"... braking is Plan B, I told comic, guest driver and ass-pillow subtracter Will Getter..."
No Place Like Home, Aug 5, 1997
I bought my Chevy Blazer in '90, nearly three hundred thousand miles ago.
My purchase preceded the suburban 4x4 craze by several years. For a time,
I was the only person in the neighborhood roaring to gigs, coffee houses
and swim practice in a utility vehicle. I looked and felt like a Outward
Bound mountain girl. Now the miles show on my truck and the years, on me.
Campaign pollsters mistake me for a bad seed soccer mom, and my ass has
carved out a wedge in the driver's seat that forces a guest driver to add
or subtract a series of pillows.
Braking is Plan B, I told comic, guest driver and ass-pillow subtracter Will Getter. I encouraged him to find another way to slow down and suggested downshifting, slamming into other vehicles or running over rabbits. My poor Blazer is still shell shocked from last January's vicious attack by a rogue telephone pole on Oregon's Highway 20. People are rude. They stare and point at her passenger door's grisly scars. It took Will a few minutes to adjust and my Blazer's brakes, fearing black ice at every turn, trembled with each tap.
As we slowed down (my apologies to the squirrel) and pulled into a Flying J, her rear end shimmied, shook and ground. I patted her gently on the glove compartment and told her to be good while I peed. Will filled up the tank and when I returned from the bathroom, I saw that dollar bills were tucked in her back fender. A dirty old Winnebago with Utah plates winked, wagged his wipers and rolled away. My S-10 smiled another crack in her windshield and flashed her beams.
Comedy last week meant one nighters, mostly within two hours of home. A Thursday night gig on a dance floor in Yuba City, recently voted America's worst city, washed away any dreamy residuals left from Montreal. We, and when I say 'we' I mean the restaurant manager, decided to hold the show for thirty minutes as the county fair was just winding down. Yes, by all means let's wait for the county fair crowd, fresh from a day of guessing a pig's weight, to peter in to the comedy show.
I drummed my fingers on the bar and rolled my eyes with big town flair. The bartender, surly and uninterested in quenching my thirst, acknowledged every fourth request for a large diet coke with a small regular one. The manager ran a special on blender drinks during the show. Montre-what?
On Friday morning, an embossed envelope, addressed to a
Laurie K and left on my doorstep, started my heart pounding. My first stalker, I promised myself. It's about time some loon thinks we're soul mates! I ripped the envelope open and fished around for a severed ear. Nothing. Just a note. Hmmm. Well, that's ok. Notes are good. A threat, perhaps, that I can take with much hysteria to the police or, more specifically, a handsome male detective. With much anticipation, I unfolded and read.
Christ.
Since I am seen occasionally and then only at night, several of my tea party throwing, Junior League joining neighbors took matters into their own gossipy hands and determined that I must be a poor madwoman kept locked in my parents' attic, like the first Mrs. Rochester.
I looked like a sweet girl who needed a break, apparently, and so a plan had been hatched to coax me back into polite society. I was being offered a series of babysitting jobs, at five dollars an hour. Me, spending time with children. This is completely true. Instead of a deliciously sick suggestion in crayon accompanied by graphic pictures, the note extended an invitation to work for nice people with nice kids and no commute. I've never been more disappointed in my life.
I mulled it over.
I needed snacks on the way to my Sonora gig on Friday night and an acceptable convenience store was hard to come by. The rule is that if the inventory signs in a store's window give items such as "bait" and "worms" top billing over "food" and "coffee", I look elsewhere. A dive in a tiny town called Oakdale finally passed the test and as I laid my gum on the counter, I found myself looking past the dead eyes of the cashier into the face of my friend Don McMillan. Not the real Don, of course, but a lifesize cardboard cutout of Don, who is now the Budweiser hotline guy. Don, a comic and former electrical engineer, encouraged me to drink only fresh beer and to do it by checking the born-on date.
I said, "Don!" and laughed, to myself, I thought. The cashier's eyes livened up. Making conversation with advertising supplements lead her to think that I was a hometown girl and she excitedly asked if I'd gone to any 'hay skuuls' (sic) around here.
It's great to be back.
