Ian Anderson 4 p.m., June 21
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- Farelee for Love
Sudor & Seratonin
"Oh please, god, please...let me make it home.....please...."
I'm sweating more bullets than a dictionary is filled with a writer's idioms.
I've been on "E" since that damned city, and now on the freeway, i'm racing home...
Racing my heartbeat, who I am sure is winning.
Pleading with magic and toying with words to god to perchance lend me a grace of making it home.
If he can make the menorah last 8 days, surely getting me home on an empty gas tank is't too far of a stretch?
I make it up the hill of the 52...
Lip firmly bitten, stomach forming a solid wall of tightened muscle.
And I really need to urinate. Before that interview, even before that lunch, i had to go. And didn't.
Down the 52, across the bridge to the 125, going 76 miles per hour which is fast.
Passing a police cocked halfway out of his door, holding a speed gun in his face.
"I never go this fast, I need to pee, and I'm on less than E...go figure he'd choose me of all these quick speeded motorists."
So for the next 3 or so miles, my gut is wrenched, i'm dripping sweat but let's not talk about fluid because i really need to pee.
Crooked eyed, i continue to drive.
One eye on the road, one behind my shoulder, which is a helluva trick, had I never seen the circus.
"come on, car...make it home, you can do this..pleeaaasseee make it home..."
Driving at a steadfast speed, over the last big bridge before the final stretch...
put. put. put.
"Get over to the right lane, slap this monster into neutral, let's what we can do..."
Beating my foot against the gas pedal I try to restart.
It shakes my bladder more than unpleasantly.
Nope. No such drips of gas in my tank.
So I cruise with hazards on, as far as I can make it.
One exit before my own.
"Really...??!? All I wanted was to make it home. Not like i'm asking for 8 days of light!.."
I almost cry.
Then I see a construction worker in his car, parked behind me not too far off.
There's a green piss-box behind his car.
Yeah, it's that bad.
I have to pee that. bad.
I take a little walk,
"Hey! Would you mind letting me use your phone..once you're not on it?"
He said sure, so I smiled and went into that damn green box and strategized my pee.
You can't just go in one of these things. It must be planned, methodized, structured.
I plant my feet, a steady shoulder-width apart, pull down my slacks, and get a damn good leg workout hovering over the pot like that.
Then i fall.
I phucking fell.
Put my hand down to catch myself from falling into the urinal.
But my hand lands in something wet.
This is the shit writers hope for.
Something nasty to occur in a real life's day.
Inspiration to make readers sympathize and emotionalize the way I had to immediately compartmentalize my overwhelmed hypothalamus and get off with my pee.
Which took about 3 minutes.
After all this, I can't say I'm relieved. My hand is wet with something and I can only imagine it's not water.
I used the same hand, my right one, to use this poor fella's phone to dial my mom.
ring ring ring
-"Hey mom, can you help me?"
-"I ran out of gas and my car is stuck."
"Are you kidding me?"
-"Yes, mom. This is a joke."
"Where are you?"
I gave her my coordinates. One exit before ours.
My overwhelmed body sits in the sunlight, waiting for my rescuer to arrive. I doze off a couple times, which is nice.
My throbbing cerebral cortex is chasing pains like hares.
Amygdala is flooded with neurotoxin.
But on the bright side,
I had a hell of a day.
More like this:
- K — Feb. 19, 2012
- Musical Caravan — Feb. 19, 2012
- Oh my Lord, please bring my heart back close to me before my lungs hit their thresh hold and capacity of no air or oxygen and I sorely do miss him with every fiber cracked of a parched, dry body needing his saliva to moisten the life back again. — Feb. 19, 2012
- Signed the Lease — May 27, 2011
- Phil Corless in Idaho — Sept. 1, 2005