Most Accidents Occur. . . .

Originally Posted Wednesday, October 23, 2013

I wasn't feeling so well yesterday, but I had to pick up the printer I bought on eBay, so early in the morning my friend came over to drive down with me.  I thought it might be fun, thought I might show her a really good time, old haunts, luxurious and decadent old hotels and bars, Worth Avenue, The Breakers, and some other places, too.  But the drive was long and it took a while to check out the printer.  By the time we had the monster stored in the back of my Xterra, I was hollow with hunger.  We drove highway A1A nonetheless, a slow but scenic drive that put us at the restaurant on the water that I had chosen.  The day was muggy like a wet wool blanket and the sky was dull, the light simply heat and not brilliant.  My sickness was not overwhelming, but I was sweating like a sick alcoholic throughout the day.  I tried to tell my stories, but they were coming out flat and dumb.  I needed food. 

But the restaurant seemed changed like some hideous resort for the working would be upper class, those stock brokers and bankers who have made it into an upper echelon but who are paranoid about how they appear, those conservative geeks with their awful class uniforms that are neat but not interesting, the same polo shirts and belts and shorts and shoes, the same casual wear you might see at a Sandals (I can only guess about that).  It had not always been this way.  Indeed, it used to be a little seedier and sometimes a touch dangerous.  The marina was filled with big boats but somehow it didn't feel like a fisherman's dock any longer.  We had an average meal with piss poor service from people who were doing a bad job on a boring day.  We walked the docks afterwards and watched the incredible fish show in the clear water around the pilings, water filled with every species that inhabits this part of the world, better than any aquarium Sea World has ever put together.  But I was suffering and by now it was late afternoon.  There would be no Worth Avenue, no Breakers.  We headed for the turnpike and the long drive home. 

"Maybe we should get a bottle of something for the road," one of us said, but it was late and we were almost to the turnpike.  iPhones, though, are made for moments like these, and my friend found a liquor store in a shopping center not a tenth of a mile away.  We decided on rum and coke for the ride home, Cuba Libres with sliced limes. 

"I'm not really feeling well," I said.  "I probably won't drink.  Here, just fix me one in case." 

We decided to take turns telling traveling stories on the ride back.  The turnpike was relatively clear of traffic, and I set the cruise control at a safe 80 mph, and so we drove through the African landscape of the tropic plains expecting giraffes and elephants and lions with big manes but getting only wild black bore that had wandered dangerously close to the highway.  She would tell a story, then I, and we realized that every story was about the opposite sex in some way.  Romance and travel, of course, go hand in hand.  I was telling the story of my Kerouac travels just after college day by day, and finally I came to one that was adventure of something other than the romantic type. 

"I've got to pee," she said as we approached a rest stop, so I pulled into the parking lot and stepped out of the car.  That's when I could feel the liquor had hit me. 

"Jesus Christ," I said, "I guess I've been drinking."  She held up the bottle of run which was 3/4 gone.  "I think I need some water." 

Before we knew it, we'd hit the exit to my own home town and were driving down too familiar roads. 

"We made it," I said. 

"They say that most accidents happen less than two miles from home."  She picked up the bottle that was nearly empty and shook it.  "I guess there's a reason, huh?" 

This tore us up.  We'd found the true reason for that, of course.