1 Stop. Before we go any further I need to clarify something. I didn’t sell out and I didn’t buy in. This is not the memoir of a social climber, mine was not a calculated rise from the service sector to the ruling class. If anything, this is an investigation into a momentary glitch in the socioeconomic laws of nature that allowed me to trip, fall, and land face first in the center of the American Dream. Granted, the dream belonged to someone else when I got there, but amusingly enough, it wasn’t that tough to make it my own. God Bless America. I met this suburban idiot with his bass-boat head and his white picket smile floating blindly above his upper-middle-class belly. He drove too fast, with the manifest destiny mentality that has infected our freeway system like leukemia. This drilled me. I hated his sport utility vehicle and his haircut that cried the injustice of the untipped. He cut me off without a single flash of his signal and the I-pay-taxes-in-this-town-therefore-I-own-the-road kind of scorn found only in overpaid, middle management, crewcut buttholes whose wives know the true story behind the aggression on the road and the frustration in the bathroom mirror. I know it wasn’t much—it was, however, enough. I didn’t hit the horn, nor did I shake the fist of frustration, instead I drove behind—very close behind. A foot or three off his bumper as his eyes locked with mine in his rear view mirror, upset at seventy, confused at eighty, afraid at ninety, yet unwilling to back the way down. We entered the exit at one hundred and seven miles an hour, my small engine howling under the strain of keeping my front bumper three inches up his ass as he squirmed in the front seat with his anger. A stop sign appeared, its command too strongly ingrained in this man to be ignored, he slamed on his brakes. Our bumpers kissed gently once, twice, then we separated and came to rest ten feet from each other on the frozen shoulder of the road. Intent on teaching a lesson he leapt from his front seat, red faced and shaky he ran to my window, a window that remained in the upright position. I bobbed my head as if there were music drowning out the sound of his foolish ravings. I wait until he touched my car, calling me out as it were, his glove slapping my paint, forcing me to step out into the cold. He seemed surprised, unsure of his righteous indignation now that he was now longer separated by that skin of steel and glass that protected him from anything more dangerous than the distracting crass gesture, the digital insult. Without a word or an acknowledgement to his outstretched hand of Minnesota greeting I smashed the tire iron across his face and watched his puppet jerk and splash as he dented the front right quarter panel of my car with his face. I couldn’t have cared less, it’s an American car, nothing but plastic and slogans, garbage I’d never finish paying for. It was funny the way that he rolled around, his eyes so confused, lost in the suburban void, searching for help he’d never find out here. I mean come on, you can’t get gas or a soda in this wasteland much less find a cop when you need one. He eyeballed that tire iron clutched loosely in my fist, couldn’t decide if I might decide to swing it again. I tossed it from hand to hand and smiled at the National Rifle Association sticker on the back of his still idling bumper. I showed him the iron but introduced my boot instead to the side of his squishy pumpkin. I enjoyed the safety of the steel toe. I looked down at this pathetic man and saw in him the face of, what? Power? Authority? Is this the face of my boss-teacher-counselor-father-mentor-older brother-cop, etc.? Is this the face of the guy that thinks he could and should tell me how to act-think-be-and relate? All the signs were telling me yes, this is that man. I understood that, and he understood that, which is precisely what made this entire situation so very funny to us both, ha-ha for me, strange - I am guessing, for him. I laughed at the thought and my boot said hello to his ribs. A sudden frosty wind rose up and iced the sweat that stood on my brow and made me aware of the soft freeway hiss coming in somewhere from my left. Aware of the tire iron buzzing in my hand, my heart pounding in my head and the man bleeding, unconscious at my feet. I stood poised to strike, foot cocked, weight shifted when I was stopped dead to rights by the question - why? Jiminy Cricket landed deftly on my shoulder and looked down at the broken man on the concrete. “I think you killed him.” “I didn’t mean to.” “Tell it to the judge.” I leaned over and pressed my fingers into the side of his neck stubble. “He has a pulse.” I leaned down to his face. “He’s breathing.” I stood up and walked the six steps back to my car. “Where do you think you’re going?” Jiminy asked me, his tiny insect jaws millimeters from my ear. “I’m getting the hell outta here.” “It’s four degrees below zero out here.” “What’s your point?” “He’s not even wearing a jacket.” “Is that my problem?” “It is now.” My kingdom for a can of Raid. His wallet was one of those hugely over-stuffed, posture-bending clumps of worn out cowhide. Engulfed in the flabby buttcheek the whole ride from the city, it felt almost like a living thing, hot flesh that I pulled from his Wrinkle Free Dockers, as if casual day had brought about the birth of this hairless blind mammal. "It's a boy,” I tell the blushing bumper. The Promise Keepers sticker made no reply. There were lots of pictures of stupid blond kids, and look there's mom, pretty as a picture - but then she is isn't she? Credit cards that would do me little to no good, I didn't want to rob this man, that's not what this was about, besides he only had twelve dollars. Then again, twelve dollars was twelve more than I had at the moment. I figured he owed me at least twelve bucks, justification pending. Now I wasn’t sure, but I could guess that when I walked up and opened his driver’s side door I was gonna be met by a couple of things; the security of the cell phone and shitty country music. The door went chunk as it popped and I was hit with this icepick trumpet so clean and pure, so one note long and loud that my breath was stopped in my throat and my heart slipped a note of regret. This was wrong, it all just went wrong with that trumpet. A steel guitar would have made it easy, but now? Breathe. Settle into that Corinthian leather and find the glowing green eye of the cell phone, find comfort in technology, then I was lost again in that trumpet... Turned the damn thing off for a second. Regained my head. “Pick it up Pete,” three rings, four, “pick up the damn phone.” Five and the voice mail kicked in. Passed on that. Called Chuck. First ring. God bless the Play Station Division of the Sony Corporation. "Yeah?" bleep bleep explosion. "Shit" "Chuckie?" "Yeah?" boing bong boing. "Hey there Hoss you up for leaving the house?” "Scott?" Explosion--bigger explosion "Of course Scott who else calls you? I need a hand, busy?” "No, fuck no, what's up?" booing bon bounce. "You winning?" "Naw man, new Crash’s kickin my ass." explosion "Shit." "I need you to pick up my car." "Where’s your car?" bleep bleep "Goddamnit!" "Sticks." "City?" "Suburbs." "That is sticks--Die you motherfu-- Where?" "South on 35, exit right before the McStop." "What the hell you doing down…God damn it.” explosion do dodoot do doot doot. "Just driving - you just die?" "Yeah just died... Keys in it?" "Yeah it'll just be sittin on the shoulder." "Flashers?” "No, battery’s weak." "Bring it to your house?" "I guess yeah. No, wait, bring it to, hold on a second." Dug through the cowhide, tiny compartments filled with trash. Christ where’s this guy’s driver’s license? Bingo there it was, old school license, thick plastic, doubles as an ice scraper, real picture, clipped in the upper right hand corner like a pang from the past. I longed for simpler times. Thomas Johnson, 25478 Brooktrout Court, Burnsville MN. I hoped Tom still lives in the court. "Alright, meet me at 25478 Brooktrout Court.” "25478?" "Yeah." "Man you are in the sticks, where's that then, Burnsville?" "Yeah, that’s what it says but it's more like Lakeville. Hey, don't bring Dave." "Who else is gonna drive me all the way out there?" "I don't know but don't bring him. He's a loudmouth." "I'll see who I can get." "Not Dave." "I know." "He's a hammerhead.” "I know." "I'll see you when you're here?" "Yeah." And just like that, I found myself on the side of the exit ramp looking down at the still inert figure of one Tom Jackson, or Johnson-Smith-Jones-Black, and I thought to myself. I hated to turn off the gentle grumble of the engine but I needed the keys to get the gate down, the gate down to get Tom in, Tom in to get moving, movement for progression, progress for life- "To life." And the engine was gone, just the chinkle-chankle of keys slapping against my palm and the softly sharp click as the door closed behind me. I was in space, on the moon it was so quiet, no traffic sounds, I was struck stone deaf or dead, I couldn't work like that. I trotted on back and twisted the ignition of my own car, heard the sewing machine spring to life and the world returned all around me. With a swing of a latch, a flip of a knob and a push of a button the tail gate slid down with a kiss of hydraulic air, and you could see Tom never carried anything so at least it was clean for carrying Tom. I hated the feel of his over-hot flesh squishing under my fingers, threatening to tear beneath my grip. There was nothing with which to gain hold and his head sounded hollow as my hands lost purchase and Tom returned to a position of slumber. Tried under the arms and instantly regretted the salt stains and wet spots my styling suede jacket just gained on the forearms. I tried to lift with my knees, not my back, but he was soft and flaccid, his arms all akimbo above my head, his open mouth hot by my ear and I was forced to smell his hair, cheap pomade and dandruff. I tried the favorite carry of firemen, gripped him tightly and pistoned my legs up from a squat, squeezed tight with my arms, caught in the breath, forced out a fart and ended up driving his lower back into the gate in a medieval chiropractic slash football maneuver. I rolled his upper torso so he was lying face down, head in, feet out, but would remain in place while I caught my shallow breath. Walked a little. Walked back to my own car and wished I could just drive away. Instead I sat and fumbled in the back seat for my worn and fingered Hudson's map book, flipped to the B's -- Brookbend, Brooklane, Brooktree, Brooktrout Ave., Brooktrout Blvd., Brooktrout Ct. B-2 -71. Not three miles, There we were sitting out in the ever-increasing cold when Tom had a nice warm home not three miles from there. Home, it was time to take Tom home. I took the map book, folded Tom into the back, fetal position would do. Chunk went the gate, click said the window and clank from the spare tire locked tight in its place. I eased into the giant, turned the key for the grumble, slid the stick into gear and eased off the shoulder in search of the elusive Brooktrout. In the rearview I noticed exhaust from my still running car left lonely in wait of driver but I didn't think about going back, I shifted into second, flicked a knob to the right, and moved on with that trumpet.