Category Archives: Cars and Racing
“You know what my dad calls this place?”
I look above and around the chinch hanging on the walls and between tables, leveling my eyes at the sight of wooden peg games on each table top. A myriad of names pop in my mind.
She laughs as she says it, “Honkey Bucket.”
I’m careful not to laugh too loud. “I will never UNknow that! Let your dad know I’m gonna use it.”
We’re both being sensible; eating as much meat product as possible. While she does the ham-bacon-sausage trifecta, I go for grilled catfish ‘n’ eggs. We discuss the benefits of packing food vs. stopping to eat where we go. “My plan is to save every dollar towards gas.” “Me too.” I tell her about hurricane sandwiches, where you take the whole loaf of bread out of the bag, dress with nonperishable, processed foods, then return all of it back into the bag, the idea being, you can survive a hurricane landfall with this bag ‘o’ food. Yes, the butts are their own sandwich, or you can give them to the dog.
I reach for my phone. “Let’s talk route.” As Google Maps activates, I watch her watch our server pour water into her glass. Just as I think, ‘ooh, there’s a side spigot on that pitcher,” she says, “Umm. That was Sprite.” I want to laugh, but the server’s expression indicates she’s kicking herself internally. “It’s okay,” we both say, and the server explains, “I just got here. Haven’t had my coffee. I’ll get you another cup.” She says, “I totally understand,” as the server whisks off.
I felt compelled to admit I’ve never been a server. Either I was the manager or I was in the kitchen. “Hard to hit the floor when you’re not ready,” I assume. She’s the opposite; she prefers service positions. “Yeah, but sometimes once you’re talking to people it wakes you up.” I nod. That’s why I was never on the floor. I hated dealing with people, but I loved telling them to go fuck themselves. That’s when I realize, this person is good for me. I need someone who is naturally friendly and compassionate who I have no sexual attraction to. We can compliment each other without complicating each other.
I swipe the screen to enter an address somewhere in the American Midwest. The blue ball indicating our current location shrinks as the image expands upward, displaying the green penis of Florida and the expanse of North America above it.
In an act of complete abandon, a huge leap of faith on my protective part, I position the screen towards her. “Pick our route.”
She tightens her face to scrutinize the options. “We’re taking our time?”
I’m amused as she rubs her chin, clearly putting much study to the North America map.
“Either 20 or 40 but west for sure.” I have done the Florida to New York drive too many times, sorry Atlantic seaboard. I want to see some new shit. I hope she wants to see the Grand Canyon.
She points to Louisiana, a certain city I’ve never hung out in, just driven through. “I can talk to her about staying the night.”
“That’s cool. Definitely save on getting a hotel. But we need that confirmed before we leave.”
She nods assuredly, “Oh that’s fine.”
“She needs to be cool with us showing up at 3 in the morning with a dog.”
“Oh that’s fine.”
The paranoid part of me is screaming, but I let her rock out. I have to do this; I have to resolve my crisis of faith, and it starts with trusting this person.
Neither one of us has the will to clean our plates. Maybe if we had smoked prior to brunch, but, oh well.
I lift our ticket from the center of the table. “Honkey Bucket’s on me.”
[NOTE: Got big news for you, but why just blurt it out when I can make it a three-part reveal? :P Here's an attempt at flash NON-fiction...]
“The thing is, it’s been a long time since I traveled with anyone across the country. Thirty two states I’ve done completely on my own. But when I did have someone I could travel with, it was nice. I liked the company. That’s why I’m putting it out there; I need a wingman. A travel buddy. I figured since you’ve been trying to get out of town for awhile and you really don’t care where you’re going, as long as it’s outside Florida, I should give you a try, you know, see if you can really hang the way I need you to hang.”
She nods with understanding, then cranes her neck.
“You see, I have severe trust issues, like, SEVERE. I’m always the go-to person, the rely on person, the one who has to start and end the fights, you know…”
“The Protector type.”
“I can see that about you.”
“Well, I’m a practical person.”
Her order arrives but she’s not touching it. I float my left hand over her tray and insist, nonverbally, she start, but she waves me off, nonverbally saying, I can wait.
“You have to understand when I’m out on my own, I do whatever I want. I engage whoever I want. I plan to be in a state of constant discovery. If not discovering new places and scenery, then discovering how far over the edge can I push someone.”
Now that was a deliberate line because I want to see her reaction. Instead, she offers this:
“I can tell you’re the kind of person who does things within reason.”
“And if you can reason an action, you’ll do it.”
“Also yes. And I need you to go along with it, see? Something’s going down, I give you an instruction, there’s no time for discussion, you do it, you’re in, you’re out. Just like that.”
“Like, if I call your phone, you NEED to pick it up.”
“Right, because if we’re travelling together, what other reason can there be for you to call?”
“Exactly! And if I’m on the other end and I say, ‘go to the car, get the tire iron, bring it to me now!’ you gotta do it.”
Her face turns up, and she makes a half snarl, half sneeze expression to her right side.
“I’d come back with like, seven tire irons because I wouldn’t know which one you’d prefer.”
Left fist into right cupped hand signaled confidence in this proselyte possible progeny.
“Right! And if I only need one, you throw the rest!”
She stands and mimics one crazed urban ninja, tossing tire irons like shurikens.
My order is delivered to the table. The tattoo-sleeved, dark-haired, bearded fella would have been flirtable had I not caught the flatness of his ass.
I part my meal, she divvies hers, and we share plates across the table…
If it seems I’ve been neglecting this blog, I assure you it’s for a great reason! I gave myself until the 14th of this month to make necessary shit happen. Still in the throes of it, and am eager to share what I’ve been up to once we achieve success. So if you have a tendency to think negative thoughts about me, I ask you, kindly, just for this week, to put out a bit of positive energy into the Universe for me. Trust, if all goes my way, you shall be thoroughly entertained!!
Wish me glück/chance/suerte/luck…
Can’t seem to remember what it’s for…oh yeah!…cruddy old age… :)
You know how you look at a thing too long you don’t know if you’re done? I’ve updated two of my Pages, “All About Von” and “Make Contact”. Well if you could just dance through those, offer edits where necessary, so I can stop looking at this, I’d really appreciate it!
Going to walk away and shower while you do that. Maybe eat lunch. Yeah, lunch…
The copy and print center, where my business cards were waiting for me, was on the left.
My body veered right.
Where is it where is it? I sweep the air, following my nose. Someone is giving off the right combination of pheromones, sweat, and Ralph Lauren Polo, original. My nose leads me to the checkout line and I stand there, even though I’m not purchasing anything. I’m taking in that woodsy, grassy, linen-y play on my olfactories, quietly consumed by the smell of one of these men standing in line before me. My scent trance is broken when one of the men, purchasing an all-in-one printer, steps out of the line to let me forward. A gentleman. Of course, he’d be a gentleman. “I’m not buying anything right now, I’m just, uh, waiting,” and I immediately bolt towards where I was supposed to be.
My name is Von. And I am a cologne addict.
I’ve already determined the psychological singularity. My first official boyfriend was very scent conscious. His cologne preferences were a blend of Dad-to-son hand downs – Brut, Old Spice, Drakkar Noir – and modern (for the early 90s) Davidoff Cool Water, Hugo Boss, and CK One. Since him, I found myself drawn to scents, and the men wearing such scents.
As a girlfriend trying to win cool points, I’d pick out a cologne I deemed signature for the man I was dating. I have a knack for matching scent to personality, and the amount of compliments Lucky Dude received wearing my scent vouched for my keen nose.
Some guys insisted on an ol’ reliable scent, of which I discarded and exchanged for what worked for me. See, most guys assume a scent one girl likes is the scent all girls will like. Very untrue. Your pheromones adapt to the mate you’re pursuing, it’s science, so if you’re gonna reel her in, it’s gotta be the scent that makes her subliminally hot and bothered over you. Take the printer guy from earlier: he was easily in his late 60s, pale, wearing Bermuda shorts. Visually un-stunning but chemically ha cha-cha-cha-cha-cha!
I’m absolutely honored when my male friends ask for scent advice. A friend is heading to Atlantic City: “Alright, brah, is this a girlfriend zone or a bro zone? Bro zone, huh? And any of your bros bringing their ladyfolk? Nah? Alright. You need to get a suit, tailored, I’m gonna send you some tie ideas, and while you’re picking those up, get you some Polo Red if you’re trying to keep it classy, or Paco Rabanne, if you’re just trying to fuck all weekend. Bet? Alright, brah, have fun and don’t forget to wrap that shit up!”
Since I’m currently sans male companion, I supplement my cologne addiction with a yearly subscription to GQ magazine. I get extra excited when the issue is particularly weighty, because that means it’s full of cologne samples.
Mmmmmmmahhhhhhhhhhhhhh I snort those things like white lines off a stripper’s ass!
“So you got a girlfriend?”
“Why have a girlfriend?”
“So you don’t live alone.”
“I live alone.”
Ambitious. But then again, they all are.
“Ech,” I shrug, ” People will talk. This town? They all up in everyone’s business.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, “I don’t live here.”
We high five.
Moments later, he returns to my cafe table holding a piece of paper, which is ceremoniously placed beside my wine glass before he struts off. I lift it and observe a phone number, written in his own hand, circled, with his actual name under it. I’ve been calling him something else for over a year! I laugh into my glass while thinking, I was 17 when he was born.
Ardent. Overconfident. Of the Generation of the Oversharers.