Twilight and glare or whatever.
Before we got rolling toward K.C., Natalie tapped the dashboard.
"We need to fill this bad-boy up! Serious fillage." Even at this relatively early juncture, I had become entirely accustomed to her idiosyncratic grammar and syntax.
She spotted a gas station adjacent to the southbound entrance to the interstate. After some fumbling with the credit card, the pump and the nozzle, we were ready. It was nearly dusk. She did the driving, while I navigated.
"South for a while. Mostly southwest," I announced, once we'd safely merged into the flow of traffic.
"So just down and over, right?"
"Down and over? Right, down and over."
Beginning a road trip of considerable distance with a relative stranger at this dangerous time of day gave me pause. The headlights hadn't completely taken full effect and it was hard for me to see. I figured it was hard for Natalie to see. Then she confirmed my suspicions.
"Whoa. It's hard to freakin' see. Twilight and glare or whatever."
"Uh huh."
In order to distract us from these annoynaces -- twilight? glare? whatever? -- Natalie directed her attention to the car radio, to find some tunes. Tuneage. All eyes turned to the radio. It was one that had come standard with the car, this powder blue monstrosity, this 1983 Oldsmobile Toronado in which we would soon die our fiery deaths. Its pre-sets were shiny metallic buttons, spring-loaded so when you press a button, the one that was originally depressed comes popping out of its socket with a vehemence you can feel and hear. Snap-click. Anyone with half a brain when encountering such a contraption would try to hold down two of the buttons at once, just to see what might happen.
"That's how things get broken."
"Uh huh."
If I were to remove this gaudy button, there'd be nothing but a small plate with tiny copper hooks on either end -- one end held the plate to the aforementioned gaudy exterior buttons; the other end attached, ostensibly, to the radio's internal wiring. The shiny metal on the pre-set buttons was, as far as I could tell, there primarily to provide the passenger with some sense of psychological remove between the button itself (merely a symbol, really) and the mechanism, raw and cold, that lay underneath it.
"And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And you may find yourself in another part of the world."
We sang along.
"We need to fill this bad-boy up! Serious fillage." Even at this relatively early juncture, I had become entirely accustomed to her idiosyncratic grammar and syntax.
She spotted a gas station adjacent to the southbound entrance to the interstate. After some fumbling with the credit card, the pump and the nozzle, we were ready. It was nearly dusk. She did the driving, while I navigated.
"South for a while. Mostly southwest," I announced, once we'd safely merged into the flow of traffic.
"So just down and over, right?"
"Down and over? Right, down and over."
Beginning a road trip of considerable distance with a relative stranger at this dangerous time of day gave me pause. The headlights hadn't completely taken full effect and it was hard for me to see. I figured it was hard for Natalie to see. Then she confirmed my suspicions.
"Whoa. It's hard to freakin' see. Twilight and glare or whatever."
"Uh huh."
In order to distract us from these annoynaces -- twilight? glare? whatever? -- Natalie directed her attention to the car radio, to find some tunes. Tuneage. All eyes turned to the radio. It was one that had come standard with the car, this powder blue monstrosity, this 1983 Oldsmobile Toronado in which we would soon die our fiery deaths. Its pre-sets were shiny metallic buttons, spring-loaded so when you press a button, the one that was originally depressed comes popping out of its socket with a vehemence you can feel and hear. Snap-click. Anyone with half a brain when encountering such a contraption would try to hold down two of the buttons at once, just to see what might happen.
"That's how things get broken."
"Uh huh."
If I were to remove this gaudy button, there'd be nothing but a small plate with tiny copper hooks on either end -- one end held the plate to the aforementioned gaudy exterior buttons; the other end attached, ostensibly, to the radio's internal wiring. The shiny metal on the pre-set buttons was, as far as I could tell, there primarily to provide the passenger with some sense of psychological remove between the button itself (merely a symbol, really) and the mechanism, raw and cold, that lay underneath it.
"And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And you may find yourself in another part of the world."
We sang along.
posted by davy at 1:09 AM
8 Comments:
No one cares about old car radios. Get to the part where you give Natalie some fuckage or she gives you some headage.
Um. Ok. Some of your readers are gross. But, I must admit - more info, please.
Sounds like the mommy needs a little salami. Love your blog!
I'm hooked. Keep typing. Please.
Lucky One - Foreplay is one thing, but this is getting ridiculous. We're ready. Talk.
this post reminds me a little of fear and loathing in las vegas, which happens to be one of my favorite books.
Seriously good fun. Love it.
Suspense is sexy. Keep up the foreplay.
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