It was about one month ago that I joined the illustrious fraternity of men who purchase large, used vehicles for the purpose of crossing state borders. Somehow not having a criminal past does not make this distinction any more palatable. Even if I'm not hauling some large quantity of contraband or an ex-lover's offspring, it still feels morally ambiguous. The climate changes, so too the surrounding license plates and signage and accents attached to diner waitresses and gas station attendants. It is America, and I'm driving through it with all my belongings blocking the rearview with some great promise of Something Better Out There. Do it at eighteen or twenty-two and the sugar plums of personal freedom and manifest destiny dance in your head. Do it north of thirty and everyone's thoughts inexorably focus on just what lies behind and why you are rushing so rapidly from it.
I'm reading into that, perhaps not too much, and it's all academic by this point anyhow. In the end, or at least this particular interpretation of the end, it does not matter how many pieces of auspicious idols I have lined on the dashboard or quixotic dreams adorning the shelves in my head. What matters are pistons and fuel lines, healthy tires and clean exhaust and an attention span clear enough to make it to the next exit. All it takes is one flash of that Check Engine light on the Memorial Bridge and the next thing I know I'm pushing my life's greatest monetary investment in neutral to Alligator River National Park with the assistance of a great girl and a few kind sheriffs.
Ever questioned a life's decision? Sympathize with me as I tell you about meeting mechanics with southern accents explaining the costs attendant to the new motor I just bought, for its purchase and installation. Imagine my reaction as they tell me it may arrive the following day; watch my face contort as they tell me it could possibly be ready the following day if they have enough time to finish. Feel my heart beat as I realize that that time necessary to have it ready comes in the form of billable hours with the to whom these hours are billable unmistakeably clear.
I made a major life decision and it did not go well. I failed. I was wrong. I had some money to begin with, plenty of confidence to spare, and now find myself in off-season coastal Carolina watching myself fall in arrears by both measures. I'm reasonably confident The Gray Lady will be road worthy once I sign that fairly considerable credit card receipt. I'm less optimistic this will be the last issue in Dixie, but more than willing to let her prove me wrong.
Still I'm not shaken by The Decision. It was time to go and nothing has felt so right in a long time. Part of that is the promise of what lies ahead, however eventual that may be. There still remains the allure of nights with cold drinks and hot jazz and the promise of having my mind blown by some Strange Happenings in Cajun territory. I'm also buffeted by the kindness of strangers, be they sheriffs or tow truck drivers or kind strangers leaping out on highways to help a guy pushing a 1971 VW bus on a windy bridge. Still, if I'm completely honest, it has a lot less to do with transportation and a whole lot more to do with that great girl.
I'm reading into that, perhaps not too much, and it's all academic by this point anyhow. In the end, or at least this particular interpretation of the end, it does not matter how many pieces of auspicious idols I have lined on the dashboard or quixotic dreams adorning the shelves in my head. What matters are pistons and fuel lines, healthy tires and clean exhaust and an attention span clear enough to make it to the next exit. All it takes is one flash of that Check Engine light on the Memorial Bridge and the next thing I know I'm pushing my life's greatest monetary investment in neutral to Alligator River National Park with the assistance of a great girl and a few kind sheriffs.
Ever questioned a life's decision? Sympathize with me as I tell you about meeting mechanics with southern accents explaining the costs attendant to the new motor I just bought, for its purchase and installation. Imagine my reaction as they tell me it may arrive the following day; watch my face contort as they tell me it could possibly be ready the following day if they have enough time to finish. Feel my heart beat as I realize that that time necessary to have it ready comes in the form of billable hours with the to whom these hours are billable unmistakeably clear.
I made a major life decision and it did not go well. I failed. I was wrong. I had some money to begin with, plenty of confidence to spare, and now find myself in off-season coastal Carolina watching myself fall in arrears by both measures. I'm reasonably confident The Gray Lady will be road worthy once I sign that fairly considerable credit card receipt. I'm less optimistic this will be the last issue in Dixie, but more than willing to let her prove me wrong.
Still I'm not shaken by The Decision. It was time to go and nothing has felt so right in a long time. Part of that is the promise of what lies ahead, however eventual that may be. There still remains the allure of nights with cold drinks and hot jazz and the promise of having my mind blown by some Strange Happenings in Cajun territory. I'm also buffeted by the kindness of strangers, be they sheriffs or tow truck drivers or kind strangers leaping out on highways to help a guy pushing a 1971 VW bus on a windy bridge. Still, if I'm completely honest, it has a lot less to do with transportation and a whole lot more to do with that great girl.
Johnola! You rule. That's all.
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