Prodigal Blues Read Free Page A

my goodbyes, got onto I-670 East, and had driven a couple of hundred miles toward home—almost far enough away from Topeka to allow myself to feel relief—when the engine made a sound somewhere between a screech and Godzilla's roar and did not so much stop as it did throw up its arms and say Good-bye, cruel world!   Smoke and steam billowed from underneath the hood in heavy tendrils that quickly formed heavier clouds, filling the car with a strong, burnt, metallic odor.   I count myself lucky to have made it over to the emergency lane without hitting another vehicle.   I sat there for a few moments, promising myself I'd remain calm—I'd kept it together for the last three days, I could keep it together now—then began beating the steering wheel with my fists and screaming like a madman.   The car was singularly unimpressed.   I waited until the cloud thinned out, then tried starting the engine once more.   Every time I turned the key and pressed down on the gas pedal, the engine made its feelings known.
    Click.   Fuck it.
    Click.   Fuck it.
    Click.   Fuck it.
    The burnt metallic odor became stronger with each attempt.
    I popped the hood and climbed out.   I had no idea what I thought I was going to do.   My ignorance of the inner-workings of automobiles can be summed up in one word:   profound.   I knew you filled their tanks with gas.   Changed the oil every three thousand miles.   Took them in for a wash once in a while.   Rotated the tires when you felt whimsical.
    I was screwed.
    I propped up the hood with that hood-propping-upper thingamajig and leaned in for a better look, coughing from the stench of burned metal.
    I rubbed my face, then sighed.
    No doubt about it.
    None whatsoever.
    It was definitely an engine.
    I shook my head, cursing my wife for being right, yet again.   This was going to be good for at least two weeks' worth of well-deserved I-told-you-so's.   How many times since we'd gotten married had Tanya asked me to get a cell phone?   "I know you think they're just expensive pampered-yuppie toys, but some day you might be stuck out in the middle of nowhere and need help— then what are you going to do?"
    "I'm a big boy who can take good-enough care of himself.   I'll think of something."
    What I thought of was to kick the fender.
    Which came loose.
    Then fell off.
    Onto my foot.
    I was so screwed—no, wait, scratch that:   I was so far beyond screwed that it would have taken the light from screwed a thousand years to reach me.
    Cars whizzed by.   I considered stepping out in front of one; the driver would either stop to help or splatter me from here to Indianapolis; either way, I'd be on the road again.
    I rubbed my eyes, stretched, then leaned against the side of the car and watched the traffic.   I wondered where everyone was going.   They all seemed in such a hurry.   I waved at them.   Nobody even looked in my direction.
    It's a real education to find yourself in a position to observe the sorts of cars that are still on the road.   I saw everything from rusty Corvettes to reconditioned Gremlins to BMWs to Pintos and something I swear was a Volkswagen "Thing" (anyone else remember those?); I counted fourteen station wagons—not SUVs, not minivans, station wagons , replete with faux wood paneling on the doors ala The Mod Squad ; I saw a couple of electric cars (which I still maintain look like four-wheeled suppositories), dust-caked Cadillac convertibles, and Novas whose like hadn't been manufactured since Nixon resigned office; but the blue-ribbon prize went to an honest-to-God VW Microbus, circa 1969-70; it was painted bright silver and reflected the afternoon sunlight so intensely I couldn't look directly at it for more than a few seconds.  
    In case you don't happen to recall what this particular highway star looked like, the VW Microbus (incredibly popular in its day; immortalized by Arlo Guthrie in the song "Alice's Restaurant") had four doors—one on the driver's