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August 21, 2005
Hold Off on Those Prayers
Crack has really helped me to focus on my life and truly live in-the moment, as they say. Fact, I live in fractional seconds. Frequently I must inform or remind those around me that with the speed of my light, I neither plan anything more than an hour ahead nor remember anything more than an hour ago (I must borrow from the collective nostalgia for my unremebered ’80s). That level of precision with which I have conducted my daily activities has been a blessing in my life as it has kept me in touch with my purpose upon this big, round, sloppy wet and soiled thing we call Earth. It is as if a portal into the depths of my own soul has opened up, and the years of my heart’s welling is finally loosed to run over and become visible to me and my loved ones around me. Like you all!
So, I’m sure you’ll all understand and know what I’m talking about and believe me when I say that I wasn’t meant to leave the crack fold today. It wasn’t my day to go, to make that long and ardous journey, and Mother universe in her expansive benevolence—and/or the Holy Trinity in their forward-thinking (albeit trippy)TO/CC/BCC format, or, perhaps, Mu/ohammad the great Bedouin popularizer of post-bath wear and beyond, or, however you choose to define my higher-voltage power—had the wisdom to see that and put forth an intercessionary hand in my path. Had I actually seen said hand—and provided I wasn’t too freaked out—My God! I hope! I only hope I would have had some vitamin E lotion on-hand to offer!
As it turned out, the hand worked in mysterious ways, causing the month to be mid-August (who knew?), the high-high (and for some of us even higher) travel season in which last minute phone queries after an economy rental are turned away time after time again with one of two late-mid August autoanswers:
- “We have nothing availble”
or
- “Uhmm, let me see here—it gets so busy the computer gets bogged down….”
Oh, I hate that.
“Actually, I love it. We’re all working so much overtime, you have no idea. It’s nice to just stop a minute, and not have fourteen customers yelling at me for an upgrade, God. Just not have to think. Like a mini-break. I haven’t gotten a full eight hours of sleep since Tuesday!”
What day is it today?
“Friday.”
The second?…Friday?…uhhv…the week?…
“Oh! Okay, here it is. Okay: without the extra insurance, and assuming you drop it off by 2PM with a full tank and that the inspector doesn’t mind any nicks, dings, or dents, of course—the standard stuff; you’ve heard it all before—that would run you just a litle over $1600 dollars before taxes and surcharges. You going to go with the full coverage? Just in case.”†
†Alright, alright, I’ll admit the conversation did not occur outside of the (loose) bounds of my head or this electric publication, but the gist of it holds the truth of my life in those car-searching moments, and the $1600 price tag is in no way a fabrication. At least not fabricated by this fabricante.
So. Bus was off the list early on, being among the nation’s worst possible venues for withdrawals. TrapperKoopered next to a stinkrag with a puking predilection and the conversational drive of…say…an egoist on either coke or crack! Horrors! The Twenty-Hour Torture.
Conversely, one—a one like this one me, anyway—can go well beyond a bland rationalization supporting the monetary throw down to borrow a motorized vehicle, and find in the open road—and one’s hitting of it (especially out of a clostyferbotic big city), and the very volition and control that weak-ass drivetrain under your far weaker ass both gives and requires of you, but never without the promise of a trade wind to tickles your eyelashes and hushabye your sting. The tired, nonsensical Eagles song on the radio is pure gravy, and it gives you four happier minutes than you ever remember hearing strung together. Even the exit-eager fast food familiars are generous; you finally have something to which you can honest-and-truly feel far superior.
You see? Exactly. Part of the curative concoction.
But a window seat on a jumbo jet bound for bayou will do, too, dude. So, long story short, I rustled-up a fairly fair last-minute fare, and I’m oftenout high noon tomarra. Break a leg!, I tell myself.
Posted by peligrito at August 21, 2005 3:55 PM
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