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Sunday, May 9, 2010

Memory Laine Also Open to Thru Traffic

Attempting to get this memory treasure business started, and in the Spirit of Summer Break beginning I find it appropriate to discuss a very special time in all of our lives. You probably know it as:


An 11 hour drive from a quiet, hot damp town in Tennessee, the 5 crammed into the smallest possible car anyone one of us could have owned at the time. A very interesting trip in the case of our special ratio of 4 bored chain smokers to one small courageous panther-eagle. Although the hours passed slowly, not one of them had thought to complain. As many times as the idea to pick up thump-wielding, denim clad, long-haired, silky-voiced 'hikers entered their pathetic and perverted little plans, it was met with a little thing called reality. I say "thing" because there is really not much known about it, just the rumors of people that no one within the confines this story would possibly give the time of day. Which is good, if of course what we are talking about is a vacation right?...

Anyhow, the roads fly by, the wind rips the ash right in view of the breath of the merchant. A former captain himself, he is also the owner of the barely-sedan, sitting in the navigator's chair. Not noticing it's path otherwise, the ash takes on it's duty, drawing out a path of corkscrews within the vessel before resting itself between certain strands of hair of a fellow deckhand. Or maybe those strands are of the seat cushions. It would matter on the time you are to note such a seemingly insignificant event. The real event is not found in these alone. On with the 5th, 6th... and halfway through a 7th round of cigarettes, and the car and it's passengers come to their first stop of the day.

Without a clerk at the table, anyone would have thought the some thing. At least I cannot fathom a person that dumb. "It's not like we didn't try..." That phrase had resonance for too many of them for too many reasons already. Within a few moments, any such thoughts had folded to the back of their heads, combed back easily along the brown-gray, ash-filled nests they made, still wet from the noontime sun. Call it the luck that was long due that ugly crew, but the thinness of their wallets would not restrict them so far. Doubloons nor dollars would help them where they really needed it, but goddamn it if a belly full of cheezy puffs and few cold brews didn't hit the spot.

With some-odd hours, twice as many cigarette packages, and probably three too many miles seen by the young champions' chariot, the daylight became slightly more annoying. "Not one of us checked for a spare tire... This was supposed to be a 400-mile trip!" An anger rose up out of nothing. Where there once was paradise painted on the horizon is now a streak of colors not smudged by water or sand or even fun but by greasy cut hands lifting up the remnants of the car's favorite rubber shoe. "How do you know it was her favorite?" Alas, the panther rises from it's slumber. Although a panther should be feared, his prowl was not one to take notice of. In fact, this summer's hibernation was not even broken by the convenience store looting. Still lost in the world of ultimate hopesville, his thoughts had not shied away from the perfect lady-cop rescue-vixen the moment the vacation shuddered onto the shoulder of the highway. "I said it was MY favorite dumbass! I just put this on for the trip. I figured he actually replaced this kinda stuff! " the captain's old man was actually a collector of sorts. Stamps, buterflies, yeah those are nice to look at once, but hot rods are a whole different story. I guess the white walls don't particularly grant more durability after so many years.


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