Gypsies and Truck Drivers

I had nothing but time and money to kill and an itch to scratch. So I packed up my new traveling companion who had only 43,000 miles on it (I added another 5,000) and I hit the road like a gypsy.

I stopped in a little city where the sun don’t set called The Vegas and visited mi amigo Stephanie, who moves like a jelly fish and used to drink a teaspoon of soy sauce before bedtime. Her roommate Mindy, who called me "Ash" and I liked that, came bearing gifts.

All along my trip I filled my car with gifts, collections from my travels and half an Asian market. My car got heavier. My soul got lighter and started to smell like Korea.

I’m in love with the open road. Nothing but dust and burning desert to distract me from finding things I’ve lost, like peace of mind. An abandoned highway and the red and orange of dusk gives me clarity from the jumble and routine of our modern day lives. I'd left behind the numbing of everyday, the red-yellow-green, the assault of irrelevance.

On the road the sunset is mine to own. I don’t have to share it with anyone else, except Earl that creepy truck driver who seriously gives me the willies. Even though Creepster McGee probably had some poor soul duct taped in his passenger seat, maybe he found my same clarity. And so someplace between Provo and Sin City Earl and I shared a fleeting and soon forgotten sunset.

Future Posts:

Roger and the Dodger

I’ve mentioned before the Dodger’s days were numbered. Well the inevitable came when The Dodger left me in a cloud of smoke that poured out of its rattling exhaust pipe as Roger the car salesman (and aspiring photographer) stole it away. It took me all morning to clean out my little Neon. When I opened up my trunk I found all the things I’ve been looking for for years. The junk in my trunk could tell the story of my life.

As the blue smoke cleared from Roger and the Dodger I was left standing next to my new traveling companion, whose trunk would soon tell all my lives stories, now empty and unwritten.

Currently, I feel the Passat is a little mature for my tastes. I almost can’t take myself seriously in it. It has all sorts of crazy doodads I should be super stoked about, like that my engine is as fast as a rocket missile and that these computers on my dash calculate and crunch all sorts of equations things- like how long till I’m on the side of the dusty highway thumbing my way to a gas station. But truthfully, I’m just grateful for the simple things. Simple things such as when somebody outside of my passenger side window wants to talk to me I don’t have to put my car in park, lean across the seat and roll the window down while my arm cramps up.

The time is now yours to share a few thoughts slash memories about The Dodger (or claim any of your belongings that may haven been in its trunk)