(no subject)
The old van spun on the aggregate, spewing limp roostertails out from the back tires, and making a crackling sound as tiny rocks sprayed from their resting places. Carmine wrestled with the steering wheel under his tattered overcoat, and bounced up and down in the captain’s chair, as Rush Limbaugh continued to blare out of the dashmounted factory radio, and the two furrows of the narrow gravel access road jostled and jiggled from beyond the windshield, and treeline whispered and curved in a vibrating chide along the path’s edges.
The gravel access road ended with two cement filled metal posts marked in yellow reflective tape, and emptied into the parking lot by the pars course. Carmine caught his breath, and told himself, somehow to calm the fuck down. Sitting in the captain’s chair of a dilapidated 1990 Dodge Ram van he had purchased from a Detroit area chop shop, and wearing, this time, the costume of a homeless man, Carmine needed to get his bearings.
He slowly parked the van in a parking space near the payphone, moving back out, and straightening up the vehicle. Twice. Pushed down on the parking brake, and threw the column shifter in park.
He stepped down the high running board, and slowly closed the door, only it wouldn’t stay shut, so he opened it, and slowly tried to close it a little harder. It didn’t stay shut so he slammed it, and sheepishly put his head down and his hands in his pockets, and walked over to the payphone mounted inside a tiny canopy made out of four by fours and two by fours.
William Comparetto
© 2007