Captainkirk's Duster project
Chapter 7
"Hello, Mom?"
Now, I wasn't one to be borrowing money; I felt bad enough that Mom and Dad had forked over enough just getting me down here and set up. But this was an emergency. I needed a car
..I needed THIS car, and it was there for the taking. Mom didn't even hesitate. She said she'd mail me a check;
$600.00 Gen-U-Wine American Smackers; In God We Trust, E Pluribus Unum, et al. She told me not to worry if I couldn't pay it back just now. Bless her heart. I called Geronimo and told him I'd be by tomorrow with a deposit.
I didn't sleep much that night. The next day I got Dave to run me back over, and true to my word, forked over every last penny I owned. Geronimo asked me if I wanted to drive the motor wagon.
Did Custer want to get the hell out of the Little Bighorn?
We kinda just drove around the block a bit; I was nervous with him in the car; I didn't want to tear into it with the rightful owner staring at me. I drove like a granny just out of rehab,
past the police station.
It drove just fine.
Several days later, the check arrived. I got Dave to run me to the bank and cashed it; then off to Geronimo's teepee and sealed the deal.
This felt surreal.
Dave up and left after I'd given him the OK; probably glad to have this particular monkey off his back.
I motored my way out of the subdivision, in command of my new ship, feeling on top of the world again. As I headed out toward the freeway, I had thoughts
..
One of my friends believes in fate. For example, he doesn't wear a helmet when he rides. His philosophy; If I'm meant to crash and die, there's nothing I can do to change it. So lean back and enjoy the ride.
B.S.
My philosophy is a bit different. I don't believe in fate.
I also don't believe I'm some nameless organism twisting about in a faceless, cold orb of a world twirling about in outer space
.
I believe in The Big Boss Upstairs.
And I am sure, in my own mind, that The Big Boss Upstairs knew exactly which road the li'l red minx was taking me down, and so He grabbed me by my wide '70s lapels and shook me like one of those Jibber-Jabber dolls they used to sell.
Wake up, fool.
You're free to make your own choices
. Just make sure they don't get you killed.
They damn near did.
This was in the forefront of my mind as I rolled on the power pulling onto the freeway.
Don't get me wrong
. Once a motorhead, always a motorhead. You just get a little more choosy about where you pick your battles.
This looked like a good spot for a fight.
I merged with traffic, signaled left and deftly slid her into the left lane.
Then I romped on it.
For a tired, old 340 (the odometer read 80,000 miles) this thing got up and smacked me with the whammy stick. Holy Moses! Did I say tired and old? I was wide awake and paying attention now! Not the kind of smacking I'd get from the Red Rocket, but impressive nonetheless. I took a gander in the rear-view, and wondered where the mosquito truck was
..there was a cloud of blue smoke hanging in the air that could've come from only Yours Truly
hanging in the breeze like the smoke from a thousand campfires, and I thought of the old cartoon they used to run in the Chicago Tribune each fall called Indian Summer
. "Indian Summer", I thought with a grin
. "Geronimo, you rascal, you!" So she burned a little oil
...oh well, I knew of this low-mileage 340 laying low in a heated storage shed somewhere
.
Dr. Frankenstein, I presume?
340's rock.
The thrumming, hypnotic lullaby of the motor crooned to me as I cruised home.
