Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Sidebar: Vent

A small sidebar to the "Four Most Influential..." postings I've been making as of late; a brief moment to vent, if you'll allow it:

1. I need a new car. The speedometer and mileage indicator on my 1994 Honda Accord, with 162,000 miles, stopped working on the morning commute. Yesterday, I flipped $260 to install new front brakes. Recommended service for which I didn't partake: new shocks, struts, alignment, etc. all the way around, for a total of $930. A half-year ago I put $1,200 into the 4-door sedan to replace the water pump and timing belt.

2. I can't afford a new car---not until our Honda Odyssey is paid off (still a couple years away), or my wife finds a full-time teaching gig, or both.

3. Moreover, what I want is just shy of $30K, and gets crappy gas mileage, to boot. I want a 2006 Toyota Tacoma Double Cab, 4x4, short bed, for trips into the hinterland of our Southern Arizona deserts and mountains, and down into Mexico. In fact, a few buddies and I are heading down to Baja at the end of March, so ideally I'd like said vehicle by then.

4. Alas, I miss mass transit---the Metro in Washington, D.C., or even the reliable bus service in Denver. We have neither down here in Tucson. In Denver, our family had only one car---the Accord. Down here, we each need a car. That makes the oil companies, auto makers, and street repair companies happy, but does little for resource efficiency, environmental preservation, or real community.

And that brings forth a poem, one we've surely read before but now's a good time to revisit:

Cherrylog Road

-- James Dickey

Off Highway 106
At Cherrylog Road I entered
The '34 Ford without wheels,
Smothered in kudzu,
With a seat pulled out to run
Corn whiskey down from the hills,

And then from the other side
Crept into an Essex
With a rumble seat of red leather
And then out again, aboard
A blue Chevrolet, releasing
The rust from its other color,

Reared up on three building blocks.
None had the same body heat;
I changed with them inward, toward
The weedy heart of the junkyard,
For I knew that Doris Holbrook
Would escape from her father at noon

And would come from the farm
To seek parts owned by the sun
Among the abandoned chassis,
Sitting in each in turn
As I did, leaning forward
As in a wild stock-car race

In the parking lot of the dead.
Time after time, I climbed in
And out the other side, like
An envoy or movie star
Met at the station by crickets.
A radiator cap raised its head,

Become a real toad or a kingsnake
As I neared the hub of the yard,
Passing through many states,
Many lives, to reach
Some grandmother's long Pierce-Arrow
Sending platters of blindness forth

From its nickel hubcaps
And spilling its tender upholstery
On sleepy roaches,
The glass panel in between
Lady and colored driver
Not all the way broken out,

The back-seat phone
Still on its hook.
I got in as though to exclaim,
"Let us go to the orphan asylum,
John; I have some old toys
For children who say their prayers."

I popped with sweat as I thought
I heard Doris Holbrook scrape
Like a mouse in the southern-state sun
That was eating the paint in blisters
From a hundred car tops and hoods.
She was tapping like code,

Loosening the screws,
Carrying off headlights,
Sparkplugs, bumpers,
Cracked mirrors and gear-knobs,
Getting ready, already,
To go back with something to show

Other than her lips' new trembling
I would hold to me soon, soon
Where I sat in the ripped back seat
Talking over the interphone,
Praying for Doris Holbrook
To come from her father's farm

And to get back there
With no trace of me on her face
To be seen by her red-haired father
Who would change, in the squalling barn,
Her back's pale skin with a strap,
Then lay for me

In a bootlegger's roasting car
With a sting-triggered 12-guage shotgun
To blast the breath from the air.
Not cut by the jagged windshields,
Through the acres of wrecks she came
With a wrench in her hand,

Through dust where the blacksnake dies
Of boredom, and the beetle knows
The compost has no more life.
Someone's outside would have seen
The oldest car's door inexplicably
Close from within:

I held her and held her and held her,
Convoyed at terrific speed
By the stalled, dreaming traffic around us,
So the blacksnake, stiff
With inaction, curved back
Into life, and hunted the mouse

With deadly overexcitement,
The beetles reclaimed their field
As we clung, glued together
With the hooks of the seat springs
Working through to catch us red-handed
Amidst the gray breathless batting

That burst from the seat at our backs.
We left by separate doors
Into the changed, other bodies
Of cars, she down Cherrylog Road
And I to my motorcycle
Parked like the soul of the junkyard

Restored, a bicycle fleshed
With power, and tore off
Up Highway 106, continually
Drunk on the wind in my mouth,
Wringing the handlebar for speed,
Wild to be wreckage forever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What I'm looking for, I think, is something like that.

1 comment:

shann said...

thanks for this poem-