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February 2, 2003 wooden nickels The fog that December dawn was nothing like pea soup.  It was vichyssoise, white and cold.  The headlights of my speeding car illuminated less than six feet.  Projected on to the highway before me was a hologram of the P.E. coach who taught driver's ed in high school.  I hit him at 80 m.p.h.--splat!--then activated the washer/wiper switch to clean his imaginary guts from my windshield.  A speed-and-distance chart remained plastered there, like The Rib Shack's grand-opening flier. These two months later, I cannot remember why I hurried to reach the cemetery.  My father had been dead for years and I had long given up hope for a resurrection.  But I do recall precisely the words I whispered as I knelt beside the grave: "Don't take any wooden nickels, Dad.  Don't take any wooden nickels."

©  2003 by the beastmaster