Driving with Shingles

Share:

This started out as a comment on Professional Flosser’s blog, but not having blogged in a while it grew into a blog of my own.

You should try hugging a curve at 40 miles and hour in a 30 foot Rv with a trailer swing around behind you like some mechanical misguided scorpion tail trying to sting itself in the face as mountains rise up and wrap around you. Faster and faster you go working your way to the top where rock cuts into the sky like some ancient indian bat signal and then you see it. A sign. A message from the gods.

A big red barn with a black roof in bold white letters proclaiming:
ROCK CITY

And then you think to yourself. How many years has nature patiently coddled and crafted this wondrous conglomerate? And then, How the fuck am I going to get back down off this mountain in this monstrous contraption.

But that was before. Now It’s zipping around the spaghetti bowl of dirt and debris know as NEW JERSEY. The RV has been downsized to a van. The trailer has grown to double it’s size. The hotel’s are nicer. 3 days of driving from Miami to Jersey watching palm trees melt away to pine trees as a rash develops on my leg. Here we eat bagels. The women are icons of plastic beauty super sex toys constantly in rout to somewhere else. It’s cold but not as cold as it should be which makes everyone smile nervously and look the other way. The president speaks but no one has time to listen. Reporters highlight the roast beef dinner served to lull them asleep. All the gas pumps are full service. Caught up in the hustle and bustle I rebelliously hop out and pump my own gas without realizing what I have done. The gas attendant says nothing because this is Jersey and he knows better than to mess with someone who wears a hat like mine. Small and black like the old men and gangsters wear. There is no ethanol at the pump so I fill the tank with coffee and insults and zip off into traffic. Must get to the mall.

The Mall.

Where all roads lead. Once it was a forest or a field. Now another smear of humanity drug across the earth like some sick scribbling. As my own body deteriorates and another year goes by. One more strip mall built on my thigh. Endless construction on a parkway that never gets completed but always is expanding and belching and engulfing itself. Spewing forth black and tar plumes and litigious policy into a recycled atmosphere. I stare at the Victoria’s Secret window trying to pick out the mannequins from the consumers. Video loops of models in underwear scroll by continuously which is almost arousing. Except that I have this rash on my leg which even imagined women in fantasies look at nervously. So instead I stare and think one side is pink for little cute girls, one side is red and black for naughty girls. Somewhere in the middle is a bored cashier chewing gum and pushing buttons on her sidekick. My wife is a hundred miles away in a doctors office. I am at the mall talking to senior citizens as they walk by and snicker at the victoria’s secret girls, sharing a secret of their own. Together we are all driving on our own little highways, tangled and crossing over and under and through each other. Eventually we all drive with one blinker on, half on the shoulder. As our cars get rustier and our need for speed yeilds to an appreciation of the scenery.

Meanwhile the presidents debate Ethanol vs. Jesus. Rowe vs. Waldo. One day we will find a place to park, perhaps in Florida or Puerto Rico. Until then we will drive to the next mall.

Driving with Shingles