B The Drive: Tale of a Man Chapters 3&;4

Chapter Three: Merva's

I began to tire as the sun ended her day's work. I dreaded having to
sleep in a hotel bed, but my finely tuned body required sleep.

I pulled into a dismal looking town called Santa Rosa, New Mexico. I
drove down its main street looking in vain for adequate accommodations.
I finally stopped at Merva's Motor Inn, as it was the one with the
fewest cars. I needed restful and peaceful sleep.

I parked the Town Car next to a battered machine someone must call
their car, and powered down the car's engine. I exited the car, and
while looking for my Walter Mather's Executive prairie dog skin travel
bag in the spacious trunk, I noticed some movement coming from inside
the scrap heap next to my car. There was definitely movement, but not
definitely human.

I put my bag on top of the closed trunk and went around the other side
to see what was going on in this deathtrap with wheels. Inside were two
"people" having some kind of sexual interaction. I thought of smashing
open the window and telling them that their actions were void of any
symmetry. But I lacked the conviction and walked off toward the
office.

The office was dark and had the odor of 1972 all over it. The carpet
felt like wet cardboard underneath my strolling boots and was the color
of a Caribbean kumquat. The man behind the counter was watching
professional wrestling on the small black and white television next to
his computer. He was of Indian extraction, and by the accent he used
while screaming at the t.v., I could tell he was from the small village
of Aranmula. The village is situated on the river Pamba, famous for its
metal mirrors, and boat racing. I owned two of these mirrors both over
seven feet tall. I had them suspended from the ceiling of my sequoia
paneled dressing arena, so that they hung free and swung gently to
provide a sense of calm while dressing and undressing.

I walked to the counter being careful not to touch it and thus bringing
whatever disease may be lurking there into my body. The smallish Indian
was dressed in an older Dhoti Kurta Jodhpuri Suit, of fine, but faded
silk. He was yelling at the t.v. at what seemed to be the enormous
sweaty wrestler that was "losing". This seemed to displease him. When
he noticed me, he switched off the t.v. and came to attention at the
counter.

"May I help you, Sir?" he asked.

"I require a room with absolutely no noise or distraction."

I spoke very fast, as was my custom when speaking to Indians who had
recently arrived in the States. It helps them to understand that the
person speaking to them is in the position of authority. And that is
the position I must always have.

"Very good, Sir. I have just the room for you. Very quiet. I will need
to see some identification please."

He made this request quickly and quietly, almost as if he knew I
wouldn't take kindly to it. It was not that I minded him knowing my
name or anything else for that matter. I just don't like being told
what to do.

I climbed up on the counter and looked directly into his burnt-brown
colored eyes for two minutes without blinking or breathing. I meant
business.

"You do not need to see my identification," I directed.

I jumped back down off of the filthy counter making sure to land on
only my left foot and with precise balance and timing. I turned back to
face him, almost hoping for an altercation that would require my newly
acquired fighting skill of Wing Tsun. I had been under the private
instruction of Dr. Leung Ting for just a few months now, but I would be
a formidable opponent for anyone who chose to challenge my
authority.

"No, of course not, sir. I just need a credit card, please," he almost
begged.

I slapped down the gold American Express card from my rear pocket. The
Indian, whose nametag said he was called, 'Rajoo,' clicked away at his
computer and handed me a very large, dirty brass key.

"All the way at the end, sir. Very quiet," he said.

"Fine."

As I pushed back through the glass door to find my quarters, I noticed
an older man sitting in the loby, chewing on a pencil. He was seated at
the far end of the room on a stool where a small orange cat slept
underneath him. As I looked at him he gave a small nod and smiled
slightly. I hoped I wouldn't have problems with him.

I reached my room and closed the door behind me. Of course the room was
immensely inadequate.

I was too tired to complain about the room and lay down on the bed,
directly in the center, laying my hands down flat at my sides to ensure
proper symmetry. I began to drift off thinking about Maria. Soon I was
asleep and my mind was awash in images of my childhood.

I saw myself lying in my childhood bed looking up at my mother. She was
reading me my favorite bedtime story, Argonautica, by Apollonius
Rhodius, in Ancient Greek. We were waiting for my father to come home.
Neither of us seemed to be able to sleep when he wasn't there. He was
most likely at the club, with the other highly paid executives and
newly rich. He drank and dined with the richest and most powerful men
in the country after a day at the office. He usually came home, cursing
that his driver had taken entirely too long to get him out of the city
and home to his family. Upon arriving, he would storm into my room and
there were hugs and kisses all around. My father was a happy drunk and
it didn't seem to bother my mother. I fell asleep knowing that my
mother was tucking him into his bed and me in mine; all was well.

Chapter Four: Day Two, Morning

I awoke at exactly 6:45 A.M, as was my usual custom. I began my
stretching exercises while listening to the morning inspirational
message from the Coven of the Mother Mountain Aerie radio ministry on
my Sony short wave. By 9:30 I was supremely refreshed and ready to do
some hard duty behind the wheel of the Town Car. I challenged myself to
reach the coast by nightfall.

I used my authentic Lap knife designed by Palle Thorndal himself to
slice my left index finger to seal and set the promise to myself in
blood. I had met Palle Thorndal in Denmark while on a fishing
expedition there some years back. He happened to be on the boat in the
same group. I had tried to get the boat all to myself but the captain
wouldn't hear of it. No amount of money would persuade him. After what
happened, I was glad for having company.

I was fishing with my brand new Biscayne Company 37 oz. Ugly Stick
trolling rod. When the rigger clip snapped open and the rod bent over,
I knew I was into something big. I had hooked into what turned out to
be a forty-eight pound tooth fish and it put up the mother of all fish
fights. After seven and one-half hours I pulled that tooth fish into
the boat. Just as the fish hit the deck with a pleasing thud, my soft
plunger slammer head, triple hooked lure ripped from its mouth and
caught in my chest. I had been fishing with my shirt off to get the
proper sun. Luckily, Palle was there to cut the hooks out of my skin
with the lap knife. I paid him $15,000 on the spot for the knife.

I sprinted down to the office to drop off my key. A quick sprint in the
morning sets the tone for my metabolism for the whole day.
Once inside the office, I could see the Indian man asleep on the floor
behind the counter. The orange cat from the night before was at his
feet, licking his callused heels. I climbed over the counter and got
down on my knees near his head. I placed my mouth near his ear and
shouted.

"Wake-up immediately, small Indian!"

Rajoo jumped to attention as if being called by his commanding officer
in the Indian Army.

"Yes sir, how can I help you?" he asked.

I climbed back over the counter and began scribbling instructions. I
needed to fax my buyer in New York. My corporation was bidding on a
sweet little, late period Manet that was coming up for auction at
Sotheby's, and I'd decided that the portrait would add the symmetry and
union that was missing in my rococo cigar atrium at my Park Avenue high
rise luxury suite. I removed my portable dojang, a small wooden stick,
which had my personal seal engraved in the golden tip. I affixed my
seal and handed the instructions to the Indian.

"Do you have the ability to fax this document to the number at the top
of this piece of paper," I asked very rapidly.

"Yes, sir, no problem," he answered.

"Your very life depends upon it," I barked, dropping the key onto the
counter.

I was back in the Town Car on the main street of Santa Rosa, searching
for a suitable place to eat when I spied LuLu's Chat-n-Chew.
"Wonderful," I sighed sarcastically, as I eased the Town Car's ample
front end between the parking space lines.

I walked into the caf?, hoping for a halfway competent waitress. What I
got was LuLu. She wore the typical waitress uniform, but it was
curiously wrinkled. It looked as if it had been sandwiched between two,
400-pound sanitation workers in their truck, for about one hundred
years.

"What can I get for you, hun," she asked with condescension in her
voice.

I immediately became uneasy and decided that, for the sake of my
stomach's safety, would try to put her at ease.

"I see your name is LuLu. You are the proprietor I presume," I tried in
my best "friendly" voice.

"No. What can I get you," she was more demanding now.

"Well, actually I meant that I presume you are the owner," I
clarified.

"I know what proprietor means, and I ain't it. LuLu died and the new
owner makes me wear this. Satisfied? Now, for the last time, what do
you want," she demanded. Here, she raised her voice and I began to grow
distressed.

I decided to go easy on her. I hadn't the time to argue the finer
points of manners and the importance of symmetry with this wretch. I
needed to get on the road and to the coast by nightfall. I am not in
the habit of breaking blood oaths to myself.

"I will just have some tree-ripened mangos cut along the seed-line, two
cups of fresh cream, one tall glass of room temperature sparkling
water, one seedless tomato, skinned, and 12 pieces of peppered,
firm-fried bacon. Thank you."

"We'll just see about that," she said while rolling her overly painted
eyes.

As I waited for my breakfast, I began a low yodel. I needed to
concentrate and calm myself after the interlude with the wretch. A
large man in the booth next to me, who I was able to smell as I entered
the place, leaned over, and said low and menacing, "We ain't gonna be
havin' none of that."

He was a very wide man who had on a blue pocket tee shirt that looked
like it had been used in the diaper clean up for a baby elephant. He
also wore a baseball cap that said, 'Yar's Concrete'. I stopped the
yodel and folded my hands.

When the food arrived, I was, needless to say, disappointed. When the
wretch sat it down, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Here,"
practically begging for a fight. I was not so inclined.

The plate contained a small fruit compote, scrambled eggs, wheat toast
and six strips of bacon. The bacon was neither peppered nor firm-fried.
This would have to do. I ate most of the eggs and fruit. I laid a one
hundred-dollar bill on the table, placed the bacon into my French-silk
food caddie, and left quietly.

I topped off the cavernous fuel tank of the Town Car and settled in for
some long miles. My heart and head were heavy with thoughts of Maria. I
turned onto the highway and floored the accelerator. The soft, easy hum
of the V-8 helped my mind to wander and turn to thoughts of home.
Visions of my suite played across my mind and I longed to be back
home.

It comforted me to think of my lovely, East Coast home, all those miles
away. I longed for the restful symmetry and gentle but powerfully
sophisticated beauty of my furnishings and objets d'art. If I had been
at home I would have been waking to infinitely gentile shafts of
sunlight breaking through my $15,000 Occu-Grand windows which would
have smoothed and tamed the sunlight so that it would have shone on my
skin like an even, warm, healing balm. Next, I would have fed my pygmy
sloth, which I house in the cigar atrium. He's always so friendly, but
by the time he slowly ambles over to me for some petting, I'm always
mad to leave - that's me in the Big Apple - always full of nervous
energy, always on the move.