The Interstate Hwy 64 Devils Triangle (Draft 2)

On the outskirts of Charlottesville there is an area, a triangle (mile marker 113 going west, to mile marker 115 west again, then across to Mile marker 116 going EAST-covering a total of about 5 miles inside the triangle) which I believe is governed by forces of which we know not.I must point out that no cell service is available within this triangle. A rest stop is located around mile marker 114 going west. The first time I broke down in this triangle was returning home from a date.  This was before I gave it up, dating.  Dating is over rated and wasn't good for my self esteem.  I was returning from date, a date, which in my infinite wisdom, I believed would lead to a happy healthy monogamous relationship.I was innocent to the devilish ways  of the triangle as well as the devilish ways of dating men back then. My car at that time was a 1987 Honda Accord which didn't run very well(and remained filthy, to punish it for it's unreliability, I  littered it with trash so it would know exactly how I felt )  Smartly I borrowed my Friend Naomi's 1995 Toyota Sienna mini van, knowing full well it was in better shape then ye olde Honda.  I passed mile marker 113, THUNK, bump, THUNK, bump, THUNK, bump went the van.  I knew the rest stop was near, I kept driving, THUNK, bump, THUNK.  I pulled over and pulled out my cell phone.  CHECK CALL RESTRICTIONS popped up on my Government Cheese cell phone.Damn, Damn and Double Damn.  I got out of the drivers side and walked to the passengers side  and inspected the damage, a flat tire.  I am an expert at flat tires, having them and changing them.  It was around midnight, it was dark, cars were flying past me on the high way.  I didn't know where the spare was and I couldn't see and I was scared.
I got back in the drivers seat and made a decision, a decision to drive on the side of interstate with a flat tire; in my friends mini van to get to the rest stop where I could at least see,  perhaps my cell phone would work once I reached that area.  THUNK, bump, THUNK, bump for half a mile until I could see the lights of the rest stop up ahead, a sigh of relief passed through my lips. The rest stop was deserted except for an 18 wheeler in the dark section on the opposite side, it's driver napping from a long haul to and from somewhere, somewhere else. I pulled up towards the light of the snack machines. I got out of the van to search for the spare tire and jack towards the rear of the vehicle. I was wearing a low cut shirt (my standard dating uniform, another reason to give it up,it brings out my scandalous boobies and, they, with minds of their own want to show off)  Soon I was bending over and laying under the van in various and unseemly positions.  
"Flat tire" a  deep voice rings the obvious.
"Uh Huh" I answer crossing my arms over my chest look out from under the van to see a man in a tee shirt back lit like an angel.  The light from the cheetos machine flooding over him."Ain't got no spare" he says.
"I don't see one,"I agree, attempting to look like the kind of person that can handle such a situation. The reality is that I am that person who handles such situations often, though it involves a flood of tears.  Casually, I take the lug nut thingy out of the car and hold it menacingly in my right hand.
I imagine the cheeto lit trucker man grabbing me,chopping me up, and throwing me into the back of the van.  In the morning when the police come to give me a ticket for parking perpindicular to the parking spaces, the flies buzzing by the back door will alert them to my shredded body.  No one will miss me.  No one will miss me until it is my turn to take the kids.  I'm screwed.  I'm dead.
"you got road side assistance?"  The threatening trucker asked.
"Uh, yeah-"a feeling of warmth and relief pass over me- I have someone elses Triple AAA card in my wallet.  All I have to do is act like them!  And their whole family is blonde too, I'll fake it, for sure.  I'm not dead yet.
"My cell phone doesn't get service, here"  I offer, showing him my trashy, worthless piece of technology.  
"There is a pay phone"  he gestures towards the eerie yellow lights near the lavatories.
"Thanks" I say and hurry off, he goes around  the van inspecting the tire. The existence of an old, slimy, payphone which costs more than any of us have, in change, at a given time, remains, as a connection to eras gone by.   If you could afford to make a call, only God knows where or who it would connect you too.It was then that I realized that this space (mile marker 113 going west, to mile marker 115 west again, then across to Mile marker 116 going EAST-covering a total of about 5 miles inside the triangle) is governed by forces of which we know not. Paranormal perhaps, or the demons from the depths of hell, I can not tell who in fact governs the energies of this no mans land, all I can do is recount my experiences in this uneasy space. I contend that this rest stop is haunted and possibly manned by the undead or other fantastical creatures.  Instead of this back lit trucker talking to me, Large Marge the infamous ghost of all truckers could be awaiting in that 18 wheeler.

I walk over to the oddly lit payphone I read the words printed on blue stickers attached to this  device.If you could afford to make a call, only God knows where or who it would connect you too.
I have no money, I have no change, this is how I travel.  I hate it.  I do have a triple AAA card with someone else' s name.  Across from the pay phone is an office, brightly lit with florescent lights, behind a metal desk sits a troll.  I venture in to ask if I can use his phone, he grunts a no to me.  I back up slowly, wondering where I left the metal thing that looks like a crow bar.  It starts to happen, the transformation that comes  over me-my face begins flushing red, My lips quiver and the water begins to form in the corners of my eyes. No, I won't let this happen.  I buck up my courage, "My car is broken down"  I say, inching back towards the troll, "I don't have any money to make a phone call, I just needto call triple AAA".  I am closer to him, showing my strength, my resilience for life that a troll and ghost trucker will not take away from me. The troll growls and words come forth from his mouth.  I have no idea what language the words are spoken in, I am standing there, stupid, not moving, knowing he has spoken but not knowing what he has said.  He stares at me.  I can stare at him too, I've never won a staring contest but the stakes were never this high. He speaks again, "The pay phone will work, you got an 800 number?" .  Wow.  I completely understood.  "Yeah"  I answer, unsure of how this is come forth from his mouth. It is like I am on some strange acid trip, but I only had a few glasses of wine with dinner. "Thanks" I mutter, impolitely.  I go across the sidewalk to the payphone and convince the triple AAA folks that I am indeed Virginia Dawnsir.  "The driver of the tow truck will need to see your driver's license and registration, Ms. Dawnsir" the female voice at the end of the line says.
In my head the words, Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit keep dancing around my head.  My mouth says "Thank You"
I go back to the lopsided  van.The ghost trucker is walking away "you get triple AAA " he asked.  "Yeah, Thanks" I say, searching his hands for the thick metal bar that is my weapon.  He does not have it.
I get in the van and close the doors and change my shirt, I am lucky that I always have too much crap with me where ever I am, yes, it looks like pajama shirt but it comes up pretty high on my neck so I don't care.  I wait until the tow truck comes and pop out again.
The driver looks at sheet and says "I think I've had to pick you up before"  I have no idea.  Does he mean me, Rosemarie Harper, or does he mean Virginia Dawnsir?  It is possible he has picked me up before, I do spend a lot time in broken cars.
"Hmmmm," I say in an non-commital way.I realize that he has come from the real world.  The one that lies dimensions away from this rest stop.  I hop into the tow truck, in a bit of hurry, hoping he doesn't get caught in the spell.He puts the van on the lift and takes me 17 miles, in silence to the beginning of the mile long driveway that leads to my home. Off the lift goes Naomi's van.
"be safe Ms. Dawnsir" he calls out as I begin my trek.I turn and stare at him, unsure but safe at last.
Off I go into the woods, for a long, flashliteless walk in the dark, safe and sound because I am far from the rest stop and mile marker 115, Little did I know that this was  only my first encounter with the Devils Traingle of I 64. Central Va's own Twilight Zone.
.

The Devils Triangle of Interstate Hwy 64

Devils Triangle of Interstate 64

On the outskirts of Charlottesville there is an area, a triangle (mile marker 113 going west, to mile marker 115 west again, then across to Mile marker 116 going EAST-covering a total of about 5 miles inside the triangle) which I believe is governed by forces of which we know not. Paranormal perhaps, or the demons from the depths of hell, I can not tell who in fact governs the energies of this no mans land, all I can do is recount my experiences in this uneasy space.

I must point out that no cell service is available within this triangle. A rest stop is located around mile marker 114 going west.  I contend that this rest stop is haunted and possibly manned by the undead or other fantastical creatures.   Large Marge (Ghost truck driver from  Pee Wee's Big Adventure)is often napping in her  possessed 18 wheeler.  If anyone still doubts the veracity of my story,  the existence of an old, slimy, payphone which costs more than any of us have, in change, at a given time, remains, as a connection to eras gone by.   If you could afford to make a call, only God knows where or who it would connect you too.
The first time I broke down in this triangle was returning home from a date.  This was before I gave it up, dating.  Dating is over rated and wasn't good for my self esteem.  I was returning from date, a date, which in my infinite wisdom, I believed would lead to a happy healthy monogamous relationship.I was innocent to the devilish ways  of the triangle as well as the devilish ways of dating men back then. My car at that time was a 1987 Honda Accord which didn't run very well(and remained filthy, to punish it for it's unreliability, I littered it with trash so it would know exactly how I felt )  Smartly I borrowed my Friend Naomi's 1995 Toyota Sienna mini van, knowing full well it was in better shape then ye olde Honda.  I passed mile marker 113, THUNK, bump, THUNK, bump, THUNK, bump went the van.  I knew the rest stop was near, I kept driving, THUNK, bump, THUNK.  I pulled over and pulled out my cell phone.  CHECK CALL RESTRICTIONS popped up on my Government Cheese cell phone.Damn, Damn and Double Damn.  I got out of the drivers side and walked to the passengers side  and inspected the damage, a flat tire.  I am an expert at flat tires, having them and changing them.  It was around midnight, it was dark, cars were flying past me on the high way.  I didn't know where the spare was and I couldn't see and I was scared.
I got back in the drivers seat and made a decision, a decision to drive on the side of interstate with a flat tire; in my friends mini van to get to the rest stop where I could at least see,  perhaps my cell phone would work once I reached that area.  THUNK, bump, THUNK, bump for half a mile until I could see the lights of the rest stop up ahead, a sigh of relief passed through my lips. The rest stop was deserted except for an 18 wheeler in the dark section on the opposite side, it's driver napping from a long haul to and from somewhere, somewhere else. I pulled up towards the light of the snack machines. I got out of the van to search for the spare tire and jack towards the rear of the vehicle. I was wearing a low cut shirt (my standard dating uniform, another reason to give it up,it brings out my scandalous boobies and, they, with minds of their own want to show off)  Soon I was bending over and laying under the van in various and unseemly positions.  
"Flat tire" a  deep voice rings the obvious.
"Uh Huh" I answer crossing my arms over my chest
I look out from under the van to see a man in a tee shirt back lit like an angel.  The light from the cheetos flooding over him.
"Ain't got no spare" he says.
"I don't see one,"I agree, attempting to look like the kind of person that can handle such a situation. The reality is that I am that person who handles such situations often, though it involves a flood of tears.  Casually, I take the lug nut thingy out of the car and hold it menacingly in my right hand.
I imagine the cheeto lit trucker man grabbing me,chopping me up, and throwing me into the back of the van.  In the morning when the police come to give me a ticket for parking perpindicular to the parking spaces, the flies buzzing by the back door will alert them to my shredded body.  No one will miss me.  No one will miss me until it is my turn to take the kids.  I'm screwed.  I'm dead.
"you got road side assistance?"  The threatening trucker asked.
"Uh, yeah-"a feeling of warmth and relief pass over me- I have someone elses Triple AAA card in my wallet.  All I have to do is act like them!  And their whole family is blonde too, I'll fake it, for sure.  I'm not dead yet.
"My cell phone doesn't get service, here"  I offer, showing him my trashy, worthless piece of technology.  
"There is a pay phone"  he gestures towards the eerie yellow lights near the lavatories.
"Thanks" I say and hurry off, he goes around  the van inspecting the tire.
I have no money, I have no change, this is how I travel.  I hate it.  I do have a triple AAA card with someone else' s name.  Across from the pay phone is an office, brightly lit with florescent lights, behind a metal desk sits a troll.  I venture in to ask if I can use his phone, he grunts a no to me.  I back up slowly, wondering where I left the metal thing that looks like a crow bar.  It starts to happen, the transformation that comes  over me-my face begins flushing red, My lips quiver and the water begins to form in the corners of my eyes. No, I won't let this happen.  I buck up my courage, "My car is broken down"  I say, inching back towards the troll, "I don't have any money to make a phone call, I just need to call triple AAA".  I am closer to him, showing my strength, my resilience for life that a troll and ghost trucker will not take away from me. The troll growls and words come forth from his mouth.  I have no idea what language the words are spoken in, I am standing there, stupid, not moving, knowing he has spoken but not knowing what he has said.  He stares at me.  I can stare at him too, I've never won a staring contest but the stakes were never this high. He speaks again, "The pay phone will work, you got an 800 number?" .  Wow.  I completely understood.  "Yeah"  I answer, unsure of how this is happening.  It is like I am on some strange acid trip, but I only had a few glasses of wine with dinner. "Thanks" I mutter, impolitely.  I go across the sidewalk to the payphone and convince the triple AAA folks that I am indeed Virginia Dawnsir.  "The driver of the tow truck will need to see your driver's license and registration, Ms. Dawnsir" the female voice at the end of the line says.
In my head the words, Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit keep dancing around my head.  My mouth says "Thank You"
I go back to the lopsided  van.The ghost trucker is walking away "you get triple AAA " he asked.  "Yeah, Thanks" I say, searching his hands for the thick metal bar that is my weapon.  He does not have it.
I get in the van and close the doors and change my shirt, I am lucky that I always have too much crap with me where ever I am, yes, it looks like pajama shirt but it comes up pretty high on my neck so I don't care.  I wait until the tow truck comes and pop out again.
The driver looks at sheet and says "I think I've had to pick you up before"  I have no idea.  Does he mean me, Rosemarie Harper, or does he mean Virginia Dawnsir?  It is possible he has picked me up before, I do spend a lot time in broken cars.
"Hmmmm," I say in an non-commital way.
He puts the van on the lift and takes me to the beginning of the mile long driveway that leads to my home. Off the lift goes Naomi's van.
"be safe Ms. Dawnsir" he calls out as I begin my trek.
Off I go into the safety of the woods, for a long, flashliteless walk in the dark, safe and sound because I am far from the rest stop and mile marker 115, Little did I know that this was  only my first encounter with the Devils Traingle of I 64. 
.

Blessed with Melissa's

About a month ago I finally bought myself a very good old car.

It is a 1981 Mercedes Benz, SD 300 Turbo Diesel with only 113,000 miles 
on it.  It turns out that the man I bought it from is another friend of 
mines ex room mate.  But that is another story, this is a story that involves
three Melissa's.
A few days after I bought this fabulous car (which is a burnt orange color,
drives extremely fast and can run on Bio-diesel instead of gasoline) I noticed
a slow leak in the right front tire.  The tire would get droopy over night. 
Most people would go the service station and get the tire plugged, or a 
new valve put in.  I chose to put air in the tire daily, sometimes more than once.
I would wake up and drive to the local Wintergreen Grocer air compressor which
cost a quarter and put air in the tire.  Some days when I had not been quite on 
top of gathering air, my tire would be flat and I would have to come up with a 
different plan.  Sometimes that involved using my next door neighbors very nice air compressor.  My neighbor, Neal,  is a very thoughtful and careful car owner.  Using his compressor would include the shame I carried with me because I had not taken the time and money to just go and have my tire fixed. 

Luckily, I have some other friends named Stephanie and James who think my car maintenance problems are endearing in some way and I know they do not judge me for my ridiculous time and cost saving measures.  Stephanie and James also happened to have a very small portable air compressor that they said I could use any time.  When they said "anytime" I took them at their word, of course, knowing their generous nature.  For many days I simply would drive to their house (about 1/4 mile away) and take the compressor
from their van and use it on my tire.  One day I took the compressor with me, but a few days later they had a flat and needed it back.  And so the borrowing continued.  I have had the compressor for about one week. 


Today, my good friend and manager at the winery where I work (Her 
name is Melissa, I call her Sweet Melissa, because she has a business named that and I know many Melissa's) called me to come to work because the winery was unexpectedly busy.  My son and his pet lamb and my daughters dog and my older son's best friend all jumped
into my car-My youngest son, Ammon and his pet lamb Timothy needed to get

to  Herb's birthday party.  Herb is the son of my dear friend Melissa who I have known for 15 years.  My daughter, Fiona, has a dog which is a half pug and half chihuahua.  His name is Ducky and he usually goes to work with

me at the winery.  Jack, My eldest son Rourke's best friend, (no photo) just happened to be hanging around waiting for  Rourke to get off of work. He needed to get somewhere that simply wasn't my house.  So we all jumped into the new , old Mercedes and took off.  I commented that the tire was low and I needed to put air into it.  Jack, requested, in a an direct way that I put the air into the tire AFTER I dropped him off.  I agreed. After depositing Jack at a house which showed promise of other teenagers I drove to the barn so Ammon could pick up Timothy (the Lamb shown above, also given to him  by my friends Stephanie and James, whose air compressor I am still borrowing, without ever informing them that I was indeed, borrowing it) and feed Timothy his bottle before going to Herb's birthday party. This seemed like a timely moment to fill the tire up with air because both
tasks, feeding Timothy and airing up the tire, would take only a few minutes.  I hooked up the air compressor while Ammon fed his lamb.  When he and his beloved pet arrived in the car I jumped into the drivers seat ready to speed away and get to work quickly.
"Uh, there is a cord hanging out the car"  Ammon said.  I can only believe he was
talking to me because I can't imagine the baby sheep cared one god damn bit.
I remembered the air compressor hooked to the tire by way of a cord plugged into the cigarette lighter of my 1981 Mercedes Benz, 300 SD Turbo Diesel.  I jumped out to unhook it from the tire.  My tire was more deflated than I have ever seen it. I checked the valve.  The compressor seemed to be hooked up correctly. I turned it off and on, and it made plenty of noise. My friend Bev was at the barn to help another friend round up and move some cattle.  She looked at the tire and the compressor, she offered me her car jack and we discovered together that she did not have a lug nut thingy to fit my tires.  We discovered That I did not have one either.  Ducky jumped from the drivers seat to the
passengers seat disturbing both Timothy and Ammon. We again tried the compressor.  It dawned at me at some point that the compressor that belonged to Stephanie and James no longer worked. No doubt, this was because I had used it so many times to put 40lbs of air of air into my tire, daily, that it's little compressor motor fried itself beyond working 
order and therefore beyond use to to any of us anymore. Besides, they still didn't even know I was borrowing it.  Bev left to drive cattle.  I was walking round the car using explitives and ordering Timothy, Ducky and Ammon not to stray to far, because we were leaving any moment.
My friend and across the circle neighbor,  Melissa Luce (not yet mentioned thus far in this narrative) drove up. I am trying to set Melissa Luce up with my good friend Curtis.
Melissa Luce, seeing the flat tire, the lamb, the dog, the burned out compressor and me, offered to drive me to work.  So, she was also offering to drive a lamb, a dog and a 5'9" Twelve year old as well.  My other friend, Melissa Wender, Herb's mother, had been notified mysteriously of my dilema and come to my aid at the same time, Offering her car (for me to borrow) and taking my son and his lamb back to her house with her for her son's
12th birthday party.  I arrived at work 15 minutes late, Sweet Melissa was swamped
with costumers.  When she heard my story she offered for me to just come back to her house and spend the night.  I didn't take her up on that, I had to get Melissa Wender's car back and check in on the birthday party after work. 

While I was driving to the winery, with Ducky on my lap I realized how grateful I am for all the wonderful friends I have and how easy it was for me to get help when I needed it.  I have so many incredible and giving people in my life and three of them are named Melissa.

Overheating Betty overheats one last time; 11:47am,Thursday, at North Garden

Overheating Betty completed her life of resistance as a car yesterday at North Garden, near Dr. Ho's in Batesville VA.  Driving north on 29, Betty's interior lights magically came on , all of them simultaneously.  As she lit up for her final act of courage, the entire car lost power and rolled to a stop on a slight hill facing the Gulf station at North Garden.  I had my son, Rourke's cell phone which I used to call my daughter and my ex husband-Meanwhile a man who was well meaning, however didn't really have the time to help me offered to help me.  As I was pushing the car up into the parking lot he came towards me and alerted me that I would never be able to push Betty to a parking spot.  He was a man.  I am a woman.  I am woman pushing a car.  I stopped immediately remembering that he knew much more than I did about this situation.  This fellow then told me I must push Betty into the parking lot at the post office behind me.  Of course.  He and I started to push Betty backwards and she took off, racing down the hill at a much quicker speed.  The well meaning man then became annoyed with me shouting, "I thought you were going to steer, pull the break up".  I informed him I could not run as fast the car racing down the chill.  Then Betty smashed into a telephone pole.  The man kept telling me he thought I would jump in the car (like the Dukes of Hazzard -this is all I can imagine).  Then he says to leave my car where it is and not to forget my cell phone (Rourke's cell phone) which was on the roof of Betty throughout the entire incident.

I thanked the man as he left.

I then pushed Betty up the hill, although now about 100 yards farther than when I had originally began pushing her.  I parked Betty in a spot in the parking lot and rolled up her windows and got tangled in the electric seat belt one last time.

I waited for my daughter, Fiona to pick me up and take me to Charlottesville where I was meeting my ex husband for parent teacher conferences for my youngest son, Ammon.

When my children were little, instead playing "cars" they played broken down cars and the tow truck sometimes they played me screaming or crying. They built a liquor store out of legos. As well as playing mommy gets arrested and dragged of by the police at a protest-Through my parenting techniques I have provided much fodder for my children's stories, once they have become adults.

Random Acts of Stupidity

I   am continually  following my own blog on accident.  When you see my "followers" and then see me too many times please realize that this is indeed a Random Act of Stupidity. I have no idea how to fix.  No wonder my cars blow up.

I keep trying to follow my friend Scott Rollins movie trivia blog, however each time I believe that I am doing that I am actually following my own blog, yet again.  I am completely aware that, me following my own blog numerous times, impresses no one,  actually it is a bit embarrassing for me.

I will continue to try, in my Luddite inane way, to follow my friends blogs.  I can only hope that one day I will actually do so-but I am not giving up.  Even if I have followed my own blog 25 times I will continue to try (actually, that may be stretching it a bit, like saying I'm a 140 lbs, it is really not true). Thanks.
Rosie

Overheating Betty Lives up to her Name, Denies Owner Night on the Town

Overheating Betty overheats.  Hence her name, Overheating Betty.

Tonight, my college room mate and friend Elizabeth is going to perform
at Secretly Y'all.  Secretly Y'all is a story telling performance held in a 
very hipsterish bar in Richmond. I have been planning to go see Beth,
as I called her 20 years ago in college, perform a story she wrote about
"Found".    Beth and Secretly Y'all both reside in Richmond Va. , approximately
93 miles from  my house in Afton.  (if you assume goggle maps is correct)
I was about 10 miles from my house when Overheating Betty overheated 
to the extent that as a responsible adult I could not drive 93 approximate
miles.
Ice was also falling from the sky and snow was on the ground, I was 
pushing the remnants of adult behavior by even trying to go to
Richmond for a night on the town.  Overheating Betty saved me from
a partying, college student minded descion to drive to Richmond (93 
approximate miles) where I would inevitably drink wine and then drive back
to Afton on icy roads.  
My apologies to Beth, and my thanks to my little red acura for being the 
surrogate parent I obviously need.

High School

Teenager

(getting out of the car)

Horizontal Projection is a painting of a 1984 Frienza

Hey,

You know some kids,

some hippie types-at my school

say things like

“CARS SUCK”

(pause)

and I’m like, yeah, well granola pants, 

when they paved paradise and put up a parking lot-

I was the first one there-

(pause)

“CARS SUCK”

(pause)

my ass

cars only suck if you don’t have one.

When my dad died my mom handed 

over the keys to his car.

Shit, she was so glad to be free 

of driving my ass around.

(pause)

We were having a discussion in my

civics class, when this dude, Marcus pipes 

up and says “A car is the utterly

fraudulent emblem of personal liberation”

(Silence)

I almost said to him, right there in class,

“well then Mr. Pretentious Granola Pants,

maybe YOU shouldn’t be stopping by MY

car in the morning for bong hits.”  Can’t

take too many bong hits riding his bike to 

school,  but he doesn’t have to worry,

cause my car is always there, ready for visitors.

I won’t give him any shit about it.  

You know, his mom, she works up at 

Kmart, I’ve seen her get off the bus.

Marcus’s bike will bring him right 

up to my car, and we’ll smoke a little weed

-a little morning weed before class-

because-

MY CAR ROCKS

Projection of Smoke Billowing

out of the Car 

Overheating Betty

My red acura runs hot.  Just like me, it is always over heating.  Midlife is challenging for both cars and women.  I was on my way to town, town in my world is Charlottesville, a good 35 minutes away. I was going to Charlottesville to make some money to support my car habit by watering plants. 

About 15 minutes into the drive, I noticed the needle on the temperature gauge tickling the section on the dial that is red.  I pulled over to the right hand shoulder of Interstate 64 East, it is like a second home to me, the right hand shoulder of Interstate 64. A second home that I am forced to visit even though I know the only thing that will be enjoyable about that home is that some time I will get to leave.  Like a Haunted House or a Saw movie.

I am armed with an array of chemicals and oils in my hatchback.  I empty one partially filled container of anti-freeze into my radiator.  I jump back in the car, wrestle the automatic seat belt and start the machine up again.  Within moments the dial springs back in to the red zone.  No lights come on, I take this as a sign that I can make it to the restaurant I am working at.  I am fairly sure that none of the internal lights on the acura work, but in moments of need I often pretend that they do work, and that the absence of an orange light, warning me that the car is going to explode is a good thing. 

Fascinatingly I make it to the Downtown Mall, where I park illegally and go water my fruit trees.  Upon my return to the car, knowing that I have to make it back to Nelson County, I have the where with all to check my oil.  Low.  Big Surprise.  Perhaps in another persons life it would be a surprise, for me and my acura this ground we have covered.  I look in my purse for some cash to buy some oil. I know when I open my purse that there is no cash inside of it, but somewhere inside of me there is always the hope that the story of the BORROWERS is true, and that the little folks have put the money back where it belongs.No Cash.  Screw them and their selfish little ways.  

When my 16 year old daughter opened a bank account, she needed a responsible adult to be on the account with her.  I am on Fionas bank account,  I am able to check her balance. I have access to a debit card.   I use the debit card to steal money from her checking account.  I drive Overheating Betty (the nickname for the acura at that moment) to the 5th street Food Lion and buy 3 containers of oil with Fionas debit card.  I do not know how much oil is in each container, but three, just intuitively seemed like the right amount.  Soon I am back on Interstate 64 heading west, even sooner I choose to drive on the parallel road, route 250 because my car looks and acts as though it is powered by jet fuel.  The amount of smoke thrusting from my non-existent exhaust system is impressive.  I had a Honda that burned up once, and Overheating Betty's impression was lifelike, even without all the fire.  Each time I pressed my foot to gas pedal a mountain of smoke would rumble out from under the car and fill the air for blocks behind me.

Just get me home, is my mantra.  It has worked for me more times than logic could account for.Cosmically, it works for me, Carma. Just get me home.  I use imagery to plot out each turn and bump in the road focusing clearly and directly on the most important goal-Home.  Me.  Getting there.  It works, with shame and concentration Overheating Betty pulls onto Shannon Farm and gets me up the hill, past the orchard, and to the bare area in the woods in front of my house, which has a yard filled crap and pink doors. I  hear the dogs inside , the are barking and jumping and I imagine them peeing all over themselves.  Ah,   Nirvana.

Bad Shit Happens Like Clockwork (in a New York Accent)

Bad Shit Happens Like Clockwork

In a New York accent

Bad Shit happens like clockwork-

Our car, my families car is out 

of commission, 

so to speak, actually the girl 

who rents a room from us,

the bipolar one, she totaled our

car. One night, in the middle 

of the night, she’s out with her

boyfriend, when-WHAM-

she smashes into the guard rail 

on some lonely deserted

road in Long Island or someplace. 

She gave us her car,

just like that, it is a piece of crap, but hey it drives-and

we didn’t care so much, I mean we like her, we

have a car when we need it-

like today, we needed it, to get here, to get this funeral.

We all pile into this little Chevet or whatever it is, 

my three babies, my husband and me-the car

is so small we are crammed in like Pickles in a

jar at the roller skating rink on Sunday afternoon.

We are heading out of the city on Rhode Island Ave

when - BLAM - a car hit us from behind. 

All the windows of the rolling death trap we are in

shatter-I’m in the back seat, a car seat on either side,

my daughter, she’s up front with my husband and

we are all covered in little tiny shards of

glass.  My husband throws open the door into

the oncoming traffic of Rhode Island Ave-the kids

and I are silent and in shock-my husband yells “What

the Fuck were you thinking” as he jumps out of the 

drivers seat into the oncoming traffic.  I am trying to

pick the glass off my boys.

I turn to get a look at the son of a bitch that plowed

into us, he is out of his truck, apologizing and using

all kinds of hand gestures to talk to my husband-he 

was saying he was sorry, but I don’t think he knew

how to say anything else in English, he was just waving

his hands and talking but I have no idea what he was saying-

You know my husband, he’s a pain in the 

ass sometimes, but he’s really just a big old softy,

he felt terrible for yelling Fuck at that guy so he 

starts apologizing and waving his hands around too.

There is so much glass in the car, tiny little pieces

in all of our clothes, and my little one he’s only 3 

so it was hard for him to try and sit still while I cut up

my hands trying to get the glass off of him.

All three of them had recovered from the impact 

and now were traumatized and screaming their

heads off.

Cars are flying past us-My husband and the mexican 

guy that hit us are deep in conversation,sharing 

a moment and bonding over the tragedy that has 

befallen us.  What needs to happen is that we need to

get the car out of the road and the kids away from 

all that glass, but no, My husband still feels so bad about

yelling Fuck that he continues to apologize to the Mexican,

I’m thinking that there isn’t time for them roast a goat over the fire

because we still have to get here-to the funeral.

The bad driver explains to my husband that he doesn’t 

have insurance, he has no idea what a bleeding heart 

my husband is...My husband LOVES Mexicans, the more

illegal the better-he assures this guy he won’t call the police 

or the insurance company or the INS or whatever the

hell they call  them these days.  I’m worried that if

my babies continue screaming I might shove some

glass in their throats just to make them be quiet and 

now we are all freezing, because with out car windows

it is God Damn Cold.

My husband comes back to the car smiling,

that is because he has been standing in traffic bonding,

instead of sitting in a freezing cold car with

screaming babies covered in glass-

“It’s alright” he says.

(Pause)

“He has four cars at his house, he said we

can have anyone we want”

So-here we are.  We made it.  We borrowed

a car from my son’s preschool teacher

We just left that piece of shit Chevet in front of an

oral surgeons office on Rhode Island Ave.

Before we left, that little Mexican guy started 

waving at us- he and my husband spoke with hand gestures - 

 Thanks to him, we remembered to take the license plates off.

My Current Pile of Metal and Shame

(Sing some of that “get’um up, round up song)

When I arrive places, people turn to see the herd of cattle passing.  Instead a small, dented, red, two door, Acura filled with a cloud of fog appears.
To escape the small red fog machine of shame I have to role down the window of the car and grab the outside handle of the door.  My windows are electric, when I turn the car off the automatic seat belt glides forward.  I turn to open the door
“Shit”
the handle is broken.  I put the key back in the ignition and turn it.
Out of nowhere, the seat belt flies back at me.
My arm has moved forward to flip the automatic window switch is all tangled in the fabric of the seat belt which struggles to move back to its position above my head despite my arm obstructing it while I reach out the opening window , grasp the handle and open the door.  While the door is open I have to again make my way to the switch which operates my window so that I can put it up, then turn the key and try to remember not exit the car while the automatic seat belt  glides , mindlessly, back into the position towards the steering wheel.