Book Trailer For Madam President

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Driving Through the Blizzard of 2011

The blizzard in Chicago assures you that you will be going nowhere. But you push it anyway and end up being the last man out of the coffee house that every sensible person left hours ago. Didn't you hear? Sixteen inches! Worst storm in history! Yeah Yeah Yeah. Let me finish this scene and I'll be along. But you do notice you can't see out the windows anymore and even the toothless guy in the zip up suit guys at Jiffy Lube wear looks concerned. She's going to be a doozie he says nodding. You wonder where he has to go because you can't stay in Starbucks forever. Mr. Starbucks the revolutionary studying theology goes out the door and comes back in giving up on the smoke. It's getting bad he declares to the toothless guy in the zoot suit and the writer in the scarf balancing the laptop. Morons I'm sure.

So head it home. The SUV can handle this. But where are all the cars and why are the only cars out off the road? Why is the guy in the middle of the road with his flashers on the hill? Could it be he cant get up the hill occurs to you as you rumble past. But now things are getting bad. You just cant see. The world has turned white like one of those car washes that freaks you out with blankets of suds and the claustrophobia grabs you by the throat making you consider driving through the car wash door to get the hell out of there. But there is no door to drive through because you cant tell up from down or right from left. You instantly win the Sarah Palin award for pushing everything once again to the limit. DUMMMMMMMMB

But like a pilot flying through clouds you guess where the road should be. You have driven it a million times and there are dim lights pulsing through the white haze that must be a car in front of you so you key on that. Keep the nose on the dim lights. You are now a sailor aiming for a lighthouse in the far distance. The light pulses and moves away and you push down on the accelerator. Lose that light and you really are doomed. So you inch along passing more cars off the road with misty figures standing by the side. You cant stop. If you stop the guy behind you who is also blind will ram right into you. Oh and by the way, you didn't fill up and your CHECK GAUGE light has just come on.

Now you are risking your life for coffee in Starbucks and reading an extra article in the New York Times. Run out of gas on this desolate road and you are just done. Oh and the cellphone needs charging too. Perfect. The complete moron. You really should call up to Alaska and ask if they need a campaign manager because you have out Palined the Palinator. Now that the road has vanished and the wheel is vibrating in your hand because there is just as much as snow on the road as off the road you consider your fate. Snowbank death. Turned over vehicle death. Frozen death. The wheels do not like the snow pushing back and of course you have no idea where you are and the gas gauge is screaming you are on fumes. You simply don't have any landmarks anymore and so you don't know how far you have to go.

You pick up the cellphone blinking BATTERY LOW. You dial the wife. Might as well do a Scott and Amundsen thing with a final I love you. They will bring that up at your funeral. If only he left the Starbucks earlier. Every one will shake their head: moron. You press send and the phone shuts down. No final epistle: I believe I could have made it if I put another mile behind me. So you are alone in your folly. Moron Moron Moron. The blinding howling wind taunts you in your capsule. You give in to the inevitable sputtering engine that is making strange noises. Then...like Shackleton's sighting of the whaling station after being lost for two years...the light appears.

That is the light on the corner of the road to your neighborhood. LAND HO! You knew you could do it! You turn in and glide down toward your home, cheating death, cheating the great blizzard of 2011. Sarah Palin will have to find another man. You pull into your garage and wait until the door is safely down and you sit contemplating the cosmos and your small place in it. Moron you mutter.

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Rocket Man will blast off soon

Books by William Hazelgrove