Oh, to be young and old and dead and alive and riding in the Flying Dutchman of the Plains. Little Pierre, his skin grey and flaking, tries his hardest not to blow away in a slightly powerful breeze. Peter Mouse, captain of the ship and a good man for a dead man, chews on dirt instead of tobacco because it's cheaper and, he thinks, tastier. A dead man doesn't have to worry about cancer, but even if he weren't he would, or so goes his line of worry. He also worries about the little skin left on him peeling off, bit by bit. His worries also include the fear that he will not find a good place to stop the rig he commands. They, dead folks all, stop and camp for awhile pretty often but never stay long, never longer than overnight. KOA's aren't that expensive but the cost does add up, even for the dead and gone.
Because they are dead they do not feel the cold in winter. Still, they must fill their Flying Dutchman of a Winnebago with antifreeze when the cold winds come. With antifreeze in hand is Peter Mouse, who handles much of the driving and most of the maintenance. When he has to replace the motor oil he tries not to let too much of it drip on his dry skin. If it drips upon him it stays and stays so the oil stains he has remain on him forever like extra liver spots.
Oh, to feel the rugged tires bounce upon the roads from here to there from there to here. The windshield keeps everything quiet inside. Thank God the stations of AM radio curl their fingers around the hills and make music and static dance even in the most remote places.
Rhythm of my eyes
black spots on a yellow day
rust smelling up the back bunk
dry your pants
roll down the ramp
signs move faster than your face
DEAD SET
They think so in the hot and in the cold. Little Pierre is so delicate that sometimes when he's folding a roadmap he finds himself folding up a part of himself, like his other arm, or one of his legs, or his belly or his chin. Maxine Vanderhofsberger has to keep recrossing her legs or else they'll calcify in one position and then she'd never be able to move them and there she'd be. Her face holds a spiderweb of cracks like an old painting on the wall of a fine gallery. Her brittle grey hair frames her face and continues growing even in her death. When she drives she brushes it aside to allow her empty eyesockets a clear view of the road ahead.
Fleek and Flake always sit in the far back, near the bathroom, and generally keep their mouths shut until they get excited. When they get excited you must see them to believe them. Their bodies contort in the most horrible patterns and compositions and the eeking sounds they create with their voices and the tiny punctures like blowholes from their heads to their toes are such as only the dead can make. What will make them so excited can be anything or nothing.
DEAD AHEAD
Oh, to be as free as a butterfly, having already eaten all you were ever fated to eat in the life before. To wait until the long lines of traffic get so perfectly linear that something alarming must be done. To completely forget yourself when some glare from outside bursts upon you instantly. To be so forgotten that most people would be completely sure you never were.
Like most drivers, Peter Mouse has a face and voice that transform monstrously when he gets behind the steeringwheel. He curses all drivers no matter who they are. They're all living, he thinks, and they're all dead wrong. Once his face must have been round. Now it is all bunched together like a curtain. He's mad at what he isn't now, what he wasn't before, and what he feels he never could have been. He envies the promise of the living and curses their stupidity.
Little Pierre always knows where he is, where they are. He drives the maps with his eyes as if those two dehydrated marbleholes were the round wheels of the Flying Dutchman of the Plains bobbing upon red blue and black lines that go straight or follow a natural formation. He is the navigator of the crew and keeps his maps arranged in alphabetical order under the swiveling passenger's seat. His small glasses have long ago rusted themselves onto the bone of his small but distinguished nose.
DEAD RIGHT
Oh, to be like the cause but to not be the cause and really only to have an effect. To see the paucity of caring that is there to be seen. To be able to breathe or not breathe and witness others breathing or not breathing without having to give it a thought. To be generous or not and to worry about it or not.
Years ago, too many to count, there was a huge stillness across the land. Everything that was was a part of that stillness, a part of a peace. If there were a God to piece together the peaces you would say that the world made sense. It knew itself and kept itself going with mistakes and perfections that made the night and made the day.
Today black roads cross the land, belting it all together and sending storms of automobiles bound for everywhere. The intersections and interchanges are eddies; the little land left between is the eye of the storm. Cars sweep across the land like winds from all directions. They pull the land along with them, and lives, and disasters.
The wheels of the cars beat down the land in a not so ancient but prolonged torture. The unsympathetic looks in the eyes of all the drivers empty out all hope. The wind cries for the lost land; rain and snow weep. The cars smash the roads to ruins. New roads must be made; these pull things together even tighter.
Maxine Vanderhofsberger steers it all clear of her mind. When Peter Mouse does not drive she drives. When she drives she tries to understand the driving process not only from her viewpoint and the viewpoint of her ship, but also from the viewpoint of the road and of the land which was sacrificed to give us the road. Sometimes she can feel the tiretreads of the vehicles smooth down the rough surface of her heart, and she guesses at the pain. It is so difficult for her to express herself in words but words are not always needed. All you have to do is search the cracks of her dried skin, the depths of her mostly empty eye sockets. Maybe the road and the land that used to pass beneath it can feel the pain inside her.
DEAD MEMORY
Oh, to see the progression of transportation: how the crawl stands on two feet and begins to take in the headiness that comes with balance and increased speed. How the walk turns into the run and learns how to hold itself up in the air without wires, without anything but muscular propulsion. How the run is assisted by certain mechanical qualities, or how other animals, faster, bigger, possessing more endurance, begin to carry the load. How the mechanical passes the animal and takes over the strength that the animal had. How the mechanical pushes itself forward with fire and explosions, how things burn and pump inside a closed space. How electrical and chemical processes turn the tires and spray out poisons left for breathing. How the vehicles grow in size and power and shiny brilliance. How transportation jumps itself into the air and stays there for good, or at least for long enough to get somewhere. How transportation becomes such a vital part of such an unexplainable day. How going places doesn't involve the body, and how the mind loses its place. How time changes into changes of position. How the roads keep winding, even when we sleep.
Long ago, a story could be woven. Now they all must run. Cars and the senses they bring with them are locked tight in our minds. The world seems more comfortable when you see it thru a windshield. It is easier to decide on a thing when you are going fast and distinctions blur.
Desperate stretches of speed
growing up side by side
old enough to get the keys
be back before 11
you can pull the seat forward
empty the ashtray
before you're home
find yourself behind an engine
DEAD CLOSE
Oh, to be the tailgating phantom Winnebago. When the wind blows high, when the wind blows low. These passengers are so old they've lost all their years. You never notice it until it's right behind you and by then it is much too late. If your safetybelts aren't on you're a goner. Even if you give the gas a good pump you can't pull away from them. Once they're right behind you, they cling tight, as if you were towing them. When the Flying Dutchman is right behind you, it is easy, so easy, to lose control. At such times you may not be responsible for your actions, but don't blame them either. You may have a power that you trust in your engine but that power is never enough, never enough when fate or eternity are involved. When the ghost-driven Winnebago appears like a phantom in your rearview mirror, you are fated for disaster.
Copyright 2002 John Akre
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