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February 16, 2003 the process When I wake, I often lie in bed and think.  The first consideration is urinary urgency, though I rarely act on it.  Quiet repose should not be disturbed, no matter the cost.  Lying on my back, I cross my legs at the ankles and place one foot on top of the other.  Then I spread my arms out to the side in a T-formation, palms upward, fingers slightly curled.  I pretend I am Jesus on Good Friday. I do my best thinking in this crucifixion pose.  This morning, I meditated on time spent in high school when most of my waking hours were spent riding around my small hometown.  I had a white hand-me-down Toyota station wagon my friends and I called "The Ambulance."  I was on 24/7 call for love emergencies that never arose.  Still, with an 8-track tape player installed in my glove compartment, I was prepared for the intensity of futile cruising. We cruised for girls.  To begin a mission, we purchased beer with fake ID cards precisely crafted by a fellow named Paul a/k/a "Trunk" (like an elephant's) a/k/a "Pillsbury Doughboy."  Aside from his doughy texture and trunk-like penis, Paul had another peculiarity.  After very few beers, he'd insist upon exiting The Ambulance so he could dance "the gator" in the street.  This required that I insert Steely Dan's My Old School into the 8-track to facilitate street-gatoring to Skunk Baxter's guitar riff.  While Paul writhed around on the brick streets like Joe Cocker on crystal meth, the rest of us would sip our tall-boys and, occasionally, adjust the folded cardboard shim that kept the tape from double-tracking.  When the gatoring ended, the cruise resumed. I liked to drive by the homes of pretty girls in hopes they would be outside.  I hoped this despite a perfect record to the contrary.  Looking back, I'm not sure what I expected but, whatever it was, there was no empirical data supporting it.  I can't say it mattered though.  I enjoyed cruising in a car filled with itchy hope and cheap beer.  The process was the payoff.

©  2003 by the beastmaster