An Attempt at a Hitchhike (Part 2)

Jim Meirose

The bug quashed. The short rewired. The pipes rerouted. The rooves reshingled and the matter agreed to being resolved, which agreement must be fully documented in two perfectly-matched Times New Roman single-spaced documents no less than three reams thick, respectively—and word for word manually matched and certified identical, then! Then stamped thusly.

—twice the distance to here as well, hippo; con hippo con sweet sweet she maintained her verbal headlock on the Kevin, to keep him within range of her perceptions of the law; but all was half-formed re her—while all round re Kevin was full-formed by tradition, so. Being a hitchhacker the big square chrome grille shed the last shimmer of distance, and its hazy aspect became all sharp “Horse”’s truck, though Kevin could not know this; his wigglin’ thumbnub grasped down “Horse”’s quickdriverin’ eye as what had been all chrome grille just became it pulled clean one feature of “Horse”’s all-truck, and over, and in got Kevin and it pulled—

Then and only then! May the rest of the checklist checkover be resumed, until be resumed until finally. Yes, be resumed, until finally. Yes, finally. Finally.

—pulled clean finally over after pulling down the latch.

Ho!

Yes, finally.

It pulled clean over clicking phatooey into the Ms.’ Face, and and, she recoiled—he sprang out her in got Kevin she recoiled—he sprang out her and in one blur-up sucked himself after into the truck, slammed the door, and told “Horse”, Hell—as Ms. VonderLee stood out there—thanks for the lift, to which “Horse” said, No problemo, threw ‘er in gear, clutched her out, this time thwarted but trailed by the ranks of her ‘men and ‘menettes rolling gassed her down from whom one or two clipboards sank unused to their clerks’ trouserthighs—but but but but—the transfer from one over into the other maybe done using the muscle of the entire gathered gang of ‘men and ‘menettes. Phew.

Ho.

So! Then, Kevin—do you now agree to these procedures?

Hey man, said “Horse”, as they rounded up sixty. Where you off to? But—

This driver stopped thinking twice about boldly stating what may be too much to the hitchhacker Kevin, who sat back breathing in hard, but after all out, soft, having cleareared his nostrilholes of the glistening slimecoat it had been six hours eh; ‘men where what we’re alone but “Horse” seemed to see on the road so far about the bigs body but yet soon to be seven after all it had been six hours on the road so far on the road eh; after three pails of ice water’s started in first gasping, then spitting, and; Hey, man, you look like you’ve been through it, my ‘menettes where what why we’re alone after all, but but like you’ve been through something but no matter really no matter at all—then now, thank God, free breathing flowed easy yes ‘s it might even get eight yet easier still oxygen all and soon to be seven on the road might even get eight nine all twenty—sodden straw under, eh, eh—but no forty yet no forty yet no no forty yet no forty yet no not even close yet, though each and every moment looks just like every other day—regardless of the sodden straw stench and the rudely boarded overbuilt nature of your unexpected cabtype, all around—but safe, nonetheless—as the Lent truck stop waitress had said of that biblical Samaritan—so Ms. Brucie-Yon VonderLee sat on her stones, flipped open her sturdy plasticized all-weather emergency sheaves, and made reading left to right down and left to right again, in whatever order desired—do not judge harshly who’s been placed in your path, to aid and comfort—to find how’d her very first day get off from her and hers, so. But so, he sat past it flowing down the road. Yes, the day’d flowed so far through a sauce much different from the others.

Do not judge harshly no.

But, so, he set past it flowing ‘tlast toward July morning.

Hey so. How far you headed?

I, uh. What?

Snakey footchains snaked forward, pulling ‘way under the strawgrassed seemingly properly rubberized footpads—so why?

How far? Where you headed out to?

The hazy winterbreath curling ‘round the barebulbed hanging lamps cleared away, as as if though maybe has been sucked to nothing by “Horse”’s question, which sounded. Yes yes, which sounded. Up clear from down his short-term memory, just in time.

Oh, sorry. Yah. About a state away—and, after having told “Horse” the town name, and milepost number, he’d researched ‘fore leaving, he added, I’m meeting friends for the July morning festival. You know about that?

I, uh—“Horse” then got hit by knowing the answer, which he said this way.

I sure do. At midnight on July first of each year, people gather around fires, play music, and wait for the sunrise on the Black Sea shoreline of Bulgaria.

 Kevin brightened fully—easing the fears of the observers beyond he and “Horse”’s confines, that the struggle to board for transport may have been too much for him—they withdrew as he blurted, Eh, ah—you know all about it, then. That’s great! You’re the first I’ve encountered that has heard of July morning.

Sure, yes—I also was told that Uriah Heep’s July Morning is the main refrain.

 Kevin turned left, and said fast, Told? Who told you about it?

—mayhaps someonce else may have crossed paths with this trucker, and and if it was on this veryroute, there may be a larger gang of friends a’waiting for when he gets there; more revelers equals more reveling equals—

I got the paperwork a few miles back.

—equals but huh what eh—

Paperwork? What paperwork?

Kind of like—I guess like a bill of lading. But—it’s to tell me I can expect to encounter such as you, within five miles of docu-receipt. And so, here we are. I found the concept of this July morning fascinating. So—there’s no such tradition in other parts of the world, eh? And you plan on taking part, eh? But, tell me. This is not Bulgaria. Is the information I was given inaccurate?  You better let me know right now, because if I was given a flawed document, we have to stop, and then—and then—we will throw the eggs into neutral—no matter how many or few dozens of fractions thereof may be involved in the what’s my cargo question—and then the top-drawer on-call executive staff men of each regime or regimes will meet regardless—they need to provide contact men on beepercall twenty-four-seven excluding in the middle of ceremonial turkey dinners involving over thirty revelers, or—

Ho!

Pop!

Instantly—back down the shoulder’s behind, Kevin’s eyes popped as he knew yes knew more actually realized, he’d blown it. The truck’s potent backwind waked over him, where he stood on the shoulder, still surrounded et et, still unboarded. Surrounded by the Brucie-Yon VonderLee and her ‘men hic ‘menettes hic hic and a downwave of terrified heatered down his front back and sides instantly tempered by relief all at once, but at seeing his bulged over travelpack instantly tempered by, tempered by, relief at seeing his bulged over travelpack by the edge of the shoulder which he had forgotten if he had actually been by the edge of the shoulder up the truck he’d of forgotten and if he’d forgotten which he had forgotten if he had actually been up the truck, all’d have ‘come to be disaster, so. He was grateful to her he was grateful to her and her men he was grateful to her and her men and ‘menettes which swarmed over him her ‘menettes and her men and ‘menettes swarmed swarming him over in his own warmth. In the warmth of their buh buh buh warmth of their relief. Better to have a chance to try again, than to have lost forever. But then chainy snaking out ‘neath the strawgrassed rubbery footpads that she and hers stood on. All readying.