on its axis.
Resting
here in my hands.
Rock.
Rock.
Roll.
The cleft between
erectors and spine
those long, sinuous muscles
providing bookends
to that great, bony protector.
That joint beyond all joints.
The SI.
Forever joining
perambulators
with
everything else.
Muscle
bone
hinge
I stand amazed.
Here
wrapped in these sheets
humanity bares herself for me
and I for her
no glove separates these blunted nails
these stunted tips
these calloused prints--
there is no bridge to cross.
Just skin and skin.
And this is what I do?
I stand amazed.
Deep breath
Center.
Warm hands reach out
to touch the back
on this table.
Oil.
Smooth,
or resisted
the expanse is covered just the same.
Just the same.
Work along ribs
the latissimus dorsi
the great knobbled spine
forever separating the two halves
one
from
the other.
The apex of the neck-
the great head
resting on its axis.
Resting
here in my hands.
Rock.
Rock.
Roll.
The cleft between
erectors and spine
those long, sinuous muscles
providing bookends
to that great, bony protector.
That joint beyond all joints.
The SI.
Forever joining
perambulators
with
everything else.
Muscle
bone
hinge
I stand amazed.
Here
wrapped in these sheets
humanity bares herself for me
and I for her
no glove separates these blunted nails
these stunted tips
these calloused prints--
there is no bridge to cross.
Just skin and skin.
And this is what I do?
I stand amazed.
9.04.2006
Goodbye Steve
By BRIAN CASSEY, Associated Press Writer Mon Sep 4, 9:34 AM ET
CAIRNS, Australia - Steve Irwin, the hugely popular Australian television personality and conservationist known as the "Crocodile Hunter," was killed Monday by a stingray while filming off the Great Barrier Reef. He was 44.
Irwin was at Batt Reef, off the remote coast of northeastern Queensland state, shooting a segment for a series called "Ocean's Deadliest" when he swam too close to one of the animals, which have a poisonous barb on their tails, his friend and colleague John Stainton said.
"He came on top of the stingray and the stingray's barb went up and into his chest and put a hole into his heart," said Stainton, who was on board Irwin's boat at the time.
Crew members aboard the boat, Croc One, called emergency services in the nearest city, Cairns, and administered CPR as they rushed the boat to nearby Low Isle to meet a rescue helicopter. Medical staff pronounced Irwin dead when they arrived a short time later, Stainton said.
Irwin was famous for his enthusiasm for wildlife and his catchword "Crikey!" in his television program "Crocodile Hunter." First broadcast in Australia in 1992, the program was picked up by the Discovery network, catapulting Irwin to international celebrity.
He rode his image into a feature film, 2002's "The Crocodile Hunters: Collision Course" and developed the wildlife park that his parents opened, Australia Zoo, into a major tourist attraction.
"The world has lost a great wildlife icon, a passionate conservationist and one of the proudest dads on the planet," Stainton told reporters in Cairns. "He died doing what he loved best and left this world in a happy and peaceful state of mind. He would have said, 'Crocs Rule!'"
Prime Minister John Howard, who hand-picked Irwin to attend a gala barbecue to honor President Bush when he visited in 2003, said he was "shocked and distressed at Steve Irwin's sudden, untimely and freakish death."
"It's a huge loss to Australia," Howard told reporters. "He was a wonderful character. He was a passionate environmentalist. He brought joy and entertainment and excitement to millions of people."