And the rains finally came. The entire day has been one long orchestral wind-up, weather’s equivalent to a goldfish’s mortal end after a lifetime of swimming and slow growth. Inevitable, yet somehow, not significant. That’s the trouble with summer. You’re always battling the rains that build like ancient pyramids. Just once you want to scream out, Enough! Stop building! Two week break for everyone!
Two weeks of summer sun. Or better, a cool summer breeze that coats an indolent sky and makes the sun’s rays just over the county line from hot. Warm. Pancakes in the oven warm at times, maybe, but nothing that requires mitts and a welding mask.
And in the ten minutes since I began writing this, a small subriver has begun to form in my backyard. It’s even got its own tributaries and has begun forming oxbows. I expect a riverboat any second.
And in the ten minutes since I began writing this, you’ve thought at least once about the last threads of my lingering sanity. I assure you, it won’t be missed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go plant fishheads in my watermelon patch.
I pulled a 14″ pipe, rusted and blackened with carburetor soot, from the remains of the innards of my muffler. Oh, I’ve known about the muffler hole for weeks, but it gives such a delightful roaring sound now, the kind that sends young Asian men out into the streets with wads of fifties. And I have grown used to the rather fretful ignition throttle problem that plagues me whenever I start the car–it’s a constant whine and release, as if a very large mouse is jumping up and down on the internal engine compartment mechanism that controls gas flow. And the striped sticker that runs the length of both sides of the car that forms the signature 1990 Honda Civic “look” peeled off the last time I washed it. My windshield leaks in heavy rains (speaking of which, I think I just spotted a tiny Huck Finn paddling down my backyard river on a raft made of Q-tip sticks), my floormats no longer have metal wire lining the insides…the rubber holding it in rotted away about a year ago. Sigh.
I think my car is slowly dying. And what’s one more vehicle? I’ve had my baby for five years, and before that it served its owner(s) for ten years. If I could afford hired help, say, a butler named Nigel or Jeeves or Bernard, and he stayed with me for fifteen years, I would…well, I would have a butler for fifteen years, and that’s something not just anyone can claim.
With any luck, my car will make it across country and serve me a while in sunny California, where it only rains in places that respectable people don’t really go, and the temperature is a constant 78, and movie deals are made right on the street, you just gotta be at the right coffee shop at the right time to catch the transaction, and maybe, just maybe, you can become a famous movie star. Hey, it’s the land of dreams…
I’ll take mine with a double shot of luck. Make it a grande.