I miss the old days of having a mailbox in the front yard…actually I suppose I miss having a front yard more than anything. Okay, I tried for a split second to begin with a poignant, sentimental passage but the truth is that I actually hated having a yard because I had to mow it to make the neighborhood association shut up and the mailbox served no purpose other than to remind me that I will NEVER pay all of my bills in this lifetime.
I miss the mailbox in my neighbor’s yard across the street more. She’d come out every morning wearing something skimpy and low-cut…It was always a sign that a good day was about to unfold when she’d drop some of her mail on the ground.
I traded in my front yard for a busy street, bustling with cars and aimlessly wandering drunk people. I’m amazed that someone hasn’t tied a chain to my front stoop and literally stolen my house, which explains why I don’t trust having my mail sit in an unguarded box.
My post box is located in the city center about a mile from home, which presents unnecessary problems where parking is concerned. I think I’m going to throw the car in reverse and back into someone’s fender at 30mph the next time they can’t comprehend the “courtesy distance” when I'm trying to parallel park in the middle of a busy downtown thoroughfare.
I use my turn signal, I provide ample advance warning, I do everything short of having a Navy flag-man indicate that parallel parking is about to take place yet, every single time I visit the post box, someone edges close enough to me as though it were vehicle mating season.
Today I received a bill in my box which represented the equivalent of my house payment, only it was for a pair of storage units 500-miles away. The units serve as a repository for my departed mother’s belongings. After briefly considering actually LIVING in the storage unit, I reasoned that:
a) I’m not a Crystal Meth manufacturer
b) It’s best to move the belongings closer to my house so that I might take time sifting through a large collection of afghans, quilts, refrigerator magnets, horrible childhood photos of me and salt and pepper shakers from all fifty states.
In order to make arrangements to move the family belongings closer, a summertime road trip would be necessary. Windows down, a warm breeze whisking through the car on the open highway…and crappy commercial radio stations playing the same 15-songs. As long as I have beef jerky, an Ipod and a co-pilot I‘m happy.
Upon learning of my plan, a few friends volunteered to ride shotgun, however, when picking a “shotgun” companion, one must adopt a selection process which is highly scientific and non-biased, so as not to bruise any feelings.
The eligible candidate must satisfy certain standards so as to meet stringent requirements while ensuring a mutually beneficial open highway experience:
1. They must be female
2. Unafraid of riding with someone who absolutely can not drive
3. Hold the steering wheel while I eat a Mc Doo Doo Extra Value Meal
4. She also must not flinch at the prospect of flashing her boobs to truckers
Don’t judge me…there’s nothing to look at but pine trees on this drive…I verified it on Google Earth. There ARE some Poplar and Oak trees between Central Alabama and Tennessee and a place named “BIG Jim’s Boobie Bungalow” on the Alabama/Tennessee border.
I’m NOT kidding- the sign entices with THIS proclamation: “Discounts for CDL holders.” I was absolutely appalled, because I don’t hold a Commercial Driver‘s License. By the way, my co-pilot won the “Indecent Interstate Amateur” contest, which means that I have time to get my CDL so that we can get the free ultimate appetizer platter and “bottomless” Margarita when we go back in September for the finals. The Cheese StiXXX are awesome!
The 4-day road trip began with me waking up on a friend’s couch, searching for my pants, socks, shoes and dignity. I then raced home to pack a handful of t-shirts & boxer shorts for the trip. Because punctuality is something in which I take pride, I called ahead to inform my co-pilot that I would be late. (Note: Making the courtesy call exonerates one from any preconceived expectations that you will actually be on time.) Employers haven‘t widely embraced this practice but several industry unions are working diligently to remedy the miscommunication.
After safely securing our $300 bag of junk food, it was finally time to hit the road. Getting out of the city was easy enough, with the exception of a stalled train, a multi-vehicle pile-up on the freeway entrance ramp- which seemed to involve every single automobile in the city of New Orleans- and a construction crew performing minor road maintenance. I believe they were demolishing a 16-mile bridge. They must have overstaffed on this particular day, as there were about 10 construction guys standing around smoking cigarettes.
About 2-hours outside of the city we stumbled across, what appeared to be, a biohazard zone. A stretch of highway completely devoid of life- no exits, no houses, no cows- this signals a shady government operation since the cows are always the first to disappear. Not an ideal situation when you’re running extremely low on fuel. I was also out of cigs but, most importantly, we were out of beer. I’m KIDDING! I don’t drink while driving…I do it before I drive. KIDDING again. I’m a huge supporter of highway safety causes, as evidenced by my large monetary (court ordered) donations.
Knowing that my friend smoked menthols, and I don’t, I found myself in a most troubling dilemma- until she announced that she had Camel “Crush.” I suggested that she wear loose jeans for a while. She clarified. Camel has concocted a cigarette that can be all things to all people. If you want it to be menthol, simply crush the filter and it releases menthol; otherwise it’s a regular cig. A bi-sexual cigarette if you will. Brilliant! The folks at Camel have effectively devised a way to expand their market share in globally spreading tobacco related illnesses.
In the middle of my fascinating lesson in “Big Tobacco” genocide, a loud noise rocked the car… It seems that we ran over a piece of tire tread that had flown from a semi truck in front of us. I pulled to the side and made a visual inspection, pretending to know what I was doing and, since it was my lucky day, the debris had only severely dislodged the left side of my bumper.
After stabilizing the bumper, we made our way to the next exit so that a professional could make a more secure repair. The repairs were made for the low price of $150.00 and we were back on the road…for about an hour. At which point we blew out a tire.
Fortunately it occurred near an exit ramp in a tiny Alabama town with one auto repair station. (Translation: auto repairs would cost more than investing in gold on the open market.) We limped along the exit ramp to the tiny service station where a very nice gentleman by the name of J.T. was happy to assist. I don’t know what J.T. stands for, but I recommended that he tell people that it stands for “Just Tires.“ I’m a clever marketer that way.
J.T. spent about 15-minutes under the car when he motioned for me through the smudged garage window. Being on the receiving end of the mechanic “motion gesture” is never good. Is it just me or does anyone else experience the spine chilling “stomach-drop” when going for a basic oil change and the mechanic comes back to the waiting area to speak with you? I always feel as though they’re about to deliver devastating news:
“We changed your oil but, in doing so, we found a defective hydraulic solenoid sensor which has damaged the drive shaft and caused damage to the transmission, the alternator, the carburetor, the steering column, the ozone and the engine block - and you only have three months to live…we have a priest on duty if you need to talk with someone.
J.T. informed me that he replaced the tire, however, the debris that I hit had severed an emissions filter. Because I didn’t want to violate the Kyoto Treaty or anger Al Gore, I asked J.T. to elaborate…in user-friendly terminology. I wanted to know the worst case scenario if I simply waited to make the repair at a later date.
J.T. helpfully explained that, in all likelihood, Al Gore would hunt me down and bore me to death. Most urgently, he felt that the axle rod would fly off, killing a family of four in the vehicle behind me and then my car would spontaneously explode in a deadly ball of fire. Because I was trying to spend as much money as possible on this road-trip, I authorized the repairs.
The repairs were made and my co-pilot flashed J.T. before he bummed a Camel Crush. Down the road again we go…
We made it to town just in time for me to visit with the storage people and to arrange for a moving company to transport my belongings the following week. Mission accomplished! This left a full day to unwind and visit with old friends, only now I was broke.
Unfortunately, all of my friends were either out of town or working so we were on our own. Since my co-pilot had never visited my hometown, I gave her the full city experience. My hometown is a vibrant city, rich with music, art, culture and historic neighborhoods. So we hit three bars and a dive Mexican restaurant while I told her all about the interesting things that we could be doing right now around town. She seemed happy so I think that makes me a pretty decent tour guide...and the Fajita Nachos are a tourist attraction on their own. Mmmm!
We woke up the next day to begin our return back to the deep south, hoping for a smoother road experience.
By the way, there’s a place in South Central Alabama named “Jake’s gun, pawn, fireworks and bait shop.” With a name like that, I felt it incumbent upon me to make a personal gene pool inspection. Upon entering Jake’s, I noticed enough weaponry to storm a small country and several gentlemen who looked like they were ready to hunt down and kill (keel) some terrorists (tearists.) My co-pilot nervously recommended that this was an important sign that I absolutely not talk to anyone in the establishment. She actually begged.
I must say, Jake has an impressive store, right down to the restrooms. Normally, I hate hand dryers…unless it’s the “XCellerator.” This thing is like a reject device from NASA. Not quite powerful enough to lift the space shuttle, but able to dry your hands in 3.7 seconds- and possibly remove tattoos.
I browsed for a few moments before settling on a purchase. I bought a bundle of sparklers, two minnows and, because it was a gun shop, a Three Musketeers Bar.
On the road again…
We wheeled back into to town physically exhausted and mentally drained to the point that we decided it best to simply call it an early night and only have 3 beers and a shot.
All in all it was a great trip, punctuated by a brilliant co-pilot selection. I found myself replaying lighthearted moments like when J.T. pretty much legally robbed us, the sheer joy on the faces of so many truck drivers as they passed us on the passenger side, the drool trickling down my co-pilot‘s face as she slept through the entire state of Mississippi…the list goes on.
As we sat in the courtyard at my friend’s house, lighting sparklers, I felt the moment was right to release my two new minnow friends into the safe haven of the landscaping pond.
As evidenced by the look of horror on my friend's face, apparently minnows don’t adapt to salt water...at all. Thus fulfilling my goal of learning something new every day.
Nonetheless, I shall savor the rewarding experience from this road trip for the rest of my…day.
**Disclaimer: No animals were harmed in the making of this story. (Minnows are fish, not animals)
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
