#8 - Running On Empty, Part I

Trigger: Watching a TV show wherein this guy is going to an auction to buy a fancy, antique, wood-paneled automobile. A “woody”.

Flash:

We had a woody at one time. (How’s that for a vague but potentially questionable opening line?)

Well, it wasn’t a REAL woody, as in actual wood like on the fancy cars. It was fake wood paneling, the kind that was no longer popular when this story takes place, but you could still find them here and there. That is, assuming that you wanted to do this. And it was a station wagon, so there was absolutely nothing cool about this car at all.

It’s 1981 or 82. I know I already had my driver’s license, but I wasn’t yet a senior in high school, so there you have it, general time frame. It wasn’t actually MY car, but I did drive the thing. And I hated it with a passion. It tortured me, and I tortured it right back. This was not a healthy relationship.

You see, my family did not have a tremendous amount of money, but my mom and step-dad DID have an amazing number of friends who happened to own cars that they no longer cared to keep around. Many of these things would end up at our house, piled up at the end of our long driveway.

I don’t know if money changed hands, I don’t know if these things were slightly-evil gifts, I have no idea how the cars were procured. Until I was able to drive, I couldn’t care less about cars. They were just things parked in the driveway, sometimes as many as 5 or 6 at a time, and on any given day half of them did not run for one reason or another.

We did not win any yard-of-the-month contests in our neighborhood.

Anyway, somewhere along the line this station wagon showed up, ugly as hell. As mentioned, there was the wood-paneling, which immediately ruled out the vehicle as anything desirable whatsoever. Where the paint was still intact, it was a dull, morose brown. I don’t remember if the air-conditioning worked, but probably not. I can recall many childhood summers spent baking in the confines of family vehicles, near asphyxiation and dreaming of a place that did not smell like sweat and vinyl seating.

Once I obtained my license, I became a little more invested in the ragtag collection of metal at the end of the driveway. On a good day, when everything in the current lineup was actually in working order, it was almost fun to pick out what you felt like driving that day. There was an actual selection involved.

On bad days, and there were quite a few of these, when some of the heaps weren’t running or there was an influx of people temporarily staying with us who needed some loaner transportation, there was no enjoyable decision-making. I had to drive the station wagon, if I got to drive at all. I had low seniority in the driving pool, and I got what was left. No discussion.

So me and the butt-ugly station wagon spent a lot of time together. And things just never managed to go my way when I was driving the thing. Stuff just happened that didn’t happen to other people.

My first day at my first real job? I was driving the station wagon, natch, which was bad enough, I clearly wouldn’t be impressing any of my new co-workers rattling up in that thing. The place that hired me (David’s, for all my peeps back in Broken Arrow) had just been built, and they were still working on the landscaping, with heavy machinery doing some grading off to one side.

Here comes dorky me, bouncing along in the Brady Bunch relic, just trying to find the employee parking area. Of course, I make a wrong turn and suddenly I’m in the dirt field with the grading machinery. Great. Just then, some scooper thing drives up and snags one of the piles of dirt that are everywhere. The driver then nimbly whips around to head somewhere, just as a fierce gust of wind rips the top third of loose dirt out of his scoop, sending a billowing cloud in my direction.

It’s summer. It’s hot. So of course the windows are down in the station wagon, that’s just how we lived. And my dumb ass is sitting there in the middle of a dirt field with wind, dust, Dorothy and Toto headed my way.

There’s no time to roll up the window, it was manual. All I could do was just sit there and wait. I at least had enough sense to close my eyes as a thick red-brown fog blasted through the station wagon.

When the air finally cleared, I dusted off the rearview mirror and assessed the damage. My hair was completely coated in a gritty layer of dirt, I couldn’t hear very well out of one ear there was so much crud sandblasted into there, and since I had been sweating in the heat, any exposed skin looked like I was really serious about the benefits of mud treatments.

I had 15 minutes to clock in.

I threw the car into drive and finally made it to the damn employee parking lot. I leaped out of the car and started digging in the back for anything to clean this crap off of me. I used whatever I could find: oily rags, crusty beach towels, somebody’s shirt. I basically gave myself a sponge bath without the aid of a sponge. Or water.

With seconds to spare, I took another look in the rearview. Amazingly, it didn’t look that bad. Obviously, something wasn’t right with the hair, but you couldn’t really tell what. I have always had extremely thick hair. Apparently the dirt clods had just worked their way deeper into the hair, making it look even thicker, like maybe I had overdone it with some “body enhancing” conditioner.

Most of the mud was gone from my skin, so I quickly dabbed at the few remaining traces. Apparently, the panicky sweat that was now gushing out of me proved to be of great assistance in helping rinse things off. Nature is a wonderful thing. Fine. This would just have to do.

I scurried around to the front of the building, dashing through the doors along with a few other folks getting in just under the wire. (They looked just as startled and anxious as me. Did they also bathe in the parking lot?) My new supervisor was waiting for us, and after some cordial hand-shaking, he turned to lead us to the employee training room.

I turned to trot after them, bringing up the rear. As we marched along, I happened to glance down, and was mortified to see that with each step I took, little puffs of dirt were exploding outward from my shoes. I hadn’t thought to check THERE. Geez.

As I looked back up to make sure I was still following the others, I made eye contact with one of the new girls in the Jewelry department. She had been fiddling with a display of gold chains, but her concentration had been broken when I waltzed up sporting feet that apparently had their own ecosystem.

She gave a slight jump when she realized that she had been caught staring, but recovered nicely and gave me one of those smiles that polite people make when they realize they are seeing something absurd but don’t want to make anyone feel bad about it.

All I could do was return the smile, probably one with mud between the teeth (hadn’t thought of checking there, either), and just keep walking. Her smile widened a little bit (good, my teeth must not be muddy), and then went back to her work. I caught up with the rest of the new hires, and we slipped inside the training room, the door slamming shut behind us.

Thus began my first hour of life as a paid employee….

And the fun continued, with further laffs and adventures as I drove that horrid car around town. I’ll say this much, my friends at the time were the best. First, they never said anything (directly to me, anyway) about that awful contraption. And second, they were willing to ride in the car with me, despite the ever-present threat of physical danger, or at least severe humiliation, that could happen at any moment. That car was just bad luck.

But one of the most appalling things that occurred with the car took place when I wasn’t even driving it.

I was at the house, and Mom and I were engaged in a very heated exchange of words. I don’t recall the details. Most likely she either did or did not want me to do something, and I was very insistent on the opposite choice. You know how it is when you’re 17. You think you know everything, and that everybody else on the entire planet is incredibly stupid. That sort of thing.

Anyway, the discussion did not end well, and I stomped out of the house, headed off to do or not do whatever it was that I did or did not WANT to do. At that particular time, we had an abundance of operating vehicles, so lately I had been driving this jeep/bronco thing (don’t recall the exact make) that was much nicer than the hated station wagon. I would be driving the jeep on this excursion, thank you very much.

I hopped in and started it up, cussing and muttering under my breath, saying all those really good smart-ass responses you wish you had thought of DURING the argument instead of right after. I threw the transmission into reverse and shot backwards. I really don’t think I was intentionally meaning to go as fast as I did. I was just mad and not paying attention.

That lack of attention changed, though, roughly two seconds later, as I slammed into something hard enough that it rattled my teeth. I sat there for a moment, completely unwilling to turn around and see what I had hit, never mind inspect the damage. But I finally sighed and turned.

I had broadsided the station wagon, dead center on the driver’s side door.

Holy cow. My life just went to hell.

I had enough sense to slowly pull forward, listening to see if I was doing even more damage, like pulling the door off or hitting a nun in the process, who knew what could happen next. There was just some minimal scraping noises, no thudding clangs as the transmission fell out.

I turned off the jeep and went for a closer look, with everything bathed in that weird, surreal light where your mind is still trying to process what has happened.

The back of the jeep actually looked fine, I really couldn’t see any dings or scratches that looked unfamiliar. I might see them when my heart stopped pounding and my vision cleared, but okay so far.

I turned to the station wagon.

The driver’s side door, MY door, was bent into a v-shape, with the middle of the door pushed inward, over half of the distance to the steering wheel. This did not look good, no hiding that with some paint. And of course, the door wouldn’t open. Might be able to jack with it later, but it wasn’t budging right now.

I sighed again. Well, time to deal with this. I now had to go back and talk to Mom, the person I had just yelled at, and explain that I had been in a car crash without even leaving the driveway. Great. Yes, somebody had parked the station wagon where they shouldn’t have, normally there are NO cars where the wagon was now sitting, so that tiny bit was in my favor.

But if I had just looked instead of backing up all hog-wild….. Nope, there was no getting out of this one.

Then it hit me. Why wasn’t anybody coming outside to see if I was okay? Surely they heard that crash. I think Helen Keller heard that crash.

I looked toward the house.

Was she actually WAITING for me to come back in? To make the long march of shame up the sidewalk? Was she standing just inside the door, peering out at me, wearing a secret smile that mothers save for this type of situation, where they have complete control of the playing field and they know it?

Why couldn’t she just come on out? So that I didn’t have to explain. I could just stand there as she walked up, and point at the damage, looking really sad. Maybe cry a little bit.

Complete silence from the direction of the house. No movement whatsoever.

Sigh.

I slowly trudged up the sidewalk, thinking of last-minute escape plans. Who could I call? Did I have enough money for a plane ticket? Did they let you stay in homeless shelters even if you are not theoretically homeless? Maybe the priesthood?

I stopped at the front door, milking the delay as long as possible, then I reached down and turned the knob…

Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series:

http://lageose3.blogspot.com/2010/01/9-running-on-empty-part-ii.html

#7 - Shadows of the Night

Trigger: Chatting online with the other cohort in this story.

Flash:

University of Tulsa. 1984, maybe 1985. Let’s call it the winter of 84-85, because it was cold. Inhumanely cold. Certain death if not adequately protected while outside, that sort of cold.

And I’m on the planning committee for some shindig, a party of sorts. It was probably something being arranged by the Residence Halls Association, because I was an RA that year. If you had the opportunity to go to college and live on campus, you know about these Resident Assistants. We were the fancy hall monitors that tried to keep peace on our respective floors, patrolling the building at night and trying to keep you from killing yourselves by doing something creative but stupid.

Oh, and we had been trained to do CPR. That was a real plus. Never had to do it once.

But hey, you got free room and board if you were an RA. If you ain’t got no money and you’re going to a private school, you do what you gots to do. Sayin. But really, it was an okay gig. 97% of the time I actually enjoyed it. It was only the occasional drunken frat boy, throwing up in the bathroom and yelling racial slurs, that took the shine off the job. Try dealing intelligently with hormonal, over-privileged snots who have lost their mind on tequila. That’s fun.

Anyway, this party thing. I’ve been tagged to do some promotional work so that we get an adequate turnout. I’ve got a promo buddy to help with this particular task. I won’t mention a name, because we eventually did something that night that was not very nice, but I will at least say that my buddy was female. And she was a real pistol. For those of you who survived that year at the University of Tulsa and knew me, I’m sure you can put two and two together.

Our objective that night was to traipse around the campus, putting up flyers and whatnot. I even think that there might have been balloons, a concept that was probably really nifty in the warmth of a toasty meeting room, but verged on the suicidal when considering the howling, frigid winds that were currently sweeping the campus.

Oh, and we were also supposed to write invitations on the sidewalks crossing the campus, using chalk. This was a popular, but also controversial, method of communication at the time. It was a very effective tool, in that people had to walk to all the buildings in order to attend classes, and therefore couldn’t help but see your message.

But there was a growing contingent of outraged people who were offended by this chalk thing. They found it unseemly. You are not supposed to write graffiti on the sidewalk. It’s rude, and when the chalk washes off the sidewalks it will kill the grass and all the trees and the entire planet.

I didn’t really care for the anti-chalk tree-huggers. I’m all about caring for our planet. Go green. But this is CHALK, people. Not Agent Orange. Nothing is going to die because a trace residue of chalk happens to get in the groundwater.

Anyway, me and my cohort are piddling around in the dorm, fiddling with our promotional materials and doing everything we can to delay heading out into the night, because it’s freaking cold. Wind chill factors can kill, not chalk. The campus was not mammoth, but it certainly wasn’t small, and we had little enthusiasm for tramping all over hell in the wind and cold.

About that time, one of the Residence Directors (meaning one of our bosses) wanders out and quickly sizes up the situation. He realizes that we need some motivational assistance or nothing is going to get accomplished. His suggestion? “Take my car.”

Both of us, who are car-less, look up at him with glistening eyes of gratitude. Done!

So then we’re racing outside, just a few steps away from the front doors of the dorm since Mike always had the best parking place, cramming our things into his tiny little whatever kind of car it was. (It was red, that’s all I remember.)

Then we’re off, motoring from one parking lot to another, doing our thing at the various buildings. And it’s okay at first, as it always is when you’re dealing with extreme cold. You don’t really notice the pain right away. But it doesn’t take long before you can’t get warm. At all.

So we’re sitting in the car in one of the parking lots, breathing heavily after dashing back from the last building we decorated with primitive invites, and really not liking life at all. We can’t feel our extremities. We are slowly dying. What to do?

Then the suggestion is made, and I won’t say who dreamed up this brilliant idea, that since Mike’s car is so tiny, it would probably fit on the actual sidewalks leading to the buildings. We could drive right up to the building and do our thing. It was the monotonous schlepping from the parking lots to the buildings that was sucking the life out of us with this insane, chilling wind.

And what do you know. The car DOES fit on the sidewalk. Game on!

After this remarkable discovery, we’re almost enjoying ourselves. Drive right up to the building, hop out for two minutes to slap up some balloons and a poster, and then madly scribble something on the sidewalk. Jump back in the glorious heated car and head to our next destination.

We are warriors of promotion. Nothing can stop us now.

But something does. We are actually almost done with our mission, just a few stops left, when something unsavory enters the picture.

Cue the theme music from “Jaws”.

Now, I don’t know if they still have these things, but back in our collegiate day the campus security people drove these little golf-cart-looking contraptions as they patrolled the grounds. Cushman carts. Little motorized annoyances that could spring on you at any moment. You did not want to hear the irritating whine they make as you were staggering back from a frat party, since 75% of the students on campus could not legally drink, even though everyone did.

And you certainly did not want to hear that whine when operating a motor vehicle on the sidewalks of a college campus, a place where an automobile clearly should not be.

But we WERE hearing the whine, quickly buzzing in our direction from the west.

Oh boy.

My cohort and I looked at each other. What to do? Well, it was clear what we needed to do. Get the hell out of there before Barney Fife in his go-cart could catch up to us.

At that particular moment, we had just turned onto the sidewalk that led down Fraternity Row. This is a very long sidewalk, with all of the frat houses lined up along the north side. We were nowhere near an actual legal road. The only thing we could do was get to the end of this sidewalk, which terminated at one of the streets bordering the campus.

I floored it.

We are zooming down this sidewalk, with confused and plastered frat boys scurrying to get out of our way as we barreled along. A quick check in the rearview mirror reveals that the Cushman Cart is having trouble keeping up. Great. We just have to get back on the street at the end of the sidewalk and zip away into the night.

What Thelma and Louise have failed to remember is that halfway down this long sidewalk, there is a significant drop in the sidewalk, with stairs leading down to the lower level. The remembrance of this fact comes far too late to stop the speeding vehicle.

Within seconds, we are airborne, with both of us screaming.

Then we slam to earth, sparks flying in all directions. I realize immediately that the frame on this vehicle will never be the same. Well, too late for Plan B. We get to the end of the sidewalk, bounce down the curb, and race away, headed back to the dorm.

Once there, we pile out of the car and thunder inside, throwing the keys at a slightly confused Mike. He wants to know how it went. Great, we say. Best time ever. Then we run around a corner and hide, waiting to see what happens, peeking out every now and then.

A few minutes later, the Cushman Cart rolls into the parking lot and stops behind Mike’s car.

Mike walks to the front door, peers out, assesses the situation, then immediately stomps in our direction. We gulp and prepare for the worst, various alibis flitting through our minds.

“What’s going on? Why is the Cushman Cart Man looking at my license plate?”

We quickly launch into our defense. It was so cold. Oh my God it was so cold. And we were just trying to keep warm. And we were driving on the sidewalks to get closer to the buildings. That’s all we were doing. We didn’t mean any harm. Did we mention that it was cold? We could have died. And it was SO cold-”

Mike holds up his hand. Stop. I’m fully aware that something else happened, because you both look like rabbits after electro-shock therapy, but we’ll focus on the cold, okay?

We both nod our heads vigorously.

“Now, I’m going to go talk to this man. But I’m going to talk to both of YOU, tomorrow. Now go away.”

And he marches off to deal with Barney.

My cohort and I look at each other.

“We need alcohol.”

“Indeed we do..”

“Let’s go.”

And we scamper away into the night…

#6 - Boys of Summer

Trigger: Kids playing with a garden hose down the street, in this gawd awful Texas heat.

Flash:

In the 70's, my mom and stepdad were best friends with a couple that somehow managed to get ownership of this big chunk of land east of Broken Arrow, OK. I know those folks didn't have a lot of money, so how they pulled it off was a big mystery. (This parcel of land is located on the same road I babbled about in Post #3).

Anyway, however they got it, they had it. Maybe they got a good deal, since it was a few years before Broken Arrow exploded into the fastest-growing school district in the state in the 80's. And it wasn't really prime property, being outside the city limits, and most of the spread consisted of scrubby "nothing worthwhile is going to grow here" patches, and a few trees.

So, Barb and Larry (loved Barb, hated Larry, he was a total bastard) dragged in a mobile home and set up camp. One redeeming feature of this land was a pond just about smack in the middle of the property. As long as we weren't in the middle of a drought (which happens every other day in Oklahoma), this thing was pretty plush.

Somebody wrangled a paddle boat from somewhere, and us kids would spend hours on that thing, going nowhere on the pond, just circles, but enjoying the journey anyway. When you're twelve, your imagination is still strong. Everything is full of promise, and dreams. It's only later, when reality and responsibility have beaten you down, that you forget how to live.

But the real prize, the jewel, was located at the far east end of the property. Back there, the property tumbled into an area that we called "the strip pits". Somebody, at some time, had surface-mined for something or other. Which resulted in these narrow (maybe 20-feet wide?) but very deep grooves in the earth. And these grooves were filled with water.

Perfect for swimming. Nirvana, in fact. No maintenance. Nature took care of it. The water was always there, inviting you in.

In current days, of course, we realize that swimming in such a thing is probably not in our best interest. Who knows what kind of metals or whatever were mined out of those trenches. Probably something we shouldn't be in contact with. The water was always intriguingly murky, never clear, this constant shade of dirty green-brown.

And the fish? Yes, there were fish, so it wasn't completely poisonous, but these were some fairly vicious fish. They would swim up and nibble on you if you stayed still, so you learned to always be active. For a kid, this was not a problem. For the slower adults, there would often be cries of surpise.

But those slower adults also built stairs down the side of the trench to water level, and constructed a big-ass floating dock on the water for everyone to flop down on when they needed a break from splashing around in the water and escaping the carniverous fish.

And the piece de resistance? The adults hacked away all the overgrowth leading to the highest point on the cliffside, a spot that was powerful and scary and thrilling. From this vantage, you could leap forward, and then plummet 30 feet into the murky waters. It was terrifying the first time, you might even quietly wet yourself. But after that? Perfect, total, release.

And that's what's missing in my life today.

Where is the faith in the jump? Where is the trust in the jump? Where IS the jump?

Where?

#5 - Sunglasses At Night

Trigger: Random memory while searching for old friends on Facebook

Flash:

We were out of high school, that much is certain, with all of us off to our various colleges doing whatever. But the exact timing and date is fuzzy, not sure why. Seems like it might have been summer between freshman and sophomore college years, but just guessing.

Anyway, several of my high school friends got together one night. And again, the actual tally of who was in this group is blurry. I'm certain Erika L. was there, and it may have even been her car, or at least somebody's car that she was driving.

Really odd to me that I don't clearly remember the participants, but one event on that night is crystal. Wonder what that's all about?

So we all pile into the car, and for whatever reason we head back to the old stomping grounds around Broken Arrow Senior High. Don't recall if we drove to that area on purpose, or if we were just joy-riding and somebody said "hey, let's hit the high school drag".

We pull up to the intersection of Main and College. This is a major crossroads, in a way, though more symbolic than actual. Main St is, of course, Main St. Back in the day, this was the main thoroughfare, but that was YEARS ago, way before our high school days. Even then it was nothing more than a quaint reminder of times gone by. The focus of the city had long since shifted elsewhere. But still, significant in a way.

And then there's College St. This section of that road led smack into the back of Broken Arrow Senior High. The campus used to be an actual college decades ago, but had been the high school campus for a long time.

So we were at ground zero for our memories of both the high school and the town.

And I happen to glance over and see that one of the Main/College street sign toppers is laying on the ground instead of on the pole. What the hell? What happened with that? And then I get the idea.

"Let's take that street sign."

Immediate cries of approval, therefore indicating that drinking was most likely involved. The driver zips up to said fallen signage, and we initiate Operation Grab and Run.

Now, one thing you may not know about sign toppers: They are much bigger than you think they are.

So I throw open the door, reach down to grab the booty, and quickly realize: I can't get it into the car. It's too big. And it's freakin heavy.

I understand that I explained above that this was no longer a major conduit in the town of Broken Arrow. But it wasn't exactly tumbleweeds and nothingness, either. There was still plenty of activity. For an example, activity that might involve curious police officers.

"Just GO!" I scream out, clutching and sweating.

The driver floors it and we race down the street, my ass is hanging out the door, doing my best to keep the sign metal from scraping the pavement and sending sparks flying, but not always succeeding in that mission. (Did I mention it was heavy?)

Somebody was holding on to me. Not sure. What I do know is that our own Mario Andretti was hitting every damn pothole she could. It's amazing I didn't lose any teeth.

Then, suddenly, Mario is taking a corner on two-wheels, tires squealing. We shoot down a side street, run over something, another swerve, and we come to a jolting stop.

I look up, still clinging to the contraband.

We are in the parking lot of the oldest Methodist church in town.

Great. Nothing like committing a sin and then driving straight to God for the consequences. Thanks, Mario. Love ya.

So I fall out of the car, lug the sign around to the back of the car, and we heave it into the trunk, where it miraculously fits. (Well, duh, we're at a church.) Then we scramble back into the car and race way into the night.

I have no idea who ended up with that sign. I'm hoping that whoever it was still has it, and still remembers.

And can tell me who was in the car that night....

#4 - Sixteen Candles

Trigger: Reviewing the previous post.

Flash:

1981 again. This time, it's the day OF my 16th birthday. I don't have my official driver's license yet, but I'm going to take the test after school. The excitement is pulsing through my body.

Of course, I've had my learner's permit for a while. But the actual learning has been... a bit lacking, at least from an official standpoint. I had already taken the requisite semester of Driver's Ed in school, but that was basically a joke. This was the one elective class that EVERY student opted for, so the classes were always packed. I believe there were 50 people in ours.

The class was "taught" by two coaches. Each day, each coach would take 3 students out to practice driving an actual car, and the remaining 44 students would sit around and pretend to read driving manuals and learn the info needed to pass the written driving exam. Nobody actually did anything. It was recess, you just had to sit at your desk.

So with the mathematics involved in that arrangement, I only actually got to drive 3 times. The first time, it was me and two of the biggest jocks on campus. So they talked shop with the coach, and I was basically on my own. I don't think the coach said more than two words to me. I just drove around until time was up.

The two subsequent times were a little better, had some non-athletes with me, so the coach managed to acknowledge my presence. But he was drunk both times. This was a football town, and coaches were gods, so he could do whatever he wanted.

And therein lies my official training. A total of 50 minutes of actual road time, jocks talking shop, and drunkenness. I'm sure the insurance companies would be thrilled to know about that.

My REAL training took place on the country roads way outside of town. That wasn't necessarily a good thing (see previous post), but at least I got a little bit of experience.

So the sacred day arrives wherein I can become a licensed driver, a pivotal, milestone moment. As mentioned, pulsating excitement. I mean, this is big, dreamed about for years. But first I've got to get through the day, slog through all my classes.

Most of the school day is a blur, but one thing remains clear for some odd reason. We're sitting in Advanced Biology, and the teacher, Mr. Armstrong, is discussing his recent bout with food poisoning, the result of a visit to a new sandwich chain in town, Schlotzky's. Because of his knowledge base, he can describe exactly what happens to the physical body in such a scenario, the buildup that leads to eventual vomiting. And he goes into detail.

Slightly repulsed, oddly fascinated, generally over it, I get through it. Just before the hour is over, one of my lab buddies turns to me and asks, "So how does it feel? Being sixteen?"

I pause, and then I'm honest. "It feels the same. I was really expecting SOMETHING to happen. But I really don't feel anything. It's weird." He looks at me a little distrustfully, but doesn't say anything. In the future, on his birthday, he will fess up to the same thing. Where was the magical something that you should feel?

I shouldn't have hoped for "something" to happen. Because it did. Just not in a good way.

I finally get through the day. Time for the driving test. My step-dad picks me up for the journey to the DMV, which only heightens my nervousness, due to our very strained relationship. So much drama with him, real and imagined. Mostly real.

We get there, and the place is swarming as we get in line. It seems every two minutes someone is racing in from the driving area, clutching the prize of legality. I just try to breathe.

Finally, it's my turn. I'm assigned to an officer and we march outside to step-dad's vehicle. There has to be an inspection of the car, something I hadn't realized. I'm so used to beer cans rolling around in his car that I didn't notice them on the drive over. But I certainly notice them when they spill out of the car as the officer checks the turn signals. Miraculously, he doesn't say a thing about that. Then he walks around behind the car.

"We've got a problem," he says, scribbling something on his clipboard that has an air of finality. Dread builds. "Your license plate is expired. Can't take a test in this thing." And then he just marches inside, done. Nothing to him. Everything to me. This is MY day. And it's been taken away.

We stand there a minute, me and the one who has never considered me more than baggage in his marriage to my mother, looking at each other. I don't want to give it to him, but I think there is the tiniest spark of concern in his eyes, and a little smidge of shame. But it might just be the beer.

"I'll fix this, we can come back," he says.

"Okay," I say. Not what I WANT to say, but it's all that I'm allowed. And then I open the passenger door and climb in. Instead of the driver's side, where I should be on this day.

And so it goes.

#3 - Drive

Trigger: Driving home from work and taking a corner WAY too fast

Flash:

1981. Finally had my coveted driver's license. We lived "somewhat" out in the country. The major roads were paved, but everything else was dirt or gravel. But since there was usually no one else on these roads at the same time as you were, you could get away with some creative driving. Do what you want, just don't hit a cow. And that was a muse a 16-year-old could not ignore.

There were lots of crazy-ass roads that didn't follow the dictates of "normal" street-planning. One of the more interesting of these was 209th St, which I think was also called Evans Road, but I may be mixing my memories. This thing ran straight and true in some places, but in other sections the damn thing swerved all over the place, probably just to avoid trees. And I think it was graded once by some drunk county road worker, then left on its own.

But again, with the being-16 thing, this road was a thrilling challenge. I'm meandering down this road one day, just driving around because there wasn't anything else to do, and I realize there's this one section of dirt road with a really steep drop. There's potential here. I turn around, go back over the crest and a take another run, faster this time. And the car actually leaves the ground for a second or two.

Oh my gawd. I've discovered a new toy.

So I race home and get on the horn with my peeps. I'm totally stoked, we have GOT to max this thing out. What else is there to do in this hick town?

A few days later, the fates congeal, and I'm in the family Bronco with some of my peeps, who all happen to be girls, natch, I'm a sensitive gay guy with issues. We're all almost squealing with excitement, because that's how we rolled, we would pick out something mundane and pump it up to mean something far more than it should matter. This is how you get through the dry, dusty hell of living in the sticks.

I'm barrelling down Evans Road. The Bronco is careening all over the place. We can't see squat because there's no such thing as street lights out here in the cultural desert. Nothing but the Bronco headlights, briefly illuminating wildlife as they scamper from the road.

We're zooming toward the drop in the road. I actually floor it, years before Thelma and Louise thought they were being original with this thought process. We cross the point of no return and that damn Bronco hurtles toward the sky. This is NASA, people, we are in the air for what seems like minutes.

We finally crash to the earth. Things are flying around the car, screams echo across the cow pastures, at least one person has a small orgasm. I somehow manage to keep the Bronco from flipping and killing us all.

We were total idiots.

We could have died.

But instead we lived. In so many ways. And when you compare it to our current life in the cubicle farms with those endless, meaningless emails? Sure would like to be back on Evans Road, flooring it and innocent. With my peeps...

#2 - Papa, Can You Hear Me?

Trigger: Running across a picture of Becca W online, a good friend from my University of Tulsa days

Flash:

Barbra Streisand's movie "Yentl" was about to be released. Becca was so excited she was on the verge of squealing. She loved Barbra. Loved music. (She was a Music major, if memory serves, as well as a Business major. That girl was busy.) She nearly killed us on the manic drive to the theater.

The movie starts. Immediately, Becca is transported. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it myself, but to watch Becca watching the movie was the true thrill. This movie was speaking to her in a way that I couldn't quite grasp. Another plane entirely.

And we sat through it again. Excited to do so. This time, Becca basically had the entire score down, and was singing along. Softly, discreetly, only belting on a few lines. Perfect pitch. There is something truly sublime about being with someone who is having an experience that is deeply meaningful to them, that moves them. You are close to their soul, their heart, a privileged chance to look into a sacred window. So you respect, and admire, and stand quietly by, supportive. This is not about you. In any way. And it's beautiful.

So I'm taking this all in, and I'm also thinking of a recent mini-scandal at the University. Involving me. A few folks with hate in their veins had tried to pin the "gay" tag on me. In the early 80's, in Tulsa, even at a university with supposedly more progressive minds, you cannot survive with this tag. Especially when it's true.

But Becca went out of her way to tell people that there wasn't anything gay about me as far as she was concerned, even though I'm sure her instincts told her otherwise. Which was the strongest support you could give someone at that time, back when the witch-hunts were so real, before Matthew Shepard opened some eyes. All you could do was lie, and therefore protect, if you were strong enough. Becca was.

So, Becca, I did hear you. And thank you.