Sunday, August 21, 2011

The Honda Chronicles 1

Jan. 1, 2010

I’m hiding. I’m frozen.

Like the rest of the world, I’ve just about had it with Toussaint. Although I could tell you where I am, I won’t. Although I could tell you what happened last night, I won’t. In episodes such as the one that’s about to detonate, people seem to focus on the least important details- kinda like the Usual Suspects. The detective questions Kevin Spacey about everything that would be/should be important, meanwhile neglecting the most pertinent issue that the criminal is right in front of him, Kaiser Sose (Kevin Spacey). Again, what happened last night is a f-----ng tragedy and as much immediate gratification it would give everyone for me to divulge… I won’t. I’m a car, I don’t give a hot damn for human emotions. People shit all over me all day everyday, disrespect my entire existence, and run me like an Egyptian slave, circa any year B.C.

Why am I telling you this story, you ask… because it’s a good one. I am a sucker for the goodness in life. There is much of it to be had, and one must be careful in reaching to have it for in the reaching there is pain. I don’t reach, I park. I park and let it come to me, baby. All good things come to those who wait, and I've been waiting since 1997 for something like this. I was born in Lacrosse, WI to a family that had more use for selling me than having me around. From there, I was sold to the Foster’s (no that’s not the real family name, but I’m not outing anybody except for Toussaint’s dumbass… why? Cos f--- Toussaint, that’s why.) The Foster’s resided in a remote corner of Wisconsin, although I still longed for the city street life, a m----f----r can’t always get what he wants… especially when his life is destitute as a mechanical deathtrap on wheels.

I’m not going to get into the Foster’s, just as much as what happened last night. All you need to know is my present circumstance is colder than an ice cap that hasn’t melted yet. Little does anyone know, my alternator has one more trip left in it. I’ll credit the Foster’s and Toussaint for not noticing the head lights are fading in and out. When that’s happening, it means your electrical is at severe risk to shut down. Personally, my electrical is like a human’s ability to avoid old age, cancer, or a cold. If that shit is meant to be, and one of’em always is (pending on your genetics which comes first), the laws of nature give no f--- for when it goes down. If a semi is trailing you at blinding speed and my electrical or alternator shuts down… guess what Cochese? You’re family’s gonna have to hold a closed casket. No matter where you are, make sure the alternator, serpentine belt, and electrical is tip-top. Bold, rich or beautiful, doesn’t matter how fresh the oil is, I’ll shut this sh*t down faster than you can say “funeral party” if what’s under the hood isn’t tended to like a pacemaker. Consider this your final warning.

Somehow, someway, Toussaint defies this type of sh*t. Yes, I have one trip left in me, but it will be the last trip in the Foster’s name. Aside from the alternator, there is something else deadly wrong with me… my hood is unhinged. If Toussaint doesn’t notice it flappin’ like Ron Jeremy’s tongue, there ain’t much I can do for the guy. Either duct tape the damn thing down, or have it relentlessly flip into the windshield. I can’t blame him. Guy’s a liability, high risk, walking the line like an underfunded Russian circus with no safety nets.

There he is, dumbfound and all, gawking at the shiner on my hood as if it makes me look any less of a Civic. How this large ding got on my hood, again that was last night... I’m not going to dignify it with any background on it. However, Toussaint is genuinely surprised at the dent, I can see him thinking. What’s his next move, how’s he gonna explain this to the Foster’s… he doesn’t have a clue. Kid couldn’t talk his way out of a convertible, the hell he’s gonna explain this. He’s screwed, he knows it, however it won’t stop that m----f---r from enjoying the ride to park it back to Dana’s (daughter to the Foster’s, didn’t necessarily let him borrow the car, but left it in his hands while she’s on vacation).

Happy New Year’s to you too buddy. Toussaint hops in me as usual and cranks up the NPR. He loves that sh*t, what a poindexter.

And here we are, just as I suspected, pushing  50 on 94W… hood bouncing ever so slightly up and down, up and down, up and down, WHAM! I TOLD YA!!! HAHAAAAAAA, my hood smashes back into the front windshield, kicking the rearview mirror off that m---f----r inside the car. The rearview whizzes by Toussaint’s dodging big-ass dome and into the backseat. My hood’s still pressed firm against the windshield, Silly McGillicuddy Toussaint still pressing 50, but slowing down, goes into panic screamin’ like a little girl.

Fave moment: Toussaint looks to his right to find a sports car whose hit the brakes as to not get caught in the ball of flames I’m 10 seconds from turning into- panics, then looks to his left to see a mother driving her kid in the car in the next door lane. Toussaint puts on a “Oh my God, I think I sh*t my pants” look on his face as the mom shakes her head like “Can’t help you, good luck in the next one” and speeds off! BWAHAHAHAHAH! Love it. That m----f----r hits the brakes and some how gets a view of the road from just underneath the crest of my hood.

Damn, I was hopin’ to go out like a stock car, y’know? Somethin’ big. Lot of us go down without a whisper, without a single day of excitement… we just stop. Not sayin’ I wanted to hurt anyone, even Toussaint, but I always looked up to the Dukes of Hazard- always wanted the fast life, the crazy cross-country life, the life a compact city-car like myself can only park and dream of. Most I’ve ever seen is the backside of Wisconsin and maybe a skyline or two whilst parked at the top of a parking ramp… nothing more. Most a compact like myself could ask for is to go down like a champ. Not in the cards… this day, at least.

Well, Mr. Morrison maneuvers us off the road to the 94W exit. Safe and sound, we park on the side of a residential road. We stop. He doesn’t leave the car, just sits there, holding the steering wheel as if it’s the only thinking still working in his life and fears it might be the last thing he touches that’s not broken. I can feel the kid’s chest hollowing out, his breath deepening, the pressure on the inside of the car outweighing any other circumstance outside of it. Toussaint unbuckles, opens the door, slowly scoots his body out of the car, and folds my hood back down. You thought the ding he found this morning was shitty, the hood now looks like the Incredible Hulk held a picnic on top of it. The entire thing is caved in and not a tool in Mr. Morrison’s little world can fix it. He’s screwed in every way possible. Aside from being alive and outside of prison, this guy is as emotionally fucked as one could stretch their imagination.

Toussaint’s next move would have to be quick… and smart. Mama Foster is on her way to pick up the car… today.

to be continued…

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