When the Wheels Stop Turnin’

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 lyin’ 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 and do?

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 and worrying less about if I have enough insurance and…and pointin’ somewhere 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?

Bet 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 heaven’s 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.

Yeah.

Okay.

You’re right again… like most of the time.  

Think that’s why I love ya?  Click click .  Not too loud, though.  Okay darlin’?

Sure.  Not too loud is okay.  But… just for tonight.  Ovaltine good?

Yup.  Like always.