Do you hear that music? That wacky instrumental that begins one of those crime scene SUV shows. That song everybody calls Teenage Wasteland? "Who?" you ask? Yes. The Who. Baba O'Riley. That song.
am playing it right now. Not instrumentally, of course. I may have my
own garage band, but I'm not that good. I'm playing it on my computer,
on the #1 son's Zune account thingy that he charges me half for each
payment period, so I'm gonna use it, by cracky! That haunting riff was
playing in my mind this evening on the way home.
some business to attend to. The Pony was planning to spend the night at
his grandma's house. I picked her up at the park so she could ride
along. Then I dropped them both off and proceeded to one of my three
financial institutions to complete my trifecta. As I turned right out of
that parking lot, using the proper signal, of course, an older model
Jeep Cherokee started to pull onto the same lane from street-side
parking. He saw me and turned his wheel back. Then pulled out behind me.
I bore him no ill will. He was looking at the road proper, not
expecting me to come out of that lot a mere twenty feet behind him.
JC turned right when I did, down past my mom's church, then left to
wind past the old mineral museum that's now a funeral home, past the
glass factory, over some railroad tracks, down to the four-way stop with
the sometimes-open sno-cone shack, to the next four-way stop by the old
7-11, past the tool factory, around the curve where Farmer H's old
friend broke his leg by shearing off a telephone pole, left by my mom's
bank that shorted her ten dollars this summer, up the winding road past
the shooting range, over some more tracks, past the ranch of Farmer H's
buddy who we told I was a game warden's daughter when he shot a deer
before sunrise on opening day, past the lake, down the street with the
tree at a 45-degree angle that I know is going to clobber me, past the
five-way stop by the library, past the dead-mouse-smelling post office.
was starting to smell a rat. How odd that such a stranger would take my
very detailed route. Did the JC guy think, perhaps, that I had money on
me from that financial institution? Long holiday weekend money? Was he
going to ram me, dismember me, rob me? I needed a plan, and I needed it
now. I figured that if JC turned right past the funeral home, followed
me past the mushroom factory, and turned onto the gas station chicken
lot with me...I would keep driving right around back, and go to my
second choice store for my 44 oz. Diet Coke. And if JC caught onto my
shenanigans, I would keep driving around that lot, and go straight
across to the police station. Heh, heh. THEN we'd see who was following
Sigh. JC's route diverged from mine at the dead-mouse-smelling post office.
Sometimes, I have kind of an active imagination.