A The Drive: Tale of a Man Chapters 1&;2

Chapter One: Driving

Have you ever driven across the New Mexico desert in a rented, 1997
Lincoln Town Car at 117 mph while eating a grape-flavored OtterPop?
Well, I have. Cool and delicious, the whimsically shaped treat
moistened and soothed my raw throat, abused by the dry and forbidding
New Mexico wind. I was wearing a shirt which read "1992 Roberts' Family
Reunion: This Time Let's Get It Right", which I had ordered from a
discount clothing catalogue which specialized in semi-damaged clothing
and over-runs. While I tend to skimp on shirts, I'm almost fanatical
about the rest of my appearance, and always demand the best; right down
to my hands-sewn, deerskin Gio Sciotti strolling boots.

The Lincoln's wide, run-flat tires gripped the road with breath-taking
surety, providing the comfort I needed to feel good about those 100+
mph turns. With the A/C on full and cold, and the moon roof retracted,
the Lincoln
is not the most fuel-efficient car, but it made up for this shortcoming
with a melodramatic, powerful, and super-tuned V8 power source that was
more an example of automotive hubris than an engine. It growled like a
wild cat, and responded almost before I thought. The vehicle also
featured many little luxury "extras": A flip-up vanity mirror in the
sun visor, a change holder near the ashtray, and a 22-way adjustable,
buffed calf-leather driving throne, which could, at the touch of a
chrome-plated lever provide exact and different support for each of my
vertebra.
From some initial investigation, I knew that the last renter of this
particular auto had been an eccentric, having left both a medical grade
syringe and snake-charming literature in the glove box.
After a time I grew "road-weary", and this was my cue to begin
yodeling. Now I have a fine voice, and I don't need to hear sudden,
angry complaints or accusations about my yodeling. It relieves stress
and wakes me up, and under certain circumstances, I believe it also
lowers my long distance phone bill. I don't know. You tell me.
Just as I was really getting into an extended yodel, I noticed the
inevitable flashing lights in my rearview. John Q. Law takes many
forms, but in the sweltering Mojave he is stripped to his rawhide
covered core. Mean, stringy, and haggard from thousands of hours behind
the wheel of a greased lightening Crown Vic, the Mojave lawman is one
mean son of a bitch. I pulled to the shoulder and turned the engine
off.
The officer stopped his car a good 40 feet behind mine. He spent twenty
minutes fiddling around in his car, before he finally stepped out. Cops
tend to be nervous when they stop someone doing 130 MPH. I watched his
shiny black cop shoes make puffs of dust as he approached my car. I
activated the cool, brushed aluminum window switch and lowered the
window about seven inches. With the dark tint, the cop would only be
able to see my head. I grabbed the plastic coat hanger from the front
seat.
"Sir, could you fully lower your window, please." His voice was tired
and empty of conviction.
I lowered the window until it disappeared from sight. The cop stepped
up to the window and peered in.
"Sir, you're going to have to take that hanger out of your mouth for a
moment."
I had inserted the handle of the plastic hanger into my mouth. There
was no law against that, and it's always good to put them on the
defensive.
"This hanger, officer?" I asked, twisting the hanger a bit.
"Yes, sir. The one you have in your mouth there."
"Officer, can you understand my speech?" I asked quietly.
"Yes sir, I can."
"Well then what difference does the hanger make?"
He shrugged and then stared out into the sun-baked desert,
sighing.
"Okay, sir, if you like. What I stopped you for was speeding, although
I guess you probably already know that, huh?"
"I see. How fast do you believe I was going, officer? I asked
him.
"I had you clocked on my radar at about 128 MPH, sir."
"I see. And 128 MPH is speeding, is it?"
"Of course, sir. This is a sixty-five MPH zone, and you exceeded that
limit by about 60 MPH. I'm afraid that's going to be a pretty heavy
fine."
I swear I'll never understand this insane country. If you wanted to go
65 MPH, why not just walk and get some exercise?
The cop wrote out the citation as I played with the hanger. I had
heavier issues than this playing in my mind. Issues like where things
went so horribly wrong, why I was making this long drive to the West
coast, and most of all, where Maria was and why I was infatuated with
finding her. Of course, the last one was easy to figure out- Maria was
the most sumptuous thing I'd ever laid eyes on, and come Hell or high
water I had sworn to take her, and make her mine.
"Drive safe, now," The cop said as he handed me my ticket.
"Oh, I will," I promised, cursing inwardly; I knew I'd have to drive at
the insanely slow speed of 65 MPH for the next 20 or more miles that he
cared to follow me. I continued on for what seemed like endless hours
of torture, cautiously eyeing the rearview. John Q. was someone I could
easily dispatch, but I was in no mood to tangle with him afresh. He
followed and I drove at a speed that seemed slower than my ex-wife
could complete a lucid thought. After some time, I saw him turn off
onto a small, deserted looking dirt road. He must have been stopping to
water the sun baked scrub brush; his bladder aching from hours in that
cruiser, stretching to capacity with cup after cup of cold bitter
java.

I reached across the expanse of the finely appointed dash to turn on
the radio. Out in the desert, radio stations with any decent reception
were almost impossible to find. I searched and finally came to rest on
a station the DJ called '107.9 FM, Rock's Best Rock'. The DJ sounded as
if he gargled with the baked sand of this God-forsaken Mojave
wasteland. The music began to play through the precisely tuned sound
system; the song lacked all sense of symmetry but the beat helped me to
concentrate as I resumed my cruising speed of 125 mph.
Twenty minutes later I noticed my petrol-fed beast was screaming at me.
The red warning light on the dash told me she was thirsty and willing
to die before going much further without some petroleum based relief. I
could see some faint lights in the distance and knew a small inadequate
town was not far off. I tried to stay awake by torturing myself with
the thought of the idiots that awaited me there.

Chapter Two: Gassing Up

Rocky's Phillips 66 is where I landed. Not my first choice, but as I
was not impressed by the Town Car's gas mileage, I decided not to force
her to a better quality station. I got out of the car and immediately
lay down in the center of the filling station isle. Not many know the
importance of a properly executed stretching routine immediately after
getting out of a sitting position for an extended period of time.
I removed my pants and threw them on top of the town car and began the
rhythmic rocking and singing to bring my body and mind into harmony and
symmetry. My normal routine is about 2 hours to properly tune my
athletic body, but my mission, whatever it was, pressed me on
relentlessly. I ran through the exercises, had my pants back on, and
was walking into the clerk's area within 50 minutes.
A young man in a ridiculous sports car pulled alongside the pump I was
walking near and came within 3 feet of damaging me. While pressed for
time, (Maria awaits), I could not let this affront to my personal well
being go unpunished. I walked over to the window and leaned down inside
the car.
My face was very close to his. It smelled of unwarranted favor and a
lack of respect for anyone other than his daddy's trust fund.
"Can I help you, boy?" I asked coolly.
"Fill it. And hurry it up, I am extremely late for a party." The
insouciant punk had the nerve to order it as if deserved.
"No problem, boy." I answered.
He gave me a look of disgust as he pulled out his gold colored American
Express card. I deposited this into my back pocket and approached the
pump. I decided on the premium grade; he was a premium punk. I removed
the filthy pump and activated the on switch with my left foot. I
casually walked back to the open window. The little slime was talking
on one of those pointless cell phones, complaining about something to
someone. Probably his shrink.
I quickly inserted the pump nozzle into his open mouth and began
pumping. According to the antiquated pump, I got just over two gallons
in him or on him before he sped away
sputtering and screaming. As he left, the pump handle and most of the
hose went with him. My cat-like reflexes enabled me to deftly avoid the
other end of the hose that came flying at my head, like a spitting
viper.

I walked slowly in to pay the clerk for this low quality swill. I laid
my hand down on the counter, pressing the spatulate pads of my fingers
into the sticky splatter of a cherry icy. Yes, I thought, I shall have
what I need here. Yes. The youngish man behind the counter was
possessed of that sort of patience, which comes from years of hard
drinking or mental abuse. His had come from neither. He watched me from
the opposite end of the counter, near the single-serve box of Swisher
Sweets.
"Can I help you?" He asked.
It was a common question. I decided that he didn't deserve a common
answer.
"Yes, I suppose you might." I said, slipping my ultra-mirrored
aviator-style sunglasses down my nose.
The pair of shades had once protected the eyes of my favorite singer,
Elvis Presley, but this boy didn't need to know.
"You might want to know that, while I'm inconvenienced and therefore
unhappy about the sign out there on pump four which indicates that I
must prepay for this gasoline, I have, nonetheless, come to the
decision to purchase some gasoline for my automobile here. Normally,"
here I removed a blue plastic shopping bag from my soft, butter-leather
jacket pocket and, wadding it into a compact shape, shoved it, whole,
into my mouth.
"Normally," I continued (the words were difficult to make out now. The
bag was interfering with my ability to speak clearly) "Normally, I
don't like gasoline from Phillip's 66. It tends, I feel, to be watery.
But that car," I said, "is a rental."
The young man maneuvered his tongue-stud around in his mouth. I removed
the credit card (just the card, not my wallet) from the back pocket of
my Buroni's double worsted full pleat linen slacks. I flipped the card
at the counter boy's face, where it struck edge-on, leaving a small,
pinkish mark on the boy's forehead over his right eye, and fell to the
counter.
"Snap to it. I'm in a rush."

As I sped west on I-35, I thought back to the halcyon days of my youth.
Actually the halcyon days were in my late twenties. In my early youth I
worked as an alligator wrestler in the swamplands of southern Florida.
I remember how the newness of my inheritance continually surprised me
with its seemingly endless ability to provide objects and experiences;
many of which contained either fleeting beauty or symmetry, both
attributes being ambrosia to my ravenous esthetic.

I glanced down at my watch. It was by Patek Phillipe, the 5015 Grand
Complication. The brand of watch was so lionized and adored that kings
and presidents had to actually purchase one of the timepieces if they
desired to own one. Patek Phillipe almost never made complimentary
gifts of their rarefied product, and to receive one as a gift was
unheard of. When I was old that I would have to wait for my personal
check to clear before I could take possession of my watch, I laid my
alligator skin briefcase onto the softly gleaming chromium steel and
glass case and began to remove stacks of mint-fresh hundred dollar
bills. It took a few moments to remove the $27,000 purchase price from
the case, and I was a little winded. The startled salesman offered to
fetch me a Diet Coke. Patek Phillipe is not favored by drug dealers,
and so is not accustom to cash purchases.
If only it were as easy to procure Maria. If it were only a matter of
money, I would be confident in knowing how to proceed. My vast
inheritance had long ago outgrown my ability to spend even the
interest, and I had much more than even my strict and
ultra-sophisticated standards demanded.