Super Woman Drives a Tahoe

Heat quivered off the blacktop like a flagellating metaphor tearing itself away from the pursed lips of cankered prose.

As the sun beat down, my niece idled in the left-turn lane waiting for the green arrow.

Riding shotgun, her mother kept a vigilant watch for anything that might endanger them. Armed with motherly instinct, her eyes darted and her nostrils flared, absorbing all available stimuli. She summoned her precognitive abilities to recognize any potentially threatening situation.

Unfortunately, this included catching a snoot full of the unencumbered B.O. from the shirtless guy two lanes over. She wavered a bit, nearly puking, but fought it off and regained her watchfulness.

An eighteen-wheeler on the cross street began a left-hand turn crossing directly in front of her new Tahoe, one of her most prized possessions. Centered in the cross-hairs of her vision, this set off all her internal alarms. Every fiber of her being went on high alert. With Big Blue-like speed, she calculated his path would cause him to clip the front end of her SUV.

She really wasn’t dressed for the part then, but at least her hairdo was in fantastic shape in case anybody had been videoing.

Faster than a thrown bull-rider anticipating a pocket full of horns, she jumped out of the Chevy, ran completely around it and stood directly in the truck’s intended path.

“Look! Out in the street! It’s absurd! It’s lost its brain!”

No, it’s Super Woman!

I can see her now, hands on her hips, staring defiantly at Mr. Truck Driver. Her angry thought-bubble encircled her most emphatic superlative for scoundrels such as this: “Igmo!” Yet he still inched slowly forward, oblivious to the force he was about to reckon with.

With the unmitigated wrath of a woman about to be done wrong, she unsheathed her most powerful super-hero weapon: her extended index finger. Had the lightning bolt been unleashed from its most capable tip, this driver’s height would have forevermore been measured atop his upper lip.

The power of this gesture caused the semi to jerk to a stop.

Dead silence fell on the scene. Shadows of circling buzzards suddenly moved slowly upon the street. You’d have almost expected to hear the opening strains of the theme from “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”

Anyone within a hundred yards of her could feel the throbbing of the rage being emitted through that pointed, slightly quivering finger.

I’m a little surprised her head didn’t explode from this pent-up anger.

Like a well-shaken soft drink just opened, her lips parted unleashing a most flowery dressing down on this fellow. With gestures and verbalizations worthy of a perfect score from any Hungarian judge, he got the LP version of the riot act. I’m sure there were anatomical impossibilities concerning what she told him he could do with his rig.

Needless to say, he adjusted his course along with the upward creeping of his boxers.

Once again, Truth, Justice and the American SUV owner had overcome the evil forces of ignorant driving. All those who had witnessed this stared in awe at her still-in-place hairdo.

I take a bit of responsibility for the development of this real life super-hero. She informed me recently that in our younger days I had lambasted her once for ordering a burger, without pickles, at a place where they don’t make it “your way.” She has this uncanny ability to misinterpret situations. More than likely, it was a case of me emphatically giving her street smarts about ordering burgers without wasting her youth away.

Had I known at that time she was a super-hero in training, though, I would have chosen my tone more carefully.

So if you find yourself surrounded by ignorant drivers or those who can’t order fast food correctly, here’s what you do. Don’t call her. She's not into random acts of super-heroism. Remember her handling of the truck driver. She only breaks out the cape to take care of her own.

However, if you’ve got a mischievous streak, dare one of your uninformed friends to mess with her prized Tahoe. The only thing missing for that to be a pay-per-view event is the voice of Michael Buffer announcing, "Let's get readyyyyyyyyyy to rrrrum-blllle!"

© 2006 Michael Wicinski

Give Him the Chair

Fifty-year-old men shouldn’t be riding down their driveway on wheeled desk chairs. It’s a poor reflection on their level of maturity. It’s a bad example for those impressionable thirty-five-year-olds, and there’s always the chance of soiled drawers. Then again, it could make for some awesome home video.

It just so happened we had such a chair. A handsome five-wheeled, chrome and cloth model. Unfortunately, having seen its better days, it was doomed for the curbside pickup. As it was dark out when this judgement was handed down, it fell to me to carry out the sentence.

When I say I have a long driveway, believe me. If it was completely flat, you could run a hundred-yard dash on it. It’s that long.

From the house it drops about six feet on a rather unassuming incline. Where it flattens out, it crosses a culvert which provides drainage across our property. From there to the street it rises ever so gently.

Being very tired that evening, I couldn’t see myself bending over and pushing this dead-chair-rolling all the way to the street. Ever the thrill seeker I thought, “Why not have some fun?” I sat down and pushed off.

Fear was totally absent from my being. My rationale was, I could steer with my feet. How difficult could that be? What could possibly go wrong?

As I started downhill, my first impression was, “This is going to be way more fun than I thought. This old thing’s still got some speed in it!” I was amazed at how fast it glided over the concrete.

Kicking with my left foot, in an effort to keep myself on track, I began picking up even more speed.

The key phrase here is, “in an effort to.” My perception of how easy this was supposed to be was about to be trampled by a stampeding reality. My efforts at fun were quickly going awry.

At that precise moment I discovered an anatomical fact about myself. I have an honest-to-goodness lead butt. For still some unknown reason it decided to lead the race to the cataclysmic end for which I was headed.

Hurtling backwards now down my driveway, I realized my butt was in line for a little off-roading before eventually sailing off into the drainage ditch.

Did I mention I had lined the ditch with fieldstone last fall?

Common Sense finally roused itself off the couch of my well-being. Surveying the situation, it put in an urgent call to Self Preservation.

“S.P., we’ve got major issues.”
“What issues?”
“The Court Jester here is about to go off the deep end. Literally.”
“Okay?”
“He’s not gonna die, but there could be marks left. If only in his drawers.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Things might get broken.”
“Oh my!”
“Worse than that will be the sermons, not only from his wife but his mother, too.”
“Man your stations! Prepare for a crash landing!”
“Can I transfer to a new unit after this latest fiasco is over?”

With the steep edge of the driveway drawing ever closer to the wheels, I can’t imagine why I had to think twice before acting.

Not a second after tumbling onto the blacktop I heard the sound of metal legs ricocheting off rock as the chair went solo into the ditch. I quickly got to my feet and scampered down the slope to retrieve it. No sense in getting the wife all a-twitter at this point if she decided to come outside.

I paused to reflect on the past ten seconds. I’d made it only a quarter of the way down my drive. Was thrown, once again, by a supposedly inanimate object. All my appendages appeared to be intact although without a thorough inventory I couldn’t be sure. I could call it “fun” this time because I wasn’t hurting.

Bending over, I pushed the chair the rest of the way.

Walking back, I checked for blood. At my age, oozing blood is a dead giveaway that I’d not thought things through to their logical conclusion. I could hear my mother’s voice: “Stop that bleeding right now or I’ll give you something to bleed about.”

There’s no doubt, fifty-year-old men shouldn’t be riding desk chairs down their driveway. Next time, I’ll just use my feet and surf it down the slope. Think of the potentially awesome video!


© 2006 Michael Wicinski