UNBROKEN CIRCLE

         I could hear that woman almost the whole fifteen miles to the Newburgh sign. She was singing something about 'haulin'. The voice was that of a Black soul singer. She'd taken over my mind. My usual marker would be the "SERVICE AREA TEN MILES" notice just after the climb up from the Modena Creek, but as Sam Johnson said, 'the prospect of approaching death concentrates the mind'. I didn't think of Samuel then; I missed the sign completely, "events were in the saddle." Papajohn's Pizza 18-wheeler had pulled out into my lane just as I had reached his rear wheels.

         At first I thought the song was one of Hank Williams', but that didn't make sense. It had to be Irma Thomas doing the singing. Irma wasn't shucking me, trucks are always hauling, and this one made up his mind that his lane was not enough for him.

         We had all just come out from the tollgate that stretches across the Thruway at Harriman. There is a large apron there where behomeths rest, but shortly the road narrows to three lanes and then two as it plunges downhill. Normally the rule of road is faster gnats in the left lane and slow monsters in the right, and that seemed to be holding true at seven this morning as I picked up speed to pass the dough truck. Maybe it was the low sun coming from the right that blinded the knight of the road and let him think he could swing into my lane.

         I quickly canvassed my readers. They told me that my car would not look good as a convertible, nor would the loss of my head improve my looks. I practically stood on the clutch, threw the car back into third and veered onto the shoulder. I could not brake for immediately behind me was Jarhead, another nemesis.

         The Thruway’s shoulders are marked by a ribbon of grooved asphalt that sends out a whining sound when run over. The noise drowned out the oud of Simon Shaheen droning from my speakers. I gripped the wheel, pushed in and let up on the clutch, and the great silver monster's rear cleared my right front fender.

         As I went to edge back on the road, the white Passat driven by a man in a military crewcut blared his horn. I suppose he wanted me to drive to Albany on the shoulder. His car was more expensive than mine, a handy rule of thumb to keep in mind when playing chicken. I stayed the course, he eased off and I pulled back into line.

         To my right was the reason the truck left his moorings. A middle aged black-haired woman dressed in black sat in an old Sentra or Corolla. The rest of the inside of her car was packed to the roof with the contents of her household. I could not see her license plate but suspected it was from Kosovo. She could see out the windshield and her window, but nowhere else. She was driving very slow. Pappajohn, having to choose between sacrificing the fleeing refugee or the little man in the silver car, chose the latter. I can't say that I blame him.

         The semi was now passing another truck. This took some time, all the while Jarhead was riding my slipstream, or maybe he was pushing me. He was too young to have hair growing out of his nostrils and ears, but if he had, I could have counted them. I assigned him to the ranks of a West Point cadet, or cadre. I considered playing the old game, "Oh you think I am going too slow, well I can go slower" and easing off the pedal. I thought again. With the middle eastern music playing, I would probably have been picked up for being some sort of terrorist, so when my near executioner pulled into the slow lane, I passed him and pulled a safe distance in front of him. Jarhead roared off into the north.

         I was a little shaken but Irma kept me going. I had the lyrics messed up, having the singer standing in the station, not by her window, but this mattered little. She took me to Newburgh where I recovered my road awareness. I knew I was back to normal when I tried to recall the title of the song. Within a few miles I was setting down words in my head to commemorate the escape, mixing them with all the words to the song that I could remember. I still had her at the station, putting the coffin on the train. Then I segued to writing a Dewar’s Scotch profile of myself. Seemed better than a preliminary obituary.

         I wonder if readers remember the Dewar’s profiles. They were in magazines, usually a full page with a photo of some over-achiever who was recounting his or her greatest accomplishment, last book read, last this and last that. Come to think of it, the profile was not that different from an ‘obit’, but then that could be my perpetual frame of mind talking. I tend to be a ‘glass half-empty’ kind of person.

         Now I considered, should I censor my profile or leave it unvarnished? What does it say when my last meal eaten was a pizza, not made by Pappajohn, with olives, mushrooms and pepperoni? The condemned man wolfed this down just before watching his last film, “One Touch of Venus”, a charming ‘chick flick’ from 1948. My next-to-last great accomplishment was walking back to Pam’s apartment from the pizza parlor while carrying the hot pie. The pizza was my idea; the flick was hers.

         That we can joke with the pizza maker, gorge ourselves on pizza and then sit down and watch a film totally devoid of any meaning but making us feel good is our greatest accomplishment. From the first day we met, we have found neither of us ever has to apologize to the other for our tastes, likes and dislikes, or habits. We both know we accept each other and so I make room in my story for her. Had I not possessed driving skills, I know she would have seen that my profile be circulated and published.

         It probably would be found on the Internet using a Google search. That’s what I did when I got home in order to find the song. After stumbling through “Irma Thomas” and “Standing at the Station”, I took another guess. I typed “Circle Be Unbroken”. Originally I did not connect the song to Irma Thomas because it was possessed by the Carter Family, but she did sing it. I was a little mixed up in my words:

I told the undertaker,
"Undertaker, please drive slow,
For this body you are haulin
Lord I hate to see her go."

For the record, I didn’t see any hearses out there on the Thruway today.

Valatie May 21, 2002