Still Runnin Workshop Essay

Still Runnin

      It’s Friday night and the gypsy wind is warm tonight. The week is done and you find an empty chair far at end of the bar, away from the open end where the waitress stands. She is young and blonde, tall and supple; her hourglass figure and smooth face sends spark into extinguished fires that once burned inside the ancient men who flock at that end. She laughs and toys with them, flirts and wiggles for them. Her breasts strain to escape their straitjacket, her slim waist and flared hips move in opposite directions when she struts off to her tables…her admirers leer hopelessly, their eyes glued to her, silent wishes of youth cloud their vision. She is a lioness in training with beautiful losers as prey.  

      The out of balance ceiling fan clicks like an old wind-up alarm clock. There is a layer of dust bonded to the blades with a yellow pasty crud. Distorted Sirius music floats from the speakers of the run-down sound system. Five flat screen TV’s hang from the ceiling each on a different channel; CNN, The Food Channel, two sports channels, and the local news. A few tables and chairs fill up the back room, the waitress’s lair. Five dark booths with red vinyl seats and backs line the wall. Worn table cloths cover the scratchs and gouges in the tables.

      The bar maid, Mary Lou, smiles and walks to your end carrying a Coors Light and asks how you are. She is tall, much older than the waitress, but good looking. Her blondish brown, shoulder length hair is pulled back into a loose but sexy pony tail that flips and dances when she walks. Her voice is gruff and scratchy from years of stale cigarettes and burning shots of whiskey. Her cheeks sag a bit, her eyes sad from too many punches; her left finger still heavy with the ring. You tell her you are fine and smile warmly. She takes your fiver, and reaches for your hand. She asks if you are staying a while. She will be done in a couple of hours and has a few minutes to spare. You say you will stay.

      They are all the same…neighborhood bars. The name changes, but they are the same. Same sex starved waitress, same lonely bar tender, same ancient collection of patrons spewing out bullshit, same wooden bar, bar stools, sticky and filthy floor with black broken linoleum tiles, same back door leading to a dark and dangerous alley; and the same nicotine stained mirror in back of the racks of dusty bottles of top shelf liquor that no one can afford. The mirror. Every bar has it. Bob’s Bar and Grill has it, Blondie’s Beer Bar has it, The Old Coach, The Zoo, Sam’s, The 469, Anna’s, Murphs, Ollie’s, The Harvester, The Willow Bend, they all have the mirror in back of the bottles; and that mirror—and that mirror has faces; imprisoned faces, thousands of them, and if you study long enough, you will find yours there as well…you know you will.  

You sit quietly searching the mirror; your face appears between Crown Royal and Jose Quevero like an old friend you haven’t seen in a while. You smile, the face smiles. You sip your beer watching, listening. The waitress is laughing, her admirers hoping for a glimpse down her ever widening cleavage. The music drowns out the voices, the clicking fan. The songs isolate and insulate you…you and the face. Each song conjures another face, they are yours, but different, from a different place, a different time.

      It was many years ago, November when you left for Denver and the snow had blanketed the green grass. You tossed a few possessions into you pick-up, loaded the bike, and took off for the wild west. The radio was blasting, the windows down, you had five hundred dollars and on your way to find fame and fortune. A failed marriage, three failed live-in girlfriends, no job, and no time to heal, you didn’t care to.

Maybe Steppenwolf was right, you were born to be wild. Three months in Denver, the money was gone, laid off from the job at the concrete pipe factory, no place to sleep or eat. It had been three days since you ate last and a week since you slept in a bed. You found a dime in the glove box and made a phone call to a guy you met at a bar. He would buy your Harley for two grand. He was home and was still interested, but only had seventeen hundred. You said ok. You parted with the bike, stopped at Burger King, and headed for Dallas where a thousand dollars doesn’t take long to spend.

      You found a neighborhood bar right away. Biker bars suited you well back then. No one bothered you, you didn’t bother anyone…just sat and looked into the mirror. It was a couple of months and people started saying hey when you walked in. The bouncer there became a friend. One night, a fight broke out. He handed you a .44 and told you to watch the back door. The next day, it was time to leave. Being that wild wasn’t what John Kay meant.

      The beer is cool, sliding down your throat. You watch as the face in the mirror lowers the bottle. You ask yourself what is it that keeps you going, keeps you living, trying, pushing forward when it seems so much is pushing you back sometimes. The Boss and the E-Street band wails My Hometown. You laugh…your hometown.

      Your hometown is a shitty little village situated along the Erie Canal that long ago was a thriving farming village. Hunt’s tomato factory was the main employer with Birds Eye and Bemis Bag closely following. Soon Lipton’s built a large tea packaging plant in town. During WWII, German prisoners of war were transported by boat to ocean ports and distributed across the country. Your crappy little hometown was one of those places. Part of the barbed wire fence remains today. Then the politics took root. Crooked and dirty, a few “people in the know” milked, stole, and pilfered the town out of millions. So deep rooted was the corruption, payoffs, bribery, favors. Like the hospital where you were born. At twelve you lay on the operating table dying from poison surging through your body from an exploded appendix. A million dollar grant was awared to that hospital for new X-Ray equipment. Within a few years, there was no X-ray equipment, the administrators were gone, the town lawyers were properly bribed, and the million dollars just disappeared. Soon, the hospital disappeared. Businesses closed doors, those politicians disappeared, rich and laughing, and in the wake were poor and stunned out of work families. Your first impressions of politicians wasn’t good and still isn’t.

      Yet there are roots there, history, your history. You keep going back there, to your hometown. You remember when hot rods and muscle cars roaming Main Street looking for another race, another way to pronounce superiority, prowess in battle. Death wasn’t an issue, not when there is the thrill of victory looming. How fast could you go and survive? There was always competition; how many drugs could you do, how much could you eat, drink, puke, smoke, always trying to outdo one another…or yourself.

     
       Stairway to Heaven sends you searching for another face.  It was early August the year you started racing Nascar Modifieds. Modifeds are twenty five hundred pound rockets on tires that hurtle around half to three quarter mile racetracks. They look much like Indy Cars with fifteen-inch wide tires stuck out in mid-air looking for some object tangle with. Over six hundred horse power and huge brakes to slow down, these ground pounding monsters a half mile lap in seventeen seconds. Like gladiators stepping onto their chariots, Modified drivers toss aside any thoughts of survival. Total concentration is directed to winning, beating the completion, taking the checkered flag and waving it on a victory lap as if to taunt those you just shamed into loss.

      You slither through the window opening, twist and slide neatly into the seat, lace and buckle the shoulder harnesses, lap belts, helmet restraints, arm restraints, and sternum belt, then snap the steering wheel in place and check it for locked. Nothing is out of place, out of sync. You sit quietly in meditation, in peace, serenity. Sitting in the lineup area is the most peaceful time of your life. There were no voices, no buzzing, no faces. Then the loud speaker crackles, it is time to go. You flip the ignition switch to “on” and press the starter button. Without turning completely over, six hundred horsepower comes to life, exhaust pipes cracking and barking, gauge needles twisting and shaking. You push the radio button and check that the crew is awake, do a last check of belts, twist the steering wheel and yank on it to make sure it is locked on. The gate opens and you push in the clutch pedal slide the shifter into gear, wait until the car in front moves, crack the throttle, and let out the clutch…another race starts.

      Senses become hyper-tuned here, a left-over function of a pre-historic hunting instinct…a survival mode where colors become intensely vivid even in the darkening skies, eye sight is as keen as a predators, scents, smells are singled out and processed instantaneously, adrenalin surges through your veins, contracting muscles. The pace quickens. Testosterone burns your desire. The slightest bump or dip in the track sends shocks through the steering wheel. Heartbeat soars, pupils dilate, mouth becomes dry, sweat builds on your face. Final checklist--gauges normal. Rock the steering wheel—tires clean. Burp the throttle—car lurches and barks. Last pace lap—you line up inches behind the car in front of you—you touch tires with the car next to you. Back stretch—grip the wheel with your gloved left hand, pull on your belts with your right. Third turn—grab the shifter. Left foot—ride the brake—easy—easy does it. Your bumper is resting on the rear bumper in front of you. The radio blasts in your ear—Green, Green, Green! Your right foot smashes the throttle unleashing six hundred screaming horsepower. You power shift into fourth gear. Grab the wheel with both hands. You are traveling over one hundred miles an hour pushing the car in front—the car in back is pushing you—the car on the outside bumps your wheels. Sparks fly like roman candles in the night air. First turn—snap the throttle shut and smash the brake pedal. Turn left with 24 other maniacal lunatics all ready to risk life and limb, just to say they won. Your head is pinned against the right side headrest from the pressures of 3 times the weight of gravity. Second turn, right foot pushes the throttle hard on the floor. You feel the ass end get sideways, kicks out a foot, but you keep your foot buried in the floor. Have to beat the 24 car to three. He gets loose—an opening outside. You drift high down the backstretch setting up for the third turn. You are careening toward the tight corner at well over 130 miles an hour. Third turn—you wait a split second longer than you should before you smash the brake pedal—need to out brake the 7 car. You pull next to him on the outside and pull away on the front stretch. Lap after lap—high then low. Tap the 8 car in the bumper, he gets loose, duck under him. Rub the 48’s wheels, he backs out. Out brake the 34 car into 1. Out power the 68 on the back stretch. The pressure to win builds like a sealed off steam engine.

      You are drenched in sweat. Your hands are numb. Poetry in motion. An artist at work. Man and machine work as one entity. Flesh melds with metal. High-octane fuel mixes with sweat. Shocks, springs, tires all work with driver input. All exist for one purpose…to get to the checkers first. Win. Plain and simple. Survive and bring home the prize at any cost whether metal or flesh. Sacrifice everything to not lose.

      Twenty-five brutal laps, five more to go. You are third and your front bumper is inches away from the 45 car. He slips sideways coming out of the second turn. You muscle the steering wheel hard to the left and smash the gas early. The steering wheel shudders. The car sticks. You dive under him going down the back stretch. You are wheel to wheel. Tires touch. Neither backs down. You drive in deeper than you should…so does he. A puff of smoke, a shower of sparks and your world is white. There is no sound and time becomes non-existent. You are in another place, another dimension. There are no lights, no thoughts, no faces. The feeling of a fantastic serenity over-comes your soul and your spirit floats in feathery weightlessness. You exist on a plane never before realized. The peace you feel is comforting and you want to stay here.  

      Voices are piercing your ears and shattering the tranquility. They ask if he is moving, if he is breathing. You shake your head as a wounded lion shaking blood from his matted mane. There are people around your car. They are shouting. The sounds are muffled and worried, yet there are remains an uncanny quiet. You can’t move and see that the air cleaner is a foot away from your face. Your feet are twisted in the pedals, the steering shaft has hit both of your shins…your hands are still on the steering wheel that is in the roof. You grab the quick release on your belts. The remnants of adrenalin is driving your knotted muscles. Your belts fall loose. You unlatch the window net and try to untangle your feet. You struggle to break the grip your dead car has on you. You break free, twist and turn, and finally sit on the door edge. You swing your leg to the track and try to stand. It works. Your other leg is out and steadies your body against the banking of the track. A voice asks if you are ok. You ask what happened. The voice tells you that you went airborne…never slowed down and hit the concrete wall head-on at 130 miles an hour. You shouldn’t be alive.

      The car was bent in half with the remains of the front wheels straight in the air almost touching the roof. The impact was so hard that the soft tissue holding your eyes in your head was torn. Every muscle strained and hurt. Your face, chest, legs, feet, hands, all black and blue. You were bruised and beaten…but you might have won—and you survived where others did not. Your car is trashed, gave its life for you like a proud and loyal horse that valiantly carried you into battle.

      The silence is broken when Mary Lou slides another beer across the bar. She asks if you are watching faces again. You laugh and say yeah. She tells you to collect the faces. She is getting off in thirty minutes and walks away swaying, shaming the waitress. You love to watch her strut. You make eye contact with the face stuck between the beer and the bottles while Bob Seger tells me that I am older now, but still I’m running against the wind. And that’s just the way it is here on Main Street.