Wherever
the Impala was, it wasn’t here. I
figured that it was either A) still parked in front of the Barking Spider, or
B) at whatever airport we had flown out of, or C) someplace else. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down unless it
was at “B” or “C”. But that didn’t help me now. We needed some wheels.
Simon
could actually help in this respect, which is one reason why I bring him along
on these things. He doesn’t know
anything important about cars – like
which ones are cool, which ones are chick bait, etc. – but he
does know some of the useful boring things; like how ignition systems work. That knowledge comes in pretty handy when you
need to do things like hot-wiring.
He also
knew how to open locked doors, but hell, I can do that. Only difference is that he picks the lock
while I just throw a brick through the window.
Sure, my way gets glass all over the seats, but it’s a lot faster. Since he was along though, I figured I’d let
him do it his way. It’d give him a sense
of worth and none of us would ruin our pants.
“How
about that one?” I said, pointing to an
older (but cherry) Corvette. “I’ve
always wanted a ’68. Chrome bumpers,
Candy Apple Red, and just look at that rear end. Bet we can score some real skank with that.”
Simon
sucked his teeth in an exasperated way, which meant that he was getting ready
to correct me on something. This usually
pisses me off and I’ve been known to pop him one in the jaw when he did it, but
with my hands full with Jimmy and my bag, he probably figured he was safe.
“It’s
not a ’68, Dick, it’s a 1970,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The differences are ridiculously easy to
spot.”
“Really.”
“Yes,
really. I could maybe understand someone
not noticing the squared exhaust ports or front parking lights, but you’d have
to be blind not to see the egg-crate
side vents or wheel flares behind all four tires. None of which were available in either ’68 or
‘69.”
“Do
tell.”
“And GM
has never offered Candy Apple Red as
a stock color option for Corvettes – certainly not for the C3’s anyway. This would be Monza Red, unless it’s been
repainted. And judging from the big
block hood, this particular car has the optional 390 horse 454 with a 4-speed
transmission and 10.25:1 compression ratio.”
“Well. Alright,”
I said. “Is that good?”
“Depends
on your definition of ‘good’. If it’s to
go really, really fast and burn a shitload of hi-octane gasoline, then yes,
it’s good.”
“Coolness,” I said nodding. “Let’s go then.”
“Uh,
Dick,” Simon said, “There are three of
us, and one of us happens to be taped to a surfboard. How do you expect us to all fit in this car?”
Just
like Simon to ruin everything with realism.
I
debated for a moment about just how much I really needed Jimmy along, but in
the end, decided I couldn’t leave him. He’d
never figure out how to get out of the parking garage.
“Alright,
well, let’s find something else then,” I
said, none too happy at having to pass up the ‘vette.
In the
end, we narrowed it down to two potential vehicles; a Plymouth Voyager (Simon’s
choice) or one of those new turbo Porsche SUV’s (my choice). Simon droned on endlessly about all of the
logical merits of the minivan; plenty of room for all of us and our stuff,
built-in cup holders and child safety seat, blah, blah, blah. I countered with the logical merits of the
450 HP Porsche, like having plenty of room for all of us and our stuff, scoring
chicks, and having the ability to go 160 mph up a steep mountain path, should
that ever be necessary.
In the end,
I got tired of arguing with him and just settled it by throwing a brick through
the window of the Porsche.
Simon
wasn’t happy about it, but he set about sweeping the shattered glass off of the
seat and getting the thing started anyway.
I
shoehorned Jimmy into the back and placated Simon by telling him that we were
doing the right thing. Whoever owned the
minivan probably had a lot of kids and a single income; taking their van would
be devastating. Not having any children
or a single income himself, this seemed to really strike home with Simon.
As for
the owner of the Porsche, well, come on, it’s a Porsche.
The
handling of our newly acquired off road vehicle was a little squirrelly and
took me a while to get used to. On the
way down the spiral exit ramp, the rear end got away from me and I left some
paint on the wall. Then, after paying
our parking fee, I shot off the line too fast and grazed the barrier arm at the
ticket booth before it got all the way up.
Good thing it wasn’t my car or I would have been pissed.
After
misreading the traffic signs and circling the airport three times, I decided to
take matters into my own hands and just drive over the medians and embankments
in the general direction I wanted to go.
I’ll say this: although I sincerely doubt that any other Porsche SUV
will ever have its tires actually touch dirt, they can rip up some sod if you
need them too.
We
headed up to Winter Land. Where I live. At least I think that’s where I live. Hard to tell sometimes. Everything down here is called Winter Something. Winter Springs, Winter Haven, Winter Park,
Winter Etc. Drove me crazy. On more than one occasion I wound up sleeping
in someone else’s house simply out of confusion. Never caused a problem though. People were pretty used to that kind of thing. It happened a lot.
I
figured we’d crash at my house for a few hours and sort things out. Jimmy woke up on the way and had to pee, so
we stopped off at a Mobil station, stripped the duct tape off him (there was
some screaming involved here), and pointed him to the bathroom. We picked up some chips and beer while we were
there too.
The
frenetic pace of the past few days was starting to catch up with me and I was
dragging hard when we finally turned onto my street. I’m a man of action as you are well aware,
but even us worldly types get fazed sometimes, and I’ll admit that I was really
looking forward to just being home for a while.
As I
pulled up to my driveway, two things happened simultaneously; I suddenly
remembered that I had indeed forgotten to turn off the coffee pot before I
left, and I noticed a big smoking hole in the ground where my house used to be.
“Duuuuuude,
bummer,” Jimmy said.
I sighed
and felt my head loll forward as a feeling of utter dismay robbed my body of
energy. I rarely do that – head lolling
that is – but there are times when it is certainly understandable if not
totally appropriate and I figured this was one of those times. Or the other.
Simon
made an admirable attempt at legitimate consolation. “I’m truly sorry,” he said.
“What a rotten time to have your house burn down.”
Idiot. Like there’s ever a good time to have your
house burn down. But that wasn’t really
what was wearing on me at the moment. Up
until about 60 seconds ago, I wasn’t even aware that I had a house, so I didn’t feel a lot of loss. That’s
what was wearing on me.
See,
that’s the part about being a figment of someone’s imagination that’s the
hardest to deal with. I find out about
things the same time you do. I mean, let
me ask you a question: what do you really
know about me? Only what I’ve told
you, right? You just automatically
assume that what I’ve told you is only a small portion of my life. That there’s a whole lifetime of experiences
that you don’t know about.
Problem
is, there’s not. What I’ve told you
about me is also all I know about me. My
entire existence, all the things I do, all the people I know -my entire world –
is all subject to the whims of someone else.
They want to burn down my house – poof – it’s toast. They want me to punch someone – smack – I deck
‘em, even if I didn’t really want to. And I have no past at all. At least, not until someone makes it up for
me.
Don’t
believe me? Okay, watch this. My house for instance, the same one that had
apparently just changed itself back into isolated components of the periodic
table, had been really cool. From the
outside, it was nothing special; just a single story ranch. But inside it had a definite masculine feel;
lots of wood, an open kitchen with a bar, and a sunken den with a 42” plasma TV and surround sound. Comfortable furniture. Nice covered porch off the back with a built
in grill, pool and hot tub.
Now, all
that? Everything I just told you? It’s
bullshit. I don’t mean that it’s not
true – it is, now, and from the sound
of it I’m really gonna miss the old place – but until just now, it didn’t exist. I
didn’t know about any of those things until just this very moment. That’s my life. That’s how it works. I become aware of my world as it happens. And if someone hadn’t thought me up and taken
the time to write this, I wouldn’t be
here at all.
For a
tough guy, that’s kind of a fragile existence.
I opened
the glove compartment and after rummaging around for a few seconds uncovered a
bottle of Xanax. Didn’t think the owner
would mind my borrowing a few (at least not any more than he would at borrowing
his car) so I popped a couple.
I sat
back, evaluated the situation, and listened to Jimmy and Simon arguing over
whether or not you’d die if you ate the stuff that was inside a Stretch
Armstrong – Jimmy insisted you would – and started feeling better as the drugs
kicked in.
By the
way, I’m sorry for laying all that on you.
Everybody’s got their own problems and last I checked you weren’t Dr. Phil. Hey,
you either learn to overcome your obstacles or you learn to live with them,
right? Besides, it could be worse. I mean, I may only be a figment of someone’s
imagination, but at least someone did
think of me.
“It
won’t kill you,” I told Jimmy. “Do you really think anyone would be stupid
enough to fill the inside of a children’s toy – one with a fairly delicate
rubber covering I might add – with a toxic substance?”
“I told
you! I told you!” Simon yelled, smug and triumphant.
“Oh,
knock it off Simon,” I said. “We’ve got things to do.”
“Like
what?” he replied.
“Like
finding a place to crash for the night.”
“Well,
we could get a hotel,” Simon offered.
“Hey, I
know what,” said Jimmy. “Hold on.”
He
opened the door, scrambled over to my mailbox, and after heaving and pulling
for a few minutes was able to get it out of the ground. He ran with it down the street to the house
next door, the one that belonged to the Mitchell’s, who were visiting relatives
in Virginia. He struggled with their
mailbox for a few minutes, and after finally yanking it up, stuck mine in the
ground in its place, then put the Mitchell’s mailbox back where mine used to be. The switch complete, he jumped back into the
car, grinning like a kid.
“Check
it out man,” he said.
“Oh,
that’s just stupid,” Simon said.
“I mean, what? We’re already
driving a stolen car, now were just going to move in next door, pretend that
this is Dick’s house and that it was actually his neighbor’s house that burned
down?”
“Hold on
there, Simon,” I said. “This might work out just fine. I mean, I’ve always liked Bob & Janey’s
house, and let’s face it, I’ve owned hammers that were smarter than they are. They might not notice.”
Simon
didn’t like it, but hey, big surprise there.
We parked the car and got our stuff out.
I checked out my new digs, noticed that my yard looked a little shaggy,
and made a mental note to fire my lawn service.
It only takes one bad neighbor to ruin a good neighborhood.
I have
to admit, it felt right, my new house. And
when my old key unlocked the door, I knew that it was meant to be. Either that or I’ve been having an affair
with Janey that was serious enough to warrant her giving me my own key. I didn’t think I was that much of a dirtbag
to do something like that to my friend Bob, so the fact that my key fit the
door must have simply just meant that this was supposed to be my house.
Don’t
overanalyze things, that’s my motto. No
wait, that’s not my motto at all; my motto is “deny everything.” Or is it .
. . oh, nevermind.
We made
ourselves at home (why wouldn’t we?), took showers and grilled some steaks. I discovered that not only did I have cable,
but 12 premium channels too, and soon all three of us were relaxing in front of
the tube watching Rocky IV and
downing some cold beers. I felt better
than I had in weeks. Clean shaven, well
fed, relaxed. Life wasn’t so very bad at
the moment.
I sure
was going to miss that 42” plasma TV though.
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