Age, especially witnessing it in parents, does have it’s lighter moments, few as they might be.
When the Wheels Stop Turnin’
by Odin Roark
It’s not just gas, Gladys. Damn it. I know gas and this ain’t gas.
It’s gas.
Am I spent like a worn car? Is my transmission filled with nothing but fragments of old gears, gunkin’ up my forward momentum? Leavin’ me sittin’ on this bed like an idling clunker wanting only to shut down, huh?
You’re rambling again, dear.
Or have my wheels stopped turnin’ ‘cause there’s nowhere else to go? Nothing else to see?
You have the remote, dear.
If the engine still sparks, if the rest of the body is lubricated, if all that’s missing is…someplace to go, shouldn’t I be kickin’ my own ass, worrying less about if I have enough insurance and…and just plain goin’ for it? Like we used to do? Remember those days, Gladys?
Yes dear. And they were good days, but Lucy reruns start at ten.
Reruns, shlemielruns! Did you shut the garage door?
Of course. Why?
You didn’t lock it, did you? You always forget to lock it.
I locked it. You’re always on me…why so concerned, for Gods sake?
In case we want to…you know, go for it…later. Rev the engine. Go somewhere. See somethin’.
You’re sweet, but that’s the gas talking, Leo. It’s already later. Ten o’clock. Drink your Ovaltine, dear, and turn up the volume.
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chuckles
Ron
budd