Through the tunnel and off we go.
Down a long tunnel is a tiny dot of light. And I'm at the dark end of it. Either I just died and am now traveling down the cliche path of death, or my car stalled and I'm blocking traffic. I hope to hell (so to speak) I'm blocking traffic. A car horn blaring behind me reassures the fact I'm in a tunnel. Either that or souls come with horns as standard feature. I turn the key on my car/soul and it starts. Car, definitely. Pressing the gas pedal, the car (with me in it) takes off. The tunnel exit/heaven gets bigger and bigger until it erupts into ow-that-hurts-and-I-can't-see type light and a I-think-I'll-drive-my-car-off-the-road type situation. Fortunately for me and the cactus patch off the side of the road, the situation doesn't play it self out. This place, by the way, is a desert.
The driver I blocked in the tunnel decides to be stupid and drives his car up along the side of mine and gives me his rendition of the driver vehicle code. Something along the lines of ‘&$%@! Don't stop your &$%@ car in the &$%@ tunnel!' As a rule, I don't swear. Or repeat the words of people who do.
Instead of giving him the finger, the standard custom of his people, I ignore him. He takes this a threat against his honor and so he yells me to pull over.
"Hey!" he screamed, "pull over!" Redundant, I know, but it starts the conversation part of the story.
"No." A simple, yet concise answer. This intelligent response angers him. The veins on the side of his large and meaty neck bulge. So he repeats himself.
"Hey! Pull over, &$%@!" But this time he adds a curse word so it doesn't look like he's repeating himself. I don't let him know I saw through his ploy.
"No, and look ahead." My trickery with the words confused him. Unlike him, who thought his car would warn him of approaching vehicles, I was looking ahead. I saw a truck, whose driver was on some sort of barbiturate, speeding along. For some ungodly reason in the truckers head, he decided to NOT honk his horn.
This could have turned out two different ways. Situation one: My crazed opponent heeds my warning, turns madly, and goes flying off the road, and may or may not end up hitting an innocent coyote, who's minding his own business. Or situation two: My opponent continues to tell me to pull over so he may battle me in ways of his people. And then he, his car and the truck have a bloody menagais a troi. Either way, it's a Kodak moment. Too bad none of those situations happened. My trucker friend was momentarily released from the barbiturate prison, and was granted a moment of clarity. He blew his horn, the angered driver took action and managed to squeeze behind me before 40 tons of a mean, lean, truckers' dream flew by like the metal monster it was.
I thought that the near death incident would shut him up. Boy, was I wrong. But I did make him more cautious. He was content to driving behind really close and blowing his horn, occasionally shaking his fist now and then.
I was seriously considering slamming on my brakes, thus ruining the back end of my car, but giving this guy a really nasty concussion. But my insurance premiums were high enough as it was, without adding the headache of explaining why I got into an accident on a deserted desert road. So I gave up the idea.
Maybe if I had a firearm of sorts, and fired off a few rounds over his head. That might scare him a tad. But there is that one in a million chance that a stray round takes a detour and blazes new ground right through his forehead. Plus, I might hit that coyote I told you about earlier. For the coyote sakes, and the fear of a murder rap, I gave up that one.
If my car had cruise control, I could use it, climb on my trunk, leap into his car, kick the guy a couple of times, then jump back to my car. That might teach him to mess with a psycho. Too bad I don't have cruise control, I'm not crazy enough to do a stupid stunt like that, and not to mention the fact my car would pull away and I'd never hear from it ever again. Except in urban legends about a ghost car roaming the streets, looking for people to run over.
While I was contemplating these various wacky stunts, something anti climactic happened. The moron's exit came up and he drove into some cow poke town. Talk about cheesy ending. But I still had fun coming up with stuff to do to the guy. One involved throwing crap from my car, and trying to hit him. But knowing my luck, that would probably piss him off more.
I need gas.
There comes a point in every car owners lifetime when he or she, god forbid, needs gas. Actually, there a many points when that happens, but who keeps score. Not me. But I digress.
I drove into a cowpoke town, like my angry friend did last chapter, and pull my car up along the antiquated gas pump. I expected some grease monkey dressed in overalls and oil waddle up to my car and say: "Need gas?"
Which did happened and was what he said.
"No, I need a posse rounded up, cause some varmint done gone and escaped from the prison," I said, with sarcasm laced words, and even throwing in that hillbilly accent on that last part. He glared at me.
"If I wanted sarcasm from some smartass out of towner, I'd watch some TV." He then leaned in real close. "Now, how many gallons would you be needing?"
"I'd be needing a full tank." This guy wasn't gonna get the best of me. He lingered for a moment before heading for the pumps. While he filled my tank with some gas/water mixture, I took a moment to gaze about. To my left was the empty, vast expanse know as the ‘desert'. It had its qualities though, despite its hollowness. It was a place you could sit relax and enjoy your self, with the comforting thought that there was only a small chance of being killed by the local wildlife. And the only human contact you'd receive was when the State Troopers were hauling your carcass away after you died of heat stroke. Other than that, the desert is where old miners went to die when El Dorado couldn't be found.
And to my right was the gas station/garage owned by my quick witted friend, the pump jockey. Big red letters stood across the roof spelt out the name ‘Lawrence'. Presumably that was his name.
"Lawrence," I said, wanting to kill time while my car being filled up, "what's this town called?" The middle of nowhere towns always interested me.
"The Dead Tourist." Now that was interesting.
"Why's it called that?"
"It use to be ‘Rattle Snake Gulch'. Then a tourist died. So we named it ‘The Dead Tourist'. And that's why it's called that." Simple question. Simple answer. Answered by a simple man.
"What would happened if, say, a dog attacked the local populace?"
"I'd reckon we'd rename our selves ‘The Dead Tourist and The Demon Dog'."
"That makes sense. I suppose. Where I come from, we have great many-" He cut me off.
"I don't a rats ass about where you ‘come from'," he said, mocking me. "If I wanted to know about your crime-ridden sin hole, I'd ask. Like you did." Clearly, this man did not believe in the institution of conversation. Not that I blame him. The only reason I talked to him was because, well, I don't why I asked him. Probably to lengthen my memoirs when I got to them. In a chapter named ‘My Brush With Death: I Talked To The Pump Jockey.' It would have been a superb dive into the psyche of people separated from the rest of civilization. Now, it'll just be a footnote entitled ‘His Name Was Lawrence And He Didn't Wanna Talk.' Footnotes, you may or may not know, often have long titles. Or at least mine do.
Now that my car, a gas using vehicle, had gotten gas, I headed out. About two miles down the road, it came into my mind why Lawrence was chasing me after I took off. Then a sudden realization that I hadn't payed for the gas. Another two miles whipped beneath my car before I made up my mind and go back and pay. I found Lawrence running down the interstate with a large shotgun in hand. A brief argument ensued, consisting of me shouting ‘STOP!' and him firing deer shot into my car. Our chat ended with me waving a fifty dollar bill in the air with promises of ‘KEEP THE CHANGE!! KEEP THE CHANGE!!' He found the resolution acceptable and headed back to his position, with the eighteenth president in his overall pocket.
So I headed back on my journey, with a full tank of gas, sans fifty dollars. Oh, I never told you where I was going. I am headed to a convention of freak's, weirdo's and smartass's. No, but seriously. I was hired to kill the major of a major metropolis. Again, I'm kidding. I'm headed nowhere. I'm serious this time. I was at my job when I was suddenly struck by boredom....
My Last Day At The Job.
Like I said, I was struck by boredom at my last job. I worked at a music store, but it can't really be considered a store, since no one bought a damn thing. We carried some titles, usually only the really popular chart toppers, but since we we're small and just starting up, our prices were high. And right down the street was a big, established music store. Like all mega-chains super stores, they carried the titles we did, and more, but at much lower prices. Normally, I wouldn't quit a job because I was bored. But factoring in that my boss was the worlds biggest prick, it made my quitting all that more sweeter. It all began one day when I went to pick up my check.
* * *
"Hey, Scott, guess what day it is?" I asked, redundantly. He already knew the answer to that.
"I know, I know. Payday," he said with disgust in his voice, "hold on, lemme finish this memo." That was one of the annoying things he did. Memos. What was the point? There was me, him and a recently hired girl. She, being new, followed what Scott did to a letter. I tired turning her to the dark side, but she was more stuck up than he was. So I gave up. But she was still nice to look at. Nice girlish curves and all.
Scott finished scrawling down whatever he had planned, and looked up.
"Yes, Richard, what is it?"
"My paycheck."
"Ah, yes, I'll have to get it out of the safe. Is that all right?"
"No," I said sarcastically, "it won't." I let out a sign, signifying my sarcasm had end. "Just get the check." He glared at me, and reached down to the safe. Then, the girl I tried to turn, Jennifer, waltzed in.
"Hi Scott," she said all chipper and happy like, "I'm here for my check!"
"Of course, Jenny." He opened one of the multitude of drawers that his desk possessed, and pulled out her check.
"Thanks Scott!!" She leaned over the desk and took her check, giving Scott a peck on the check while she was there. I had the sudden urge to vomit all over the both of them.
"So, you had HER check in a drawer, while mine is stuck in a safe. Hmm, sounds like SOMEBODY is sleeping with the boss." I had only meant it as a crass joke, but that got them both angry. Scott stood up and pointed his finger at me.
"What we do on our own time..." Scott had let out their dirty little secret "...dammit"
"SCOTT!!" Jennifer shrieked, "you idiot!! Gawd!!" She began to huff and throw her hands up in the air. She then turned to me and began to sneer.
"You know Scott, if all it took was me to sleep to with you...well...I am the open minded type. Sorta. Well, you'd probably have to get me absolutely wasted. And lots of recreational drugs would have to be involved. But that's a discussion for another day. As soon as I get my check, nudge nudge, I'll be off. Then you two crazy kids can do what you like. Hey, wait a minute. Only one of you is a kid. Poor, sweet, naive ‘Jenny', as you put it, here is a meer seventeen. And you are how old, Scott? Thirty, forty, too old? Methinks it is the latter choice." I turned to Jennifer. "And you," I gave her a quick look up and down, "being good looking and all, you shouldn't be with a man who head looks like a follicle crop circle. You should be with a tough looking man-child. Later, when you're legal, you'll get hitched, and move into a trailer park. There, in your white trash haven, you'll have five or six kids and an occasional beating or two when the your hubbie has one two many." I finished my insult rant with a satisfied smile. There is nothing I like than insulting people and making them feel stupid.
During all this, Scott had managed to get my check and crumple it quite a bit. He then looked at me real hard.
"You have no proof of what went between us. I suggest you tell no one of what transpired here."
"Hey, I'm not one to spoil true love. By all means, continue with your sordid little affair. ‘Statutory rape.' Bah. It's an old, archaic law, that was invented by those damn puritans to stop older men from sleeping with their not-knowing-any-better daughters. But I'm sure Jennifer is the knowing better type. Aren't ya, Jenny?" I said, using her name in contempt. She was still sneering. "Whoa, sister. Enough of the brow beating. Save it for Scott when he has trouble ‘pleasing'." I marched out triumphantly. Then I realized my job was in serious jeopardy. I decided to quit before he fired me. I turned around and headed back.
"Every time in a young man's life," I said, pulling myself into the door frame, posing like Abraham Lincoln might do if he was giving this speech, "there comes a point when he must take off his shackles, beat his oppressor with them and cast his fortunes into the wind."
Scott gave me a funny look. "Are you gonna kill me?"
"I was thinking about doing that, but my fortune casting would turn into flee from the law. Instead, I shall quit. Yes Scott, I quit. So have fun running this one horse piece of shit dump ‘music store' by yourself and your ‘girlfriend'."
He got an angry look a on his face, then smiled. "Have fun." Of course, me quitting had no real impact on him, or this business. No one came here. It's not like I quit in some real rush, when even the loss of one man would mean certain doom for all who work there. No, when I quitted, it was a small victory for me. To make it a greater victory, I crammed a potato into his cars exhaust pipe. I still laugh when I think about that one.
What Happens When You Quit.
I am, by no means, advocating staying at an oppressive job where you work for idiots and assholes. Nor am I saying you should quit every job you get just because the manager tells you to do some slightly terrible job. It is, how somebody once said, a fine line to walk.
I was driving home, with a crumpled paycheck in my coat pocket, when the first sensation to hit me was total and complete exhilaration. There is nothing quite like quitting a job. Be it good or bad. The longer you stay at a job, the greater the pressure builds up. When you do quit and walk out of there for the absolutely last time, the pressure releases in a torrent of wild emotions. But mostly you want to run around screaming like a mad man, jumping here and there.
At a stoplight, I just had to lean out of my car and scream. My stomach felt like doing the same thing. I had evil, dirty thoughts of sleeping in late, not shaving or bathing, and even do what ever the hell I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it, any where I chose. That would last as long as my savings would. Then the job hunt would begin. But until then, the world was an oyster and I felt like getting seafood.
When I got home, I stripped down the bare essentials, that being undershirt and boxer shorts, and planned my next course of action. A quick call to the bank told me I had over 2000 dollars in savings and a thousand in checking. I owe that to my frugal ways. I glanced around my apartment and it was sorely lacking in the visual department. If I had a girlfriend, she'd be ashamed to be here. So would my mother. But I haven't seen her in a while. All that was in my one bedroom apartment was a couch/bed, a tiny TV and in a far corner, and a relatively cheap computer I spent months debugging. Most of my free time was spent online, with all my electronic buddies. Sad, yes. Pathetic, depends how you look at it. But, all in all, it was a nice, happy, drool, routine filled life. Time to change.
When I was a kid, I watched all these movies and TV shows about people, mostly kids, shrugging off whatever hangups and problems they had and made it out in the real world. They were put in fairly dumb situations, and they only made it out through ingenious and convoluted plans. But since TV, being my parent and best friend, would never lie to me, I decided to strike it out in the real world. So I loaded up everything I owned that would of any use to me and chucked it into my trunk and sped off into the great, wild yonder.
First Day On The Road.
My first day on the road was, to say the least, a disaster. When I got on the freeway, I was almost forced off the road by a semi carrying three loads. My tiny car, a Pontiac Fiero, is small and only has two seats and a nearly non-existent trunk. I was going about 55, when truck zipped passed me. My car was shaking so violently, I nearly lost control and almost drove into a ditch. When your car is as small as mine, you let the big boys have their way. Even if it means looking stupid or incompetent. Besides, there are better ways to get back at people. But that's for another day.
I was headed west on some unnamed interstate. Night fell quickly, and stars lit the sky, like thousands of pasty white teenagers mooning me. Night driving isn't fun. Especially when you forget to turn on your headlights. Along with being a terrible speller, I'm also a terrible driver. I've been compared to elderly women and blind people. That's what the DMV people say, anyway. Other motorist don't comment, they merely have looks of horror on their faces, and what can be interpreted as their life flashing before their eyes.
Night driving is also a dangerous thing when you are tired. The repetitious movement of the lane dividers whipping by, plus the fact that the car in front of you hasn't changed position in the two hours. It's like we are pack animals. We have no emotional attachment to the others, yet we group for safety. The only thing we do when another wildebeest go careening off the road is go ‘Ooh', and ‘Ah', and we continue on our way. We all keep our distance from one another. Sometimes I think the only reason prey animals flock together is for protection. At least predators try to protect their young. Some animals just keep running. Run and run and run. No looking back. What happened to so and so? Who cares? We're still alive. The individual above the group. But enough of me disguising humans as animals. More on the story.
Around 2 o'clock in the morning, after six hours of driving and many a Jolt cola later, I decided to find a hotel and hunker down for the night.
And that's all I have so far. More to come...I promise...
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