Riding Home (Blogophilia 8.7)

Jeremy became more alert in the cool night air. The Toyota hadn’t been towed yet. Breathing in, he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The glow from the Kroger sign warmed him.  He faked calling the taxi; he knew the bartender was going to take his keys.  And he need time to think on how exactly to bring the ascendant swine down to their appointment with the butcher.

The image of the car bomb blinked silently in his mind.  Twisted metal shredding bodies.  "In Kandahar, a car bomb was detonated in front of a local police station…" . The words came out involuntarily.  Echolalia, he thought.  Common among the autistic and epileptic was what the article at the hospital had said.  Didn't someone say he was autistic at some point?  The doctors never could agree on what they thought of him.  And he didn't care. The reaction voiced what was inside.

He wondered if Kandahar could be replaced with Sandy Springs, Dunwoody or Atlanta.  All the authoritarian pigs who had bugged him for being a crazy drunk?  After all, isn't that what those crazy people over there are doing? Striking out against the pain and unfairness of this life?

It took three tries to put the key in the lock.  Maybe the taxi would be a good idea? Nah, he'd get some chatty Indian dude that smelled like last week's curry.  Not that he hated them.  They were pawns struggling against the system like everyone else.  But anyone like that would be a potential informant and he didn't want to expose anything too early.  Finally, the door opened and he spilled into the smooth cloth seat. He started the car and turned out on Hammond Drive.

The car had been Mother’s. He didn’t miss her, but her death did let him have a few things, like the car.  Beige and bland, it melted seamlessly onto the suburban Atlanta street. Nothing about it stood out and he liked that, especially since there was no other traffic. Too much attention had been paid to him already, especially by the police.  Flipping on the radio, he found the oldies station.

"Hey, Heidy and Howdy… It's Harry Handy, your randy, dandy late night DJ keeping you company here on 96.2 FM-WOFT, Old Fart's Radio. Radio for the Geritol Generation, still doing it after all these years…

Mother said to him many times she wished she had the abortion.  He was evil, pure and simple.  But he did have his uses in taking care of her disabled sister.  Aunt Sarah would spill things on the kitchen floor and Mother would make him clean it up by hand.  He still had scars on his knees from the blisters.  He was diligent and when he would finish, the grout was a white as when it was first installed.  Mother never acknowledged that.

 For you lonely drunks out there, and you know who you are, here's one from the 1960's… B.J. Thomas' Hooked On A Feeling...

Once in a while, Aunt Sarah would have him help with her baths.  Jeremy didn't mind because this was the only human touch he ever got.  He would guide her into the tub from her crutches in silence and turn the water on.  The wet curly hair and alabaster skin scented with floral soaps bought a little pleasure. Sarah was highly allergic to most flowers and there were never any in the house.  Mother didn’t like them anyway. 

When they would finish, he would towel off her backside carefully, following the exaggerated curve her back. He would knead the stiff muscles until they were pliable, and then hand her the towel to complete the front.  Sarah's cat would watch this from the top of the commode, amused at the process.

Once, he reached too low between her legs as he washed.  She slapped him hard enough to leave a mark and left with no explanation. He was stunned, and never repeated the move. Mother stopped the baths after he began to be aroused.  It was just too dangerous and she couldn't afford another mistake.  

Mother's scent lingered in the car, mocking his thought process.

So, are you hooked on your significant other's feeling?  No?  Here is a fan favorite..Drivin' and Crying, "Straight to Hell".

He thought back to thefire.  Conflagration filled his mind.  He could see the matches...a gasoline can, leaving the house, seemingly on a cloud.  Flames licking up from the basement windo. Did he really do that? Then an image of Sarah's cat, with all the fur totally charred off the small body came to his mind.  He remembered crying over it at the time. The cat was the only thing in the house that ever showed him any affection. Now, it was just a frozen memory.  

After the fire, he spent a very long time in a padded, windowless room with two large, smelly men with rolled up sleeves. The walls were stained where people had made contact. Were they slammed up against it?  The men badgered him mercilessly about what had happened.   As they wrote notes on their clipboards, they left the impression was he was going to go away for a long time.  The handcuffs hurt his wrists. He knew he was going to get his revenge at some point.

…For you Nikon enthusiasts, I have a special treat, Paul Simon live singing Kodachrome…

And now he may have a plan.