Travelogue #38
Like I said, that's in the past, and our hearing still fuzzy from the punk house's definition of band "practice", we jabbered down the road about anything: ex-mates, the attributes of fast food, quick-witted sexual innuendo, "what the fuck did you just say?"--anything but "how much further?".
"Woah, what's that?" said Sharmini, pointing on the ground to an insect on its back.
"That's a cicada. Check out his eyes!"
We stopped to investigate. The insect's legs were bicycling the air intermittently. Perhaps it was waiting for a current of wind to right him, but he was Gregor Samsa-stuck for the time being. Bending down, Sharmini righted him to the ways of gravity and began petting the winged creature. She cooed words of comfort to the creature that only understood deafening hisses. The gesture won my heart.
Bear in mind, this bonding of woman and creature was taking place on the shoulder of the road with oncoming traffic being diverted from Interstate 95 to Delaware 72 northbound. It was cute, but it had to end. The cicada inched his carapace towards the white line and eventually towards traffic. Sharmini continued to pet him. The vehicles seemed to edge closer and closer to the white line. Closer and closer! My heart rate accelerated as I visualized mutual destruction--vehicle, cicada, Sharmini, my future. At last, a white van blindly cut the shoulder towards her! Would her face become shredded by fender?!
Lord no! I grabbed the back of her backpack and shoved her towards the railing! Man oh man, I was becoming a worried mother, but I actually cared for another human being! It was an adrenaline rush, but I looked back to see the cicada still flightless. Still inching. Still doomed towards the grinding wheel and unforgiving cement. Sharmini's eyes seemed to expand behind her sunglasses as I yelled curses of condemnation in a mixture of laughter.
"Holy shit! You almost fucking died!" Sorry, cicada, you're on your own.
2) Sharmini and I are trying to hitchhike on Route 30 on the should by the stoplight.
3) A grey pickup truck full of 3 landscapers is looking at Sharmini.
4) BAM! The grey pickup rearends the SUV, sending pieces of the plastic grill airborne.
5) The passenger of the grey pickup gestures with a condemning pointer-finger that lashes out like a whip, yelling out from grey-yellow Pennsyltucky teeth, "YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES!"
6) Immediately, I reply "How is it our fault?"
7) We hide.
An hour later, Jukebox Joe was walking away from his car after he crashed it into the median, simply saying, "I guess I'm going back to jail."
"It's Pronounced 'New Ark'"
After escaping a punk house infested with young alcoholics, Newark, Delaware was looking better in the rearview mirror. The inverse proportion of "the further, the better" (our well-being) that only travellers and criminals have in common. Sharmini, my travel partner, was becoming well-seasoned and weaned off the pinnacle of Mazlow's Pyramid. The punk house all attempted to seduce her with different methods, but instead we won a seven-hour sleep on a linoleum floor and Fox New on mute. Free beer and free swill, as well. Sharmini's phone rang with one last desperate attempt from Dave, the punk house owner, but it would take him forsaking the siren song of booze to nurse on the tits of any female with any semblance of a sexual screening policy. Like I said, that's in the past, and our hearing still fuzzy from the punk house's definition of band "practice", we jabbered down the road about anything: ex-mates, the attributes of fast food, quick-witted sexual innuendo, "what the fuck did you just say?"--anything but "how much further?".
"Woah, what's that?" said Sharmini, pointing on the ground to an insect on its back.
"That's a cicada. Check out his eyes!"
We stopped to investigate. The insect's legs were bicycling the air intermittently. Perhaps it was waiting for a current of wind to right him, but he was Gregor Samsa-stuck for the time being. Bending down, Sharmini righted him to the ways of gravity and began petting the winged creature. She cooed words of comfort to the creature that only understood deafening hisses. The gesture won my heart.
Bear in mind, this bonding of woman and creature was taking place on the shoulder of the road with oncoming traffic being diverted from Interstate 95 to Delaware 72 northbound. It was cute, but it had to end. The cicada inched his carapace towards the white line and eventually towards traffic. Sharmini continued to pet him. The vehicles seemed to edge closer and closer to the white line. Closer and closer! My heart rate accelerated as I visualized mutual destruction--vehicle, cicada, Sharmini, my future. At last, a white van blindly cut the shoulder towards her! Would her face become shredded by fender?!
Lord no! I grabbed the back of her backpack and shoved her towards the railing! Man oh man, I was becoming a worried mother, but I actually cared for another human being! It was an adrenaline rush, but I looked back to see the cicada still flightless. Still inching. Still doomed towards the grinding wheel and unforgiving cement. Sharmini's eyes seemed to expand behind her sunglasses as I yelled curses of condemnation in a mixture of laughter.
"Holy shit! You almost fucking died!" Sorry, cicada, you're on your own.
Mistakes
1) A large red SUV runs past a stoplight, situating itself just over the white "stop" line.2) Sharmini and I are trying to hitchhike on Route 30 on the should by the stoplight.
3) A grey pickup truck full of 3 landscapers is looking at Sharmini.
4) BAM! The grey pickup rearends the SUV, sending pieces of the plastic grill airborne.
5) The passenger of the grey pickup gestures with a condemning pointer-finger that lashes out like a whip, yelling out from grey-yellow Pennsyltucky teeth, "YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES!"
6) Immediately, I reply "How is it our fault?"
7) We hide.
Quotation No. ?
"This song's for you, man," said Jukebox Joe after he picked me up just outside of Auburn, Indiana. Jukebox Joe was drunk, but after standing on the side of the road for more than an hour, you'll take anything. Even a busload of Mennonites bypassed me while one errant member of their flock gave a mocking "thumbs up". For this, I took a swig of really bad vodka at 9am on no sleep. The volume of the stereo blended into the air from the broken sunroof ("I kicked it out to escape," said Jukebox, relating as to my question as to why he was bleeding from a fresh stab wound on his chest). It was AC/DC's "Ride On", and for the length of the song, I was entranced. Bon Scott knew what was up, what failure was,... and goddamnit, he SPOKE TO ME!An hour later, Jukebox Joe was walking away from his car after he crashed it into the median, simply saying, "I guess I'm going back to jail."
