Visions of Presage

What if the Hokey Pokey really is ‘what it’s all about’?

Enter the bane of my existence.

My steering wheel has bumps on it. ‘Hand grips’ I suppose they might be called. I count them with my fingertips while I drive. One, two, three…I turn the corner and loose count. Start again, one, two…thoughts drift. I outline the image of Scooby Doo with the numb pads of my fingers, next to the bumps. His tail is the most fun. Clutch, brake, gas, clutch, brake, gas…

I turn off the paved rode. Redneck country. My wheels kiss the gravel, send vibrations up my body and out my hands, massaging Scooby’s flesh. I stop in the middle of a one lane rode and lay my forehead down, trying to cool the blush of my cheeks, and make the redness disappear. My left leg absently pushes the clutch in and out, in and out on its own. Waiting for my brain to give the signal that it’s a go…to step on the gas. Shift. 1st gear. Gravel and rubber make love again, and I’m closer.

I’ve been here, I’m sure of it. Why? When? Why did I need directions again? Maybe it’s been a long time. White? Was the house white when I was here last? Gray maybe, neutral at least, I’m sure of it. I think. Park it, just do it. Don’t stare at reverse. Push the brake. Stop.

It’s so quiet. My mind races, Scooby’s laughing. Must be thinking…how pathetic. I slip my shoes back on, I hate them while I drive. My feet cold from the pedals. Tingling from the vibrations. Lean back to close my eyes. When I open them, let me be back to morality. Let me be back to innocence. I’m not. I’m still here, in the choice I’ve made. Was it this hot before? Or was it Winter? No, I don’t remember snow. I remember stereotype. I remember a barn…no, not like a red one. Maybe more like a farm house. Grass. Dead cars in the grass. Were there farm kittens? No…that was in Darwin, big ball of twine…largest in the world. Resembles Darwin though…am I in Darwin? I could be in Darwin. No…I’m here…on the verge of what I remember being ecstasy, heavenly slights of touches…but maybe just a fantasy to escape reality.

Are these feelings for real???

Dead cars…dead car parts. Organs, ripped out, ready for transplants. Guts. Legs…oh my God there are legs in front of one of the cadavers. It’s being worked on. It’s true. The picture in my mind (was it really a memory?) is full force…Farm house, dead car parts. Someone working on a car, half full beer beside them, wife beater…torn jeans. Do I honk? Do I get out? Stop staring at reverse…I can do this. Sleep in the bed I’ve made.

Or damnit…never sleep again.

(To be continued, someday)