Hola amigos. How’s shit shaking out? I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya, but misery’s been flying at me from all directions, and it’s been a damn full-time job to just duck out of the way of all of it. First off, I got a new gig about two months ago at Auto Zone. I stock parts, which is cool, ’cause I don’t have to deal with no one at the counter. I just got to run and get some belts or batteries from the back shelves once in a while.
Also, I been trying to keep my Festiva alive, and that ain’t been easy. If you want a 14-year-old car to treat you good, you got to treat it good. With my situation, I can get most parts for a discount, and if it’s small enough to fit in my pocket, I can get a five-finger discount, if you know what I’m saying.
I been through hell with Debbie, the chick I been banging for the last eight months or so. We broke up like five times, but it didn’t stick until last week. Sure, we always got into fights and spent a few days apart. But then we got drunk and we’re humping again. It’s totally different this time. I told her she should switch to Miller Lite because her ass was getting fat. She hauled off and hit me in the face with a hairbrush, and not the flat side of it, either. I don’t hit ladies, but I don’t have any compunction about picking them up and tossing them out of my apartment when they hit me.
She hollered like a cat, but there was no way I was going to let her in. The cops came and she left, and I ain’t heard from her since. I still get a reminder when I look in the mirror cause my cheek looks like I got some fierce zits.
Because of all the humping and drinking, I haven’t much hung out with Wes and Ron. But since they both got girlfriends, I guess they don’t got much time either.
Truth is, I’m like a wildcat, and not just in the sack. I can’t be caged. I got to get out and prowl my territory. After being cooped up so much, especially with a woman who won’t think twice about beating you with a hairbrush, I have to get my ass out on the road and just drive. It’s like instinct. So this weekend, I cruised the cruise like only Jim Anchower could cruise. I hopped in the Festiva, popped in a Black Oak Arkansas tape and hit the road.
There was nothing like it. I was flying down a country road, no pigs anywhere in sight. My head was clearing up and things were starting to make sense. I didn’t need no crazy hairbrush-packing woman around to be happy. She was just dragging me down.
About five miles out of town I started to smell something funny. Like… burny. That’s the only way I can describe it. About a mile later, I saw the steam come from under the hood, and I pulled over.
I popped the hood and a big old cloud came up and almost scorched my eyeballs. One of the hoses from my radiator was split, and that was leaking coolant everywhere.
Something like that is as simple as it gets. I could patch that up with some duct tape, then fix it for real when I got back. But sometimes you figure that things happen for a reason. It was 1:30 in the afternoon and I was on a country road in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I may as well fire up a bowl and just chill out for a while.
I walked a couple yards off the road, leaned against a tree, and lit up. It was all right. I just sat there and got mellow, not thinking about much. Then the whole situation with Debbie crossed my mind and my mellow was totally harshed. I mean, she hit me with a goddamn hairbrush! What kind of person does that? I decided that I should get on the move, otherwise I’d be playing that in my head.
I walked back to the car, all ready to fix it and split, only to find out that I didn’t have any duct tape. I remembered that Ron used it all back in December ’cause he was going to show me how he could make a wallet out of it, only he totally messed it up and used my whole roll. He promised to get me a new one, but he never did.
If my car was going to go anywhere, I was going to have to call for reinforcements. I decided to walk to the next house down the road and use their phone. I took another hit off the bowl for the walk and made my way.
After two miles and four farm houses, I found one where someone was home. They looked at me all suspicious for a while, then they let me in to call for help. I tried everyone I knew—Wes, Ron, Ron’s friend Rob, a few people I used to sell weed to—but I couldn’t get anyone. I was out of options, so I had to call Debbie. It went to the machine, but I knew she was home. So I said that I was in trouble, and if she could pick me up, that would be great.
Then I started to lose it. I have no idea what exactly I said, but it was long. And loud. And by the end, I must have been bawling or something, cause I was all snotty and wet.
After I hung up, the farm family just gave me a roll of duct tape and a ride back to my car. They asked if everything was okay. That’s fucking humiliating. I am in no way ever driving on that road again. It’s all wrong now.
Man, I’m not a pussy. I left a message on her machine, but that’s because I wasn’t thinking right. You walk out in the sun for a while and you get crazy ideas. It’s all cooled down now and I got my head on straight. I’m pretty sure I got in some choice stuff in that message for her to think about, though, so I can be proud of that.
I gotta get a cell phone, too. After that pain in the ass? There’s just no fuckin’ excuse for walking like that. Serious.
Jim Anchower joined The Onion’s editorial writing staff in 1993 after several distinguished years on The Come Back Inn dishwashing staff. He comments on community-affairs, automotive, and employment issues. He attended LaFollette High School in Madison, WI.
