Heavy Metal crew, I'd
just have to get by with my usual sweatshirt and faded jeans. At my
age, I was going to look out of place anyway.
While I was eating cold bread spread with
cold peanut butter, Nameless deigned to come up and poke his head
in the door. What he saw was of so little interest to him that he
turned almost immediately and went back down, his tail held high.
It was a fairly attractive tail, if you liked cats’ tails, with
dark orange rings around the lighter orange fur that covered it. He
was too polite to sit at the downstairs door and howl, so I went to
let him out.
After the sandwich I had a couple of
swallows of nearly flat Big Red from the two liter bottle and left
the rest, probably another two swallows, for when I came home. I
watched the news on one of the Houston channels, and the
anchorwoman told me that times were steadily getting better for the
Gulf Coast Area. The media had been saying that at least once a
month for the last two years, though I hadn't noticed any real
improvement. I don't know why they kept repeating it unless they
hoped that saying it would make it so.
After the news report I went downstairs, got
in the Subaru, and headed for the Gulf Freeway.
~ * ~
Broadway actually runs right into the
Freeway, or becomes the Freeway, whichever you prefer. By the time
you pass the Island's only shopping mall, you're pretty well aware
that you aren't on a city street any longer. Cars are speeding
along in three or four lanes, and you're headed for the tall bridge
with its truly superfluous "MINIMUM SPEED 40 MPH" sign. Anyone
driving 40 mph on a Texas highway is taking his life in his hands.
In spite of the fact that 55 is the maximum you can drive on that
part of the Interstate, most drivers figure that they can get by
with 65, which can easily be upped to 75 if they think no one is
watching. And most of the drivers on the Gulf Freeway seem
thoroughly convinced that no one is watching.
All of this makes life pretty tough if
you're the driver of a 1979 Subaru. I mashed the accelerator to the
floor and tried to keep up with the traffic flow, hoping that no
one in a monstrous old Pontiac or Buick from the early '80s would
flatten me without noticing.
At the top of the bridge I glanced over to
my right, as I almost always do, at the dark hulk of the old
drawbridge. I can recall having waited for what seemed like hours
for it to be lowered when I was coming back home from some trip
with my family when I was a kid.
It was full dark by now, and farther off to
the right the oil refineries and petro-chemical plants of Texas
City lit up the night like the set of the most expensive science
fiction movie ever filmed. The industry wasn't what it had once
been, however. It had not been so very long ago that a lot of Texas
were driving cars with bumper stickers that said, "DRIVE 75, FREEZE
A YANKEE," but now you were more likely to see something like,
"JUST GIVE US ONE MORE OIL BOOM, LORD. WE PROMISE WE WON'T PISS IT
AWAY THIS TIME."
The Gulf Freeway, perennially under
construction in one part of it or another, runs straight as an
arrow from Galveston into Houston. Past La Marque, past Texas City,
past Dickinson (a place that was once as wide-open as Galveston had
been), past League City. You can see their lights if you watch and
don't drive too fast. At night the lanes of the Freeway seem to be
a solid streak of red in front of you, with a solid streak of white
headlights coming at you from the other direction. I've often
wondered where all those people are going, and it's the same at any
hour of the day or night. Maybe they were all heading to one
version or another of The Sidepocket. Or maybe they were all just
going home. I suppose anything is possible.
I'd traveled the Freeway a lot, stopping in
all the little towns along the way, when I was looking for Jan. I
hadn't found a trace of her in any of them.
When I started seeing the first shopping
malls, the traffic increased, if that was possible,
just have to get by with my usual sweatshirt and faded jeans. At my
age, I was going to look out of place anyway.
While I was eating cold bread spread with
cold peanut butter, Nameless deigned to come up and poke his head
in the door. What he saw was of so little interest to him that he
turned almost immediately and went back down, his tail held high.
It was a fairly attractive tail, if you liked cats’ tails, with
dark orange rings around the lighter orange fur that covered it. He
was too polite to sit at the downstairs door and howl, so I went to
let him out.
After the sandwich I had a couple of
swallows of nearly flat Big Red from the two liter bottle and left
the rest, probably another two swallows, for when I came home. I
watched the news on one of the Houston channels, and the
anchorwoman told me that times were steadily getting better for the
Gulf Coast Area. The media had been saying that at least once a
month for the last two years, though I hadn't noticed any real
improvement. I don't know why they kept repeating it unless they
hoped that saying it would make it so.
After the news report I went downstairs, got
in the Subaru, and headed for the Gulf Freeway.
~ * ~
Broadway actually runs right into the
Freeway, or becomes the Freeway, whichever you prefer. By the time
you pass the Island's only shopping mall, you're pretty well aware
that you aren't on a city street any longer. Cars are speeding
along in three or four lanes, and you're headed for the tall bridge
with its truly superfluous "MINIMUM SPEED 40 MPH" sign. Anyone
driving 40 mph on a Texas highway is taking his life in his hands.
In spite of the fact that 55 is the maximum you can drive on that
part of the Interstate, most drivers figure that they can get by
with 65, which can easily be upped to 75 if they think no one is
watching. And most of the drivers on the Gulf Freeway seem
thoroughly convinced that no one is watching.
All of this makes life pretty tough if
you're the driver of a 1979 Subaru. I mashed the accelerator to the
floor and tried to keep up with the traffic flow, hoping that no
one in a monstrous old Pontiac or Buick from the early '80s would
flatten me without noticing.
At the top of the bridge I glanced over to
my right, as I almost always do, at the dark hulk of the old
drawbridge. I can recall having waited for what seemed like hours
for it to be lowered when I was coming back home from some trip
with my family when I was a kid.
It was full dark by now, and farther off to
the right the oil refineries and petro-chemical plants of Texas
City lit up the night like the set of the most expensive science
fiction movie ever filmed. The industry wasn't what it had once
been, however. It had not been so very long ago that a lot of Texas
were driving cars with bumper stickers that said, "DRIVE 75, FREEZE
A YANKEE," but now you were more likely to see something like,
"JUST GIVE US ONE MORE OIL BOOM, LORD. WE PROMISE WE WON'T PISS IT
AWAY THIS TIME."
The Gulf Freeway, perennially under
construction in one part of it or another, runs straight as an
arrow from Galveston into Houston. Past La Marque, past Texas City,
past Dickinson (a place that was once as wide-open as Galveston had
been), past League City. You can see their lights if you watch and
don't drive too fast. At night the lanes of the Freeway seem to be
a solid streak of red in front of you, with a solid streak of white
headlights coming at you from the other direction. I've often
wondered where all those people are going, and it's the same at any
hour of the day or night. Maybe they were all heading to one
version or another of The Sidepocket. Or maybe they were all just
going home. I suppose anything is possible.
I'd traveled the Freeway a lot, stopping in
all the little towns along the way, when I was looking for Jan. I
hadn't found a trace of her in any of them.
When I started seeing the first shopping
malls, the traffic increased, if that was possible,