Part 3: The Taxi of Ultimate Satisfaction

I wake up about ten minutes before we reach the bus station, and the old woman and her total lack of a larynx have found somewhere else to sit, thank Christ. I look out the window, and I am relieved to find a city swarming about me, large buildings, well defined, all man made. Everything nice and secure. Then I get a whiff of myself, and I know why I have a seat all to myself. I seemed to have sweat a lot as I slept.

As the bus glides into the station, I stand and retrieve my lone suitcase from the racks above me, and I make my way quickly out the door. The source of my discomfort has switched from a general dissaproval of all those around me to a sudden self consciousness about the amazing body odor I have produced. It's strange, how quickly I seem to have gone from looking down on this hive of disfigured and deformed travelers to trying desperatly to escape there scrutiny and judgement. I am very smelly. And I'm sure my hair looks like shit.

As I hit the sidewalk, I quickly hail one of the many cabs milling around the area looking for fairs. I bumble my way into the back seat, awkwardly trying to stuff my luggage in first, taking it out, entering, trying to drag it in, and so on. I'm still a little groggy. I give the cabbie my address. He warns me that the fare will be a bit steep, and I acknowledge this.I live quite some distance from here, but during my trip I got a call to let me know that my car had been stolen, so it wouldnt be any use to just hang out in the parking garage waiting for them to bring it back.

I consider for a moment trying to apologize for my smell, and explaining that sometimes I sweat a lot in my sleep. But why bother? It's there. He isn't going to bring it up. Why should I? Instead I space out for a while as the city passes by and slowly decays into suburb and then countryside. I think about my trip. I think about getting a new car. I think about how much I smell.

Country roads can be kind of pleasent. For some reason, I have always liked the look of big, wide open fields. I don't really like running around in them or anything, mind you. Just the look. And mostly, only if I see it through a car window. It seems there are a lot of things like that. Very pretty if seen from behind glass or on television, but I don't really want to go fucking around in them. Explosions, for instance, are great for television and movies, but having a nearby building or vehicle erupt in an ejaculation of force and heat is startling and unpleasent, to say the least. Snow is also pretty, but I don't really like to play around in it. It makes my mittens wet.

Eventually, I get tired of staring out the window at the passing kudzu and corn fields, and once again, I wish I'd had the foresight to bring some kind of reading material. It feels like I spend a lot of time waiting. In fact, it feels like I spend nearly all my time waiting. I wait for a phone call so I can wait for someone to pick me up so I can wait to get somewhere so I can wait to leave so I can wait to get home so I can wait to get tired enough to go to sleep and wait to wake up and start waiting for things again. I wonder what it is I'm waiting to do.

Right now, I am waiting for the godamned truck in front of us to turn off the highway, or something. We've been behind in for the last 10 minutes at least. He's going about fifteen under the speed limit, and there aren't many places to pass on the winding country roads. I stare at the back of the truck, burning the clay company's logo into my retina. He seems to slow down even further as we start up a large hill. I ask the cab driver if perhaps he thinks this might be a good time to pass the truck, and he shrugs and roves into the left lane, revving his engine to gain speed as we approach the hilltop.

It's a somewhat stunning moment when I see the hearse in front of the clay truck. It's always troublesome to find out that whoever you have been blaming your current state of inconvinience on is innocent of whatever crimes you have charged them with, but this seems somehow symbolic, or poignant. The stream of my life has been slowed by a dead man. There seems to be some kind of revelation here. Maybe that's all I'm waiting to do. Maybe I'm waiting to be the next to slow traffic down. Maybe I'm waiting for my procession. Maybe I'm waiting for the day when everyone will pay attention, when I'll be able to go through red lights, when all the people I know will speak well of me, and gather around to cry and mourn my passing for a few hours. Somehow, it seems like this will be the only accomplishment of my life. R.I.P. Now wait to decay.

As the cabbie picks up speed over the hill, it occurs to me that we are still in the passing lane. Somewhere, deep down, I feel a wave of relief. Things are about to get better. One way or another, things are about to get easier. As the headlights come over the hill, I sigh a little. And if anyone was looking, they would have noticed a very small smile creeping onto my lips.

I might just be done waiting.