same technique many times. Mostly when speaking to Sparky.
Cool air blew off the tiled German roofs below and I could see the Friday evening traffic down the hill. Germans on their way to some restaurant or festival. Maybe starting a quick weekend getaway to Budapest or Brussels. Headlights snaked in perfect Hessian order along the roads lining the Rhine. I could see aircraft safety lights atop the ruined medieval watchtowers up the ancient and sacred paths of the Taunus—towers that did not yet exist the first time I beheld the magnificent river below as I sat on my father’s shoulders.
I should be dust mixed with the ashes of my family, my friends—my comrades—who died years before Jesus walked across the sea. But then, there sat Sparky. His chunk-blowing appeared over, and if I allowed myself a few more feet down this sentimental journey I’d end up puking myself. I’m allergic to sentimentality.
Another deep breath from Sparky and I bent closer so he didn’t need to strain. He struggled through a couple of false starts. I put my ear close to his lips. He managed a hesitant sentence.
“Did you notice,” he said, “Soyla wasn’t wearing pants?”
He did the coughing-laughing thing. I just stared. Easy for him to laugh. He got the joy of committing whatever hare-brained, and as yet unknown to me, act that caused the whole Blood Feud thing. We’d talk about this right after I got him into the car. And I wouldn’t forget to circle back around to get the facts. I opened the passenger door and lifted Sparky into the seat.
And as I closed the driver’s door he said, “Try not to get blood on the seats.”
“Like heck,” I said.
I made sure to lean hard against the desert-tan leather and to snuggle-rub my bottom into it the bucket seat a couple of times. Maybe vampires can regenerate our bodies, but we still haven’t found a way to repair and clean our clothes. I’d just lost my best ratty sweater and only Crimson Tide t-shirt. Someone needed to pay.
I’d leak until he’d need a safety pin to remove dried blood from those little holes in the seat…the ones that let cool air flow out so rich butts avoid getting moist. I looked over to enjoy the horror on Sparky’s face as I ruined the interior of his expensive car. No luck. Sparky sat crumpled, eyes closed, passed out.
“Not believing it,” I said.
Sparky knew he owed explanations and he’d faked unconsciousness to weasel out of them. About two hundred years ago he shot himself in the head for the same reason. No way I’d fall for it again. I brought my fist down on his nose. The loud crack came back to me as sweet music, though I couldn’t detect a musical lilt to Sparky’s yell of pain. It sounded more like a person who just broke their nose.
I started the engine without putting in the clutch. The Jag jumped forward and smacked the “For Expecting Mothers” sign before the engine died.
“Oops,” I said.
Sparky didn’t reply. He was too busy trying to teach his good hand how to fish a handkerchief out of his back pocket. I started the car the correct way and rolled it backwards. I popped it into first. The gears made a noise that sounded like putting a piece of sheet metal through a radial arm saw. Sparky groaned.
That got the smile from me that wouldn’t come after Sparky’s childish comment about Soyla and no pants. Really. Some people never grow up. I headed for the autobahn that led to my little flat in Bad Homburg.
Since buckling up was the last thing on Sparky’s mind I took full advantage of the two decent curves between the Commissary and the autobahn. I managed to bang his head on the gearshift between us and his window. I could get used to playing pinball with Sparky’s face. We made it to the autobahn and I sped up to two hundred kilometers an hour. 122MPH in the USA.
The bad news is that Bad Homburg is about twenty five minutes
Cool air blew off the tiled German roofs below and I could see the Friday evening traffic down the hill. Germans on their way to some restaurant or festival. Maybe starting a quick weekend getaway to Budapest or Brussels. Headlights snaked in perfect Hessian order along the roads lining the Rhine. I could see aircraft safety lights atop the ruined medieval watchtowers up the ancient and sacred paths of the Taunus—towers that did not yet exist the first time I beheld the magnificent river below as I sat on my father’s shoulders.
I should be dust mixed with the ashes of my family, my friends—my comrades—who died years before Jesus walked across the sea. But then, there sat Sparky. His chunk-blowing appeared over, and if I allowed myself a few more feet down this sentimental journey I’d end up puking myself. I’m allergic to sentimentality.
Another deep breath from Sparky and I bent closer so he didn’t need to strain. He struggled through a couple of false starts. I put my ear close to his lips. He managed a hesitant sentence.
“Did you notice,” he said, “Soyla wasn’t wearing pants?”
He did the coughing-laughing thing. I just stared. Easy for him to laugh. He got the joy of committing whatever hare-brained, and as yet unknown to me, act that caused the whole Blood Feud thing. We’d talk about this right after I got him into the car. And I wouldn’t forget to circle back around to get the facts. I opened the passenger door and lifted Sparky into the seat.
And as I closed the driver’s door he said, “Try not to get blood on the seats.”
“Like heck,” I said.
I made sure to lean hard against the desert-tan leather and to snuggle-rub my bottom into it the bucket seat a couple of times. Maybe vampires can regenerate our bodies, but we still haven’t found a way to repair and clean our clothes. I’d just lost my best ratty sweater and only Crimson Tide t-shirt. Someone needed to pay.
I’d leak until he’d need a safety pin to remove dried blood from those little holes in the seat…the ones that let cool air flow out so rich butts avoid getting moist. I looked over to enjoy the horror on Sparky’s face as I ruined the interior of his expensive car. No luck. Sparky sat crumpled, eyes closed, passed out.
“Not believing it,” I said.
Sparky knew he owed explanations and he’d faked unconsciousness to weasel out of them. About two hundred years ago he shot himself in the head for the same reason. No way I’d fall for it again. I brought my fist down on his nose. The loud crack came back to me as sweet music, though I couldn’t detect a musical lilt to Sparky’s yell of pain. It sounded more like a person who just broke their nose.
I started the engine without putting in the clutch. The Jag jumped forward and smacked the “For Expecting Mothers” sign before the engine died.
“Oops,” I said.
Sparky didn’t reply. He was too busy trying to teach his good hand how to fish a handkerchief out of his back pocket. I started the car the correct way and rolled it backwards. I popped it into first. The gears made a noise that sounded like putting a piece of sheet metal through a radial arm saw. Sparky groaned.
That got the smile from me that wouldn’t come after Sparky’s childish comment about Soyla and no pants. Really. Some people never grow up. I headed for the autobahn that led to my little flat in Bad Homburg.
Since buckling up was the last thing on Sparky’s mind I took full advantage of the two decent curves between the Commissary and the autobahn. I managed to bang his head on the gearshift between us and his window. I could get used to playing pinball with Sparky’s face. We made it to the autobahn and I sped up to two hundred kilometers an hour. 122MPH in the USA.
The bad news is that Bad Homburg is about twenty five minutes
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