In one of those rare times when I open up a little to reveal a private smidgen of myself to the Universe at large, I present to you, dear reader(s) -- a poetic recounting of a particularly hot August Sunday morning in 1988.
This is what happened moments before my poetry professor arrived for one of the final classes of the semester. Upon entering, he glanced over my shoulder, seeing that I happened to be writing, read my clipped lines rather quickly and stated it was the best piece I'd written the whole course!! So, in it's December 7, 1995 glory I offer:
Hopewell Animal Hospital; August 1988
Hot summer day
Humidity for deoderant
Chocolate chip cookies for breakfast
Junkyard dog for entertainment
sun for a clock, the car a sundial
we wait for the owner
to open his garage
and fix our burned-out automobile.
We asked the question
"Why is the Animal Hospital
Open long before the garage?"
Was it because of Sunday
An unwritten law
stating "No business important to travellers
shall open its doors before nine a.m."
We wondered if the Animal Hospital served food
The deli was closed
Actually, it was gone. The store was empty
Elvis was dead -- we knew -- for eleven years
The town was asleep
We'd been towed into the Twilight Zone
The State Police didn't know what state they were in
Rod Serling was mayor
The tow truck freshly painted the night before --
awash in metallic speckles
like a Hot Wheels car
that's kept in its package
shared the stall next to our Chevy
As batteries charged and grinders wailed
"Memories" the King sang
"Pressed between the pages of my mind"
And why was it the Hopewell Animal Hospital
when we were in Fishkill?
Could we cross the street
and escape the ordinance
and the wrath of maneating mosquitos
The yellow line a mock border for insanity
We yearned to examine the town boundaries
For a way of finding civilization
certainly there must be people there -- the Animal Hospital was open
Reality was evading us
But this was very real indeed
finThis was one of the many close calls I've had in my life (you'll remember the near drowing in Pine Creek and the glancing blow from the airborne automobile).
After stopping at the Stormville rest area, my father, family friend and I climbed back into the 1973 Monte Carlo and continued to our ultimate goal of Binghamton, NY, for a day's worth of train photography. FAIL. Not five minutes later a fog develops, except it's not clearing from the windows and we all start coughing. So we pull to the shoulder of Interstate 84 once we realize the fog is an asphyxiating smoke from the car.
We trace the source to where my heavy hiney was deposited and pull the rear bench seat from the vehicle, discover a smoldering cancer melting the foam core of the seat and delve into the cooler of drinks to cool the ulcer and prevent further damage.
Having negated the crisis, we pile everything back into the car and prepare to head home for repairs. The car won't start.
This is in the days B.C. -- before cell phones -- so we're stuck in the breakdown lane of the highway for over 90 minutes. Did I mention nearby Newburgh Prison was under lockdown and no State Police officers were available? That's why the three of us guys were being eaten alive by some very hungry mosquitos while we sat on the guardrail in Fishkill, NY, awaiting rescue.
Yes, once off the highway and at a service station, we waited ANOTHER 90 minutes for further repairs to get us limped home. That's how we found the deli, animal hospital and nothing else that quiet Sunday morning. It truly was a surreal experience.
