and fire protection systems. Neither, it seemed, maintained
a real office. Or worked very hard.
Somehow, it was closing time and
RJ, Jan, Bob and I packed ourselves into Lars’s Porsche and headed across the
Bay Bridge. Why, I do not know; my car was parked in front of Jan’s apartment.
Perhaps I thought I was too drunk to drive. Maybe Lars figured the only way to
get rid of me, thereby getting Jan alone, was to take me home. Whatever, I was
far too wasted to notice Lars was drunker than any of us.
Jenks sat in the passenger seat,
Jan gingerly straddled the gearshift console, and RJ and I were crammed into a
tiny space behind the seat.
“Nice car,” I said.
It was a mistake.
“Yeah, she’s a beauty. Want to see
what she can do?” Lars slurred.
Suddenly sober, I yelled, “Noooo!”
But it was too late.
Lars downshifted.
Jan giggled.
Lars hit the accelerator.
15
At a little after three in the
morning—an hour and several lifetimes after I had, in a moment of unbridled
moronity, jumped into a Porsche with a lunatic—I was back home.
I paid the cab driver the fortune he’d demanded to allow RJ into
his crappy old heap, unlocked my front door, turned off the security alarm,
checked the mirror to see if my hair had turned white, and gratefully sank onto
the couch. Had I the strength, I would have kissed the tile in my foyer.
My eyes burned from worn off booze,
fatigue, and no small amount of residual anger. I forced my eyelids closed,
hoping for relief, but instead got an instant replay of my rocky ride into
Hell. And that was before I got into
the taxi.
When Lars floored that Porsche, we
rocketed into a guardrail and continued scraping alongside for a least a
quarter of a mile. Metal tortured metal, sparking a meteor trail in our wake.
When we at long last bounced off the rail, the car began a hair-raising,
reverse loop waltz.
A series of
explosions—blowouts—were instantly followed by even more sparks as tire rims
sliced through shredded rubber, then struck the pavement. Our pyrotechnic
spectacular, well worthy of a Frances Scott Key composition, thankfully brought
traffic to a halt. I say thankfully, for when we ultimately skidded to a stop,
we were nose to nose with the grinning grill of a humongous eighteen wheeler.
The truck’s driver was not amused.
There was a moment of eerie silence
before horns began blaring, headlights flashed, and the truck driver threw open his cab door and climbed out
carrying what looked suspiciously like an automatic weapon.
“Lars,” Jan screeched, “ do something!”
So what does her lard assed
Lothario do? He jams the accelerator to the floorboard, spins the car
one-eighty and takes us on a four rim, sixty mile per hour bronco ride across
the bridge. I know I smelled brimstone.
Now safely back in my living room,
I opened my scorched eyes and shook my head to clear the lingering
screeches—metal, mine, and Jan’s. I wondered if she was all right. When RJ and
I bailed at the toll plaza to flag down a cab, she chose to remain with that
maniac Lars and his machine of doom. I reasoned that because Lars was insane
didn’t mean he was a serial killer. Just your everyday psycho with a death
wish. And as for that brother of his! I was building up a good head of steam,
moving from very pissed off to furious, when RJ’s frantic barks sat me bolt
upright.
“What is it, boy?” I asked. His
nose was glued to a closed door leading from the living room to a downstairs
bedroom, bath, laundry room, and garage that were his quarters when I was gone.
Behind the door lay a set of stairs
leading down to what had, at one time in my house’s life, been a mother-in-law
set up. Because my home was built on a slope, the basement level bedroom
window, with its lockable dog door flap, was directly under the hot tub. When
we were both away from the house, RJ’s private passageway to his outdoor pen
remained locked, as did the door into the main part of the house. The very
a real office. Or worked very hard.
Somehow, it was closing time and
RJ, Jan, Bob and I packed ourselves into Lars’s Porsche and headed across the
Bay Bridge. Why, I do not know; my car was parked in front of Jan’s apartment.
Perhaps I thought I was too drunk to drive. Maybe Lars figured the only way to
get rid of me, thereby getting Jan alone, was to take me home. Whatever, I was
far too wasted to notice Lars was drunker than any of us.
Jenks sat in the passenger seat,
Jan gingerly straddled the gearshift console, and RJ and I were crammed into a
tiny space behind the seat.
“Nice car,” I said.
It was a mistake.
“Yeah, she’s a beauty. Want to see
what she can do?” Lars slurred.
Suddenly sober, I yelled, “Noooo!”
But it was too late.
Lars downshifted.
Jan giggled.
Lars hit the accelerator.
15
At a little after three in the
morning—an hour and several lifetimes after I had, in a moment of unbridled
moronity, jumped into a Porsche with a lunatic—I was back home.
I paid the cab driver the fortune he’d demanded to allow RJ into
his crappy old heap, unlocked my front door, turned off the security alarm,
checked the mirror to see if my hair had turned white, and gratefully sank onto
the couch. Had I the strength, I would have kissed the tile in my foyer.
My eyes burned from worn off booze,
fatigue, and no small amount of residual anger. I forced my eyelids closed,
hoping for relief, but instead got an instant replay of my rocky ride into
Hell. And that was before I got into
the taxi.
When Lars floored that Porsche, we
rocketed into a guardrail and continued scraping alongside for a least a
quarter of a mile. Metal tortured metal, sparking a meteor trail in our wake.
When we at long last bounced off the rail, the car began a hair-raising,
reverse loop waltz.
A series of
explosions—blowouts—were instantly followed by even more sparks as tire rims
sliced through shredded rubber, then struck the pavement. Our pyrotechnic
spectacular, well worthy of a Frances Scott Key composition, thankfully brought
traffic to a halt. I say thankfully, for when we ultimately skidded to a stop,
we were nose to nose with the grinning grill of a humongous eighteen wheeler.
The truck’s driver was not amused.
There was a moment of eerie silence
before horns began blaring, headlights flashed, and the truck driver threw open his cab door and climbed out
carrying what looked suspiciously like an automatic weapon.
“Lars,” Jan screeched, “ do something!”
So what does her lard assed
Lothario do? He jams the accelerator to the floorboard, spins the car
one-eighty and takes us on a four rim, sixty mile per hour bronco ride across
the bridge. I know I smelled brimstone.
Now safely back in my living room,
I opened my scorched eyes and shook my head to clear the lingering
screeches—metal, mine, and Jan’s. I wondered if she was all right. When RJ and
I bailed at the toll plaza to flag down a cab, she chose to remain with that
maniac Lars and his machine of doom. I reasoned that because Lars was insane
didn’t mean he was a serial killer. Just your everyday psycho with a death
wish. And as for that brother of his! I was building up a good head of steam,
moving from very pissed off to furious, when RJ’s frantic barks sat me bolt
upright.
“What is it, boy?” I asked. His
nose was glued to a closed door leading from the living room to a downstairs
bedroom, bath, laundry room, and garage that were his quarters when I was gone.
Behind the door lay a set of stairs
leading down to what had, at one time in my house’s life, been a mother-in-law
set up. Because my home was built on a slope, the basement level bedroom
window, with its lockable dog door flap, was directly under the hot tub. When
we were both away from the house, RJ’s private passageway to his outdoor pen
remained locked, as did the door into the main part of the house. The very
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