1995feb17. Route 66 Fiasco (part 4 of 4).
Yes, I’ve been a bit lax in serving up this latest fine missive. Please understand, the holidays always take a while to get used to. For instance, you may be receiving holiday-type cards from me (if you’re one of those people on the list that actually knows me apart from these strange words appearing on your screen and the ever-popular X Magazine, which will not be talked about at all in this missive, ain’t life grand?) within the next month, and I think you’re going to like them. They’re satin, they’re lace ... they’re beautiful.
Lucky takes a dive in
the first round: The Routed 66 trip.
[Note: This factual account of the Route 66 road trip contains references to gunplay and is recommended for mature audiences. It also has the word “bastard” in it.]
If you’ve been paying attention to previous missives, you may have seen more-than-passing references to the highly touted X Magazine staff car Christmas exchange, an event which went horribly awry and left the celebrants in odd state of shock and disbelief. To wit: it threw a rod in Bloomington, Illinois. The car drove like a champ all the way to Michigan City, Indiana, the hand-off was made, Doc (looking resplendent in his Santa suit and Bono “fly” sunglasses) and Burford (playing the part of “elf,” phoning major airports trying to arrange a pick-up of the rest of his costume on the way) drove off on a foggy night with the heater cranked, ready for adventure. When they stopped for the night, they were refused lodging at a Famous National Low-Cost Hotel Chain Thing (1:00am: “Ummmm ... we have a BIG PARTY coming in tonight, don’t we?” “Yeah, YEAH!”) but were accepted at the Days Inn (“Where America Shops/Works/Eats/Sleeps”). The next morning, the car ran funny (that is, funnier than a car with the top cut off and Little People frescos on it could run) for awhile and then left a 300 yard oil slick behind it while putting several holes in the oil pan. Reports are sketchy at this point (The Drop-Off Crew, including the author, were secure in Chicago proper during this fracas, put up by Liz) but apparently shots were fired at Lucky; the elf was packing heat. Six holes in Lucky’s head (all responsibly placed within a small distance of each other) finished the bastard off for good. The rest of the Drop-Off Crew went to retrieve our stranded heroes (and the bran’ spankin’ new battery!), while I took a train home, physically exhausted from a strict regimen of being mysteriously, continuously ill. Sure, I left out a lot of details, but I wasn’t there, I was trying to sleep while listening to my seatmates, the only people talking in that car; a thirty-seven year-old dad and his eight-year old son. It has nothing to do with X, or anything, for that matter, that’s why I’m sharing, with you, some of their precious conversation, which got more interesting as dad slugged down a great number of beers (Yes, the diner car serves alcoholic beverages ["Who’s your Bud? I AM, DAMMIT!”] to qualified customers, who can then take it back to their seat and pass it to anyone they damn well please; in this case, however, our hero drank alone):
“Remember when mommy crashed the white car?”
“Yup.”
“Remember when mommy crashed the brown car?”
“Yup.”
“Remember when mommy crashed the other white car?”
“Yup. Did you ever crash a car?”
“I got a dent in my truck, but that was even before I met your mommy.”
[later]
“Now, all you have to do is, tell the judge that you want to live with me.”
“That’s all?”
“Yup, and then I won’t have to pick you up and you won’t have to ride on the train!”
[much later]
“So we'll go pick out a new truck. What do you like?”
“The big one ... ”
“Yep ... as soon as I get my license back, we'll go right in. Five years, boy, have I been waiting.”
For the rest of the story, go to Deuce of Clubs: Wagnernugen.
