The third day of
my road trip and I hadn’t yet showered. It relentlessly poured rain, so I’d
reeked of sweat, socks, and body odor so much that whenever I’d pull into a
sandwich shop after gassing up the Nissan, the clerks would gather in a
circle wearing orange HazMat suits, point hoses at me, and spray
me with perfumed chemicals. I’d be pushed into a dance, moving against their
violent punch, singing when they sprayed me, swallowing a few cups of those
toxins each time. I’d race back to the car only to throw up all over its
interior for 15 minutes – that kind of heaving, screaming retch that’s
practiced only by the dead drunk. So, you see, their attempts to get me to smell
better never worked, those assholes. I was continually covered in puked ham sandwich
chunks laced with industrial meat packing gel, all of which became fetid in the
humidity.
Yet, I’d say
those were the glorious days of youth, swerving through lanes with the
determined ease of a Canada goose flying north. This was when I was doing
nothing but delivering boxes of word-finds and crossword puzzle books to local
drugstores. One after another they greeted me, brooms in hand, smiling in
their small town aprons smeared with newsprint. And like a vomit-covered seraph,
I’d deliver dozens of distractions, share anecdotes, and waltz away with
nothing more than a wet pack of cigarettes (my brand was Vantage). I’d jam
another cassette into the tape deck, and race down the highway with such brazen
fearlessness that I could shuck and eat a bushel of whelks without
ever touching the brakes.
In retrospect,
that is what defines freedom, like rolling in freshly mown grass on a late
afternoon. I delivered crossword puzzles for six years until the whole business
was taken over by a craven conglomerate run by a publisher bent on cutting
corners and eliminating local drivers. I showered, moved to New York City, and
began a new life as the ad man at a surprisingly lucrative poultry
slaughterhouse.
