It rocks, a little bit, not enough to move out of the ditch. The wheels twist, but the ice doesn’t give. I’m stuck. Honda & I are absolutely, unequivocally, totally, utterly, stuck.
My connection to my car is that of Denzel Washington’s arm in Virtuosity. My Honda is my mechanical limb. While others use vehicles as an ego, pride, or genitalia extension, Honda and I are in a whole different waiting room. Honda and I are bound by a fiery past, distorted history, and tumultuous trust. Right now, I’m not holding up my end of the bargain. Turning for a gas station in the depths of suburban hell, I landed us into a snowy situation. Yes, you could say Honda & I are “fucked”... for the moment.
Driving by, a man stops in his giant Suburban and offers to help, for $20. I have no cash. He says he’ll be right back, jumps in his truck and zooms off. He never came back.
A woman stepped outside of her nearby apartment and offered help. She pushed, I pushed, we pushed… nothing.
Seeing the road blockage, a guy in a jeep passes by, offers to give me a bump with his vehicle from the back to push me into the drive way. “I’m actually trying to back out of the drive way and get to that gas station a hundred feet down the road.” “Uh, ok, well, good luck”, he drives off.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing can help this situation. The dry sullen feeling of helplessness passes through me like a ghost. Phone’s outta batts, Honda’s gas light’s on, and me on the final bit of sanity I have left. I drop back into the car. Close the door. It’s my chest, my breathing, my body’s juts out of my control… the anxiety kicks in. The tears collect, and then dissipate with the widening of both eyes. Get a hold of yourself, man. If we can just get to the gas station, we have a shot at getting the f--- out of this God forsaken suburb of white hell.
The anxiety sets in deeper. It’s not the car, it’s everything. The situation manifests into everything… anything… everything… burning 600+ mixtapes in time for the release party, the plans to visit my father in New Orleans, the guy from LA that calls and visits to make sure the other music project is going up to code for the powers that be, grandmother's heart, Annie's wedding, take a day job or keep floating with monthly concerts...
The wind conducts the snow sideways, so hard that I can’t even see the gas station less than a half-a-block in front of me. There goes the breathing again. I grab my chest, feels like my ribcage is about to implode and take me to the hereafter. Sidenote: Anxiety is accidentally locking yourself in a closet as a child, being trapped in a prison tube from Minority Report, except there’s no brain relaxing mechanism to keep you from knowing your surrounded by a glass wall. Anxiety is clausterphobia, the scene from Star Wars where the walls close in on Han Solo, the slowly falling spiked ceiling from Indiana Jones… pause.
Take a brief moment from your head, and it just might save you from thinking purely irrationally. I turn on NPR for a minute. “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me” the game show is on. Another minute passes, and I make a plan. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to have to break into the nearest 4 wheel drive and skirt this hell hole… and of course I’m kidding. The plan: get a f’ng shovel from the gas station and start puttin’ in work- wait, who’s that?
Out of nowhere, kid with a shovel slowly paces towards me. I can’t tell if it’s to say, “Your kind ain’t welcome in these parts”, or to actually help me outta this pit. He doesn’t say a word, and just begins shoveling around my car. “Try it now”, he says. Honda budges a little more. Shoveling and hand-scooping commences, “Try it now”, he pushes on the damaged hood. We’re out. At least it’s straight…and again, more shoveling commences. And we’re out, for good this time.
Call him Jesus with a stick, Muhammed with a winter coat, or just call him Eddie Shovels… the kid is ethereal in some form or manner. He disappears back into the white blanket of snow crossing the streets. I thank him, and make it to the gas station to pump $2.36 worth of gas into Honda. Make it back to Mpls.
Stepping into my mother’s house and being yelled at to wash the dishes… never felt this good.
Toussaint Morrison Mixtape Release Party
Friday, Dec. 17
9pm at the Triple Rock
Sunday, Dec. 19
5pm at the Triple Rock
Both shows 8bucks.
6bucks if you have a color-flier with you.