One-Ton Dooley

A highway stop, a roadhouse bar, and I was feelin' dry
Though why I had to pick that place -- I should-a driven by
A hairy, open-carry drunk was gettin' coarse and venom-y
It was my great misfortune that he took me for his enemy
The sumbitch snarled, "So, yer feelin' lucky with yer luck?"
I said a thing, I think it might-a rhymed with "pick-up truck"
Then the pushin' got to shovin', and things got a bit unruly --
Now I'm headin' for a last ride in my One-Ton Dooley.

They drove me to the sick-house with a bullet in my gut
Ridin' shotgun ain't as special when your belly ain't quite shut
The doctor told me, "I'm afraid it's way beyond some stitches,
You'll prob'ly see the afterlife, thanks to them sons-a-bitches!"
They called my next-of-kin, an' my kid brother came a-cryin'
I said, "Yer better listen up, 'cause I'm a-busy dyin' --
An' then we'll say goodbye, bro, 'cause I'll hardly hear yer Eul'y
From a Number 7 casket in my One-Ton Dooley!

"I never stand on principle, don't write no fancy verse,
I never saw the purpose of a chrome-bedecker'd hearse --
Why spend yer dough on transport when a good ol' truck'll do?
Keep the coffin lid wide open so that I can see the view.
The highway's full-a pretty sights while yer above the ground,
Just set me on a rubber mat so's I don't slide around,
Then drop me in a shady spot -- that's all I want, most truly! --
Salute me with a lawn-job made by my beloved Dooley.

"The moral of my story: Stay away from stinkin' drink!
Never hassle with an ass'le; never wrassle with a fink.
Keep yer fenders clean an' polished, keep yer tires full-a air --
Yer never know just when yer need to peel out-a there!
Don't spend yer money stupidly on luxuries and such;
Take all I got -- now on, I won't be needin' very much.
To my nephews, give my Stetsons; to my nieces, all my jewl'y --
They'll be stylin' in the way-back of my One-Ton Dooley!"

Copyright 2011 Bob Wait

On Baby Boomers, Silver Zloty's, and Cosmic Things

It's happened. Our tame, elegant family cruiser, The Silver Zloty, has become an object of nostalgia. If only in our own minds, that is; you don't hear the music industry writing songs about 1992 Camry's. But it had to happen, just as assuredly as once-modern '57 Chevy's, '66 Mustangs, and '73 Super Beetles in their time became wistful objects of recollected desire. My '82 Tercel may have been the bee's knees, and our '88 Dodge 600 took us from Point A's to Point B's, but the Silver Zloty really aims to please!

This fact was driven home, so to speak, on this past weekend's round trip to Madison on I-94 for a Mothers' Day gathering. The Silver Zloty's ancient C-V joints popped and creaked, its tires flopped, its obsolescent cassette deck whirred, and its A/C system went unused due to a lack of ozone-destroying freon, its original supply of which we'd long ago released in a bid to kill off what remains of Earth's atmosphere. Long the recipient of $500 and $800 repair increments, per Wait's Laws, the Zloty has seen us through three multiple-trip moves, numerous weekend outings and holiday sojourns, and hundreds upon hundreds of workday commutes. It's been the sole survivor in our livery stable for more than ten years. It's still running -- just like us.

When my beloved spousal unit and I take the Silver Zloty out, fill it with 87 octane, and pop in the cassette of The B-52's Cosmic Thing album -- our soundtrack for twenty years of happy travel, the tape itself starting to fade and wobble -- it's not just a drive but a cruise. "Roam if you want to!/Roam around the world!"

Road trip!

Flying Circus

So there I was, riding shotgun in the Cessna, when the Primal Scream Therapist told me to keep the wings level...

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

A Carnegie Mellon grad student in the early 1980's, on a schedule and a budget, I needed to travel from Pittsburgh to Richmond, Virginia one weekend for a family wedding. I was rueing the cost of flying on the one hand and the time it would take to drive on the other. Buses and trains were indirect options at best.

By chance, I came across a 3x5 card posted in the student union: "Fly to Washington, D.C., any weekend, $50 round trip." Even in the era of People Express Airlines, I couldn't beat that. My parents would be driving from Washington to Richmond for the wedding and could pick me up. Terrific!

The pilot flew a rented Cessna four-seater. With my (ahem) exceptional ballast compared to the two other young passengers, it was decided I should ride in front for balance, putting me within close reach of the auxiliary steering wheel. (You're probably way ahead of me here...)

We're airborne. About halfway to Washington, the college-aged girl in the back announces, quite calmly, "I'm going to scream now." And she did: "Yyyyeeeeeeeiiiiieeeeeeghhhh!!!" I looked around. The pilot was seemingly untroubled by this outburst. Okay...

Again, as we got ready for the approach: "Yyyyeeeeeeeiiiiieeeeeeghhhh!!!" By then, I was reviewing in my mind a lengthy checklist of due diligence questions that I'd failed to ask before flying with this particular airline. Licensure? Insurance? Parachutes? Issues that never arise when one flies United. (Or never used to.)

We landed safely and taxied to General Aviation. The pilot swore under his breath as the Block Hours meter clicked once last time before shutdown, costing him an extra five bucks. We disembarked. Once more on the tarmac: "Yyyyeeeeeeeiiiiieeeeeeghhhh!!!" Naturally, heads turned from all directions: what manner of brutality had these men been inflicting on this pale, young lady in the blue skies above?

I got the full story from the pilot during the return flight. Yes, he was a therapist specializing in Primal Scream techniques, living in Pittsburgh, leading weekend group sessions in Washington. Yes, those were his patients in the back seat. Yes, he was licensed and insured. (I think.)

At the pilot/shrink's request, I held the co-pilot's wheel and tried to keep the wings level while he checked the aviation map, surely an apt metaphor for psychotherapy. Surely also an illegal act, for which the statute of limitations has hopefully expired for both of us.

In retrospect, it's probably best that we didn't know more about each other before I took the wheel. Had he known of my Driver's Ed encounter with the pigeons, he might have screamed.

Driver's Education

"Go ahead," said Zubes, the Driver's Ed teacher, as three dozen cheeky pigeons bobbed their heads, scuffling around on the pavement in front of the bumper of our student car.

Having executed a perfect stop at the stop sign, a rare triumph, I was hesitant to proceed through the ad hoc aviary. The prior week, Zubes had asked the kids in the back seat following my turn at the wheel, "Now, which of you thought Bob was in proper control of the vehicle the whole time?"

I was determined not to screw up again. Pigeon stew would not be on the menu today.

"It's okay, Bob. You'll never hit them. They'll move," he insisted.

I proceeded.

THUMP.

Zubes looked over at me with a combination of astonishment and, I maintain, grudging admiration. "I've never seen that before!" he said.

A tip of the cap to Mr. Zubal, and all the Driver's Education teachers out there. Would you want that job?