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October 10, 2002 waiting for rapture I sit in my car and stare at a Jesus-fish that swims across the rear of a convertible.  The October sky is crystal blue and the traffic light is green.  But the Jesus-mobile isn't moving and it's first in line.  I long for a blow-gun with curare-tipped darts. I'm in a hurry.  It has been three months since my vasectomy and it's time for a post-surgical semen analysis.  Dr. Karloff's nurse told me on the phone yesterday that I must deliver the semen to the lab no more than 30 minutes after "the sample is collected."  When I placed the telephone receiver in its cradle, I smiled at her choice of terms.  I've been jacking off for 35 years and I never once considered it science.  It's art. So now, besides being stuck in traffic behind some Rapture-waiting, convertible-driving asshole, I'm muling a spunk sample, 20 minutes old.  The collection cup sits in the console's cupholder.  I reach and retrieve it with the same right hand that, a half hour earlier, had done the heavy lifting in my Sample Collection Department.  The cup is still warm and I replace it in the cupholder.  The traffic light has turned red and everyone behind the convertible is honking their horns.  I join them and imagine myself with Gideon's men, trumpets blaring and Midianites fleeing. I can see the convertible driver's eyes in his rearview mirror.  They are closed.  I glance at my watch and my aging semen and realize I've got five minutes to travel a distance that would normally take fifteen.  I'm not going to make it.  I turn off my engine, exit my car, and walk to the driver's side of the convertible.  The light is green again, but the driver's face is gray.  He's dead. As I walk back to my car, police units arrive.  I look down at the collection cup and wonder whether it contains any swimmers.  Then I slump in my seat and stare at the Jesus-fish, waiting for rapture.

©  2002 by the beastmaster