I guess this short story should begin on the foundation of the fact that I stopped by to pick up a friend of mine after “Looking Around” some words I wrote about eight months or so ago, on or around the Fourth of July.
On our way to where we were going, we saw a fading American flag decal on the back window of a Toyota pickup truck with a bunch of flags rooting for the red team waving around in its bed. The man was driving like a bat out of hell just outside of town as if to draw even more attention to himself. The truck looked like something you'd see in the neverending crisis of insurgency knee deep in the Middle East. "Vanilla Isis, that's clever," I thought out loud. You could barely see the flag decal anymore because it was halfway covered up with a blue and brand spanking new sticker that said “Let’s Go Brandon.”
The driver weaved his way impatiently around and ahead of us before he took a right turn off the highway onto a dirt road and then he was gone.
It still seems that, unfortunately, the confusion of everything going on in this cesspool of a place is running on a quarter tank of watered down gasoline these days.
Not long thereafter, we took a left turn down a country road ourselves.
It felt good to be back in the driver’s seat of my soul after many tumultuous months riding shotgun with self-doubt, despair, overthought anxiety, et cetera. There was a little bit of binge drinking going on behind the scenes, endless days and nights of chasing the dangling carrot of late stage capitalism, and half-assed love affairs that were shattered mirrors of my own self-deprecation and undeveloped depression.
But none of that is either here or there anymore.
SHUT UP & DRIVE
"So who and the hell is this Brandon guy, and why is everyone rooting for him?” I asked my friend riding shotgun.
“It’s a metaphor for the President of The United States," he said to me.
“Well why and the hell are they calling him Brandon, isn't his name Joe? And why are they tagging stickers that cheer him on? Something seems a little off. Am I right?”
“It’s supposed to mean something completely different, a bit more vulgar, and not really clear for those who aren’t cozied up with the sensationalized pop culture of the conservative news media conglomerate run by that guy Murdoch.”
“Interesting enough.” I thought.
“If I may be blunt, it’s supposed to mean fuck that Joe guy.” he laughed nervously, seeing if he could get a rise out of me.
"Well, why the hell not just come out and say that like a goddamn adult then? Like you just did?” I said raising my voice a bit irate. “Seems like something more in tune with the behavior of children when they make a joke about the substitute principal’s granny panties, and then paste pictures of them all over the lunch room for everyone to giggle when they see it. It all sounds awfully childish and snow-flakey to me.”
“But the Democrats,, or Liberals if you will, are the snowflakes sir, this according to the right side of those who are only in it to conserve there own agenda these days. Don't you know this?”
"Well then this is that moment that I call bullshit on it. Because their behavior is, believe it or not, from what I can see, and according to the radical crowing of their external projections, let alone, still not being able to let go of a certain outcome of something a few years back, is indeed snow-flakey.” I said matter of factly. “And why do they have so much hate for the current president that they seem to be secretly rooting for him via a sticker that speaks in the terms of a metaphor?"
“My friend, you are aware of the current state of the US, and its economy are you not?”
“Yes I am. Always have been, as I have money I have to make and spend just to stay on my feet, get a good night’s sleep, and a Pisces to raise too, just like everyone else in this godforsaken greedy country my old friend.”
"Well, the circumstance behind it it all is thanks to none other than that Brandon guy and those damn liberals.”
"Now you wait one minute. Did all those who say so, or even yourself for that matter, go to college and major in global economics, the infrastructure of geopolitics and trading goods, and/or political science?”
"No.”
"Then how exactly can one pinpoint their finger upon the problem and place the fault while laying blame on the current president and his administration? You do understand that economic and political strategy is not left to be sensationalized as this, that, or the other by some so-called conservative, or even liberal, talking heads full of shit on the TV at night, who's sole intent is to divide us right? It’s all so damn malignantly narcissistic, a toxic cesspool if you ask me. And you do also understand that economies, even democracies for that matter, don’t just collapse into recession and absolute chaos over a span of just a couple years. This kind of shit just doesn’t happen overnight or even before halftime of the current administration's prime time football ballgame. Nor does it happen without prior manipulation and strategic planning by other politically demonized theoretics within our very own country and just as well those about a stones throw across the Bering Strait, and the neighborly commune that cozies up with the same political theory.”
“Keep going…” he said.
“You know as well as I do that I’m impartial to each, any, and every damn politician no matter what side of the fence they lean on. Always have been. I just don’t trust any one of them as far as I can throw them one goddamn bit, but one would be wise to read the fine political print, follow the money, and look deeper into everything that's happened since the beginning of 2014 right after the main villian from the last administration got spitroasted on live television by that well spoken black dude from Illinois. Shortly thereafter that, and the fact that that black dude dude laid the law down right around the same time on the foreign oligarchies just a stone's throw away from said Strait, that main villain was drafted to be the first string quarterback in ole Vladdy’s geopolitical takeover playbook. But that is all I’m going to say about those kind of things for today.”
“Well that," I continued, "and for what iit’s worth, what in God’s name is wrong with our cesspool of a country these days?”
“I agree and I’m not so sure, as I try and not think about it too often these days,” he spoke with a touch of empathy. “Let’s talk about something not so dividing and depressing though, like where are we heading to today anyways?”
“We’re just going for a little Sunday drive around the outskirts of this beautiful high desert countryside within my mind, looking for someone who's in the business of bringing clarity to toxic cesspools. It’s an absolute murky mess. We need to find somebody now, like pronto, one who knows how to handle such a cloudy cesspool and make everything so much more clear.”
DRIVING AROUND
So we kept on driving in circles and silence for awhile. We drove down one road, and around another, then another, looking for one place in particular that was in the business of clearing up cesspools.
We finally stopped at the place wherein which I thought we would find one according to the map on my phone, and on the back of a postcard I’ve been holding onto for quite some time, but the map on my phone was off by about 12.34 miles.
It was a place instead, that was in the business of selling the best raw honey money can't buy. There was also a sign that said something about fortune telling too.
I don’t know how I made such a mistake, or why the map on my stupid phone would send me on such a wild goose chase.
But it did. And here we are. And yet according to the map on the postcard in my back pocket, I was in exactly the right place.
“I need you to stay here in the car while I go and get some directions about how to find our way out of this arid and desolate place, and hopefully we’ll find that cesspool guy some other time.” I said to my creative sidekick, while looking for my hat.
He said nothing back.
I had come a long way from everything I thought I knew. But it was a pretty quick jaunt from the car to some immaculate looking woman hiding behind the veil of a screen door redistributing honey straight out of a mason jar.
"Pardon me ma'am, but might you know the direction in which gets me back to the highway that gets us home?” I inquired with a touch of anxiety in my voice.
“Yes sir I do, but you’ll need to try some of this delicious honey first to help you relax, your mind seems way too wound up today.” she said as she spooned a dollop from out of a jar she was holding between her thighs.
"Well beautiful, that’s the least I can do. What does a man need to do for a dollop or two of that sweet viscous nectar of the gods?”
“For you hun, the honey I imagine costs absolutely nothing,, but you’ll have to let me tell you your fortune while we're at it too.”
“Well, I’ve never had my fortune told before, so what the hell, let’s give it a shot.” I said from a fringe of unexpected excitement.
So she spoonfed me a wholloping dollop of honey like she was feeding a smitten young yellow bear cub. I could taste the sweetness of its tingle shiver all the way up my spine. It was eye-opening to say the least, and settled my rambling mind down with ease rather quickly. And then she pressed her cheek against my palm and read into things about literary outlaws, the virtue of patience, creative clarity, and last but not least, there was this bit about being an inspiration to half a slew of humanity as far as my fortune was concerned.
When we were all finished up with the reading, she subconsciously began tapping her finger on her heart as she was thinking, and said the way I should go was that way, but the highway where I thought I was headed was back the other way behind me.
“Well, how about this? How about after I get all of my shit together, I'll come back here just to see you and you can tell me more about my fortune and I can try a few more dollops of that otherworldly honey,” I said with a textually flirtatious advance.
“Could I come with you right this minute actually?" she asked with a smile that lit up Pleiades. "I need a ride into town anyhow to catch a plane one of these days.. And I’ll see that you get back to where you are going safe and sound."
"Are you sure? It’s bound to get a little crazy, maybe dark, and chaotic where I’m headed.”
“I’m a big girl, And I’m willing to bet you’ll make sure I’ll always be safe, smiling and okay just the same.”
Next thing you know, she was walking around the veiled screen door towards me with a rolling suitcase shaped like Saturn's rings and an entitely different glow. We made the short jaunt back to the car, and I made my creative sidekick that was with me earlier disappear into the ether of your imagination.
She climbed in the car like she was cocking a shotgun. She even took over the damn radio before I could say another word. I put it in reverse and rolled down the windows to the universe and started driving back down the country roads, and around the bend to my heart and soul.
And you wouldn't know it, but about halfway back, there was a Toyota pickup truck with a fading American flag decal, half covered up by a sticker that I was talking about earlier on its rear window. It was broken down and smoking like crazy on the side of the road. The smoke pouring out of it was a thick hue of Royal blue and spun around like an errant tornado from a typewriter spinning around on one finger. A couple of distraught and confused looking young men were working on it.
They stopped working and just stared at us as we slowly rolled by. I pulled over to offer them a helping hand. I stepped out of the car, walked up to them, and asked them if they needed any help?
"Nope, thank you though, I think we got it all figured out wiseguy. It's leaking oil something fierce, there's a crack in the engine block and we need to have it resealed, I think. And we've got to get this damn thing fixed, so we can hurry up and go shoot some guns, and drink beer before the sun goes and it gets too damn dark to see anything,” one of them said in a casual and sincere way.
“That sounds like fun. Are you sure, I can't help you fellas out?” I asked examining the truck further with my own eye. "I've got a pretty good idea that might help you at least get to and fro the shooting range before dark."
“Oh yeah, what might that be stranger?"
“Give me a minute while I go get my karmic repair kit,” I said on my way back to the car, while gathering her attention to roll down her window with a spiral gesture of my hand.
“Hey gorgeous, you didn’t happen to bring any of that universally extrapolating honey with you did you now?” I asked her as she rolled her window all the way down.
“Of course I did, but whatever do you need it for?” she wondered out loud.
“I’ve got an idea that might help these guys out for a little while."
“Well, there you go sir. For what it's worth, I hope it works. It's not for everyone you know,” she said as she reached into the backseat unzipping one of Saturns rings, before handing me a whole damn jar.
“How much did you bring with you?”
“There’s plenty to go around handsome,” she said with a wink that would've parted the Seven Seas.
I walked back to the truck and leaned beneath the hood to give it another look.
“So fellas, I have the most amazing trick in all the land, it’s as viscous of a solution as it comes, and it is guaranteed to fix, heal, and mend just about any damn thing if you apply it right.” I told them matter of factly. “And if y’all wouldn’t mind, I’d like to try and see if it helps to reseal the rugged mentality of your engine, and all its leaky seals for the time being."
“It sounds like a shot in the dark," one of them spoke slightly confused, "but sure, go ahead and give it try."
"You can say that again," I said with a shit eating grin.
So further underneath the hood I went, and started to spread that sweet smelling honey all over the damn thing. I rubbed it in every nook and cranny and around every hose connector and plug that a guy who isn't a mechanic at all, could ever think of.
“Now let’s see if we can’t crank this son of a bitch up,” I said standing back up from beneath the hood.
One of the young men sat down in the drivers seat, turned the key, and just as sure as shit, the damn thing started purring like a newborn lioness cub.
“Hallelujah, thank the heavens.” The three of us said simultaneously with a slew of high fives.
"Now that sounds like the sweet swmmetry of freedom if you ask me," the other young man said happily. His buddy looked at him with confused wrinkles in his forehead when he said it.
I spun the lid in a spiral direction and closed the the honey jar shut. I gave it to them, informing them that it was delicious on a fresh baked biscuit for breakfast. They asked me if I wanted to join them to shoot guns and drink beer.
I politely declined by saying, “I've got the most dangerous weapon in the world to tend to over yonder,” as I nodded in her direction.
Then I slammed the hood shut, shook their hands, switched phone numbers, while lightly discussing playing a round of golf sometime down the road. We wished each other all the luck in the world. I made my way back to the car in a patient manner.
As we drove off, she leaned over me and blew them both a kiss from her honey stained lips, and they said good bye to us with an amber like wave and crooked grins.
Turning back onto the highway, we smiled at ourselves on my way to the grocery store.
Because, for what it's worth, we are not scared or confused. We are just a couple of loving hearts and are just enjoying a Sunday drive through the countryside of my mind, talking about the inner and outer roads that people travel down just to go shoot guns and drink beer before dark, or just to pay a visit to his favorite dealer in the culinary arts for all the ingredients to make some spaghetti and heirloom tomato gravy for dinner, or how to readjust the meter on your inspirational wattage reader, or knowing how to creatively bring intimate clarity to a cesspool of hatred and indifference, or how some gorgeous stranger decides to give away the sweetest honey known to the cosmos out in the middle of somewhere within the aridness of my mind, and should never not be mistaken herself, as an amazingly gorgeous soul who knows a thing or two about the business of making cesspools a lot more clearer.
And yet, a short, spiritual distance away from the grocery store I pull up to a man’s house who may, or may not be, in the beginning stages of building something monumentous that helps to clear up the cesspools of such toxicity to the best of his creative ability,.
He’s virtually surrounded by just the right amount of pretty, creative, communicating, able-bodied, and eye opening equipment he needs, and he also has all of the spiritually sweet, mentally sound, and virtually patient tools it takes to be successful in the business of bringing clarity to toxic cesspools one by one until the end of time.
So that’s it. There you have it folks: They had to fix their truck so they could go shoot guns, and we helped them reach their destination by smothering its cracked and leaky seals with her celestial honey.
And I wonder if they even know what a treasure that honey was, and if you, the reader understand the underlying message of this post and the hidden love its words imaginatively convey.
Yes, our cesspool here in the USA isn't a cesspool at all, and is still very much transparent, funny, and very loving, if you make it so, and pay no mind, to the shit they try and sell you every damn night on the TV.
And for what it’s worth, it does, it feels good to be sitting in the drivers seat of my soul again.
Til the next time.
Yours truly & cordially,
Ryan Love
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