Idaho Driver

          His mind had gone transcendent, reflexes-only propelling him down the cement sidewalk, nose-in parked cars flanking on his right, cars patiently waiting for their drivers. The drivers in turn waiting to transact their boob-tube cable business on the inside of the Charter Communications service-center building. He did manage to perceive that the parking spot on the driver’s side of his van was empty. Cool. His reflexive autopilot could maneuver the meander across that little short cut. Instinctively he reached into his pants pocket to click the remote door-lock thingy. His mind transcendent still. Intently. Afar. Do not disturb.

Phew! Dang! That was close!

The rumpled mud splattered maroon SUV hissed and crunched to a halt. Front bumper with battered Washington license plate oscillated to immobility after the front wheels jammed the curb. The driver’s door creaked open. The old guy emerged, dogged up in dingy duds, twisted hair encapsulated by a flopped-brimmed old hat, squatly legs lurching him toward Charter’s front door.

Now fully disturbed, the transcendent one entered high alert. He could barely ascertain , because of the reflection of brilliant sunlight from off the windshield, but there did seem to be others still in that heap. To complicate the matter, the old guy’s aim was a smidgen off, not leaving a whole lot of room between their two parked vehicles.

With hesitancy he started to wedge between the two fenders. He could see that the passenger window of the beat up relic was open, and that some lady who had poured herself into a near seam-splitting T-shirt, was sitting there.

“Are you getting out?” he asked her, waiting to let her extradite herself if she should so choose.

“Growl!!!” The lunge of spitty fangs, snarl-breath, and bristled hair was mercifully jerked back. The old woman obviously knew how to handle the brute. But still, he froze his motion with visions of postmortem lawsuits now racing in his head. 

“Naw, I ain’t gettin’ out.” And then nonchalantly, “He won’t hurt ya!”

With the dog now restrained, he swiggled himself farther down between the cars, past his door, got his door opened, sucked in his gut and squished himself into the driver’s seat.

A glance to his left elicited a raised eye brow. 

Dog calmly sitting in the junker SUV driver’s seat. Paws on the steering wheel. The peaceful picture of complacent competence. To the casual observer, he was just waitin’ for the carhop to bring a bone in a basket with a side of fries.

He rolled down his window before backing out.

“You let him drive often?” He had no idea if that came across as an indictment or a hackneyed joke. Didn’t matter at this point, his car was already pro-actively in reverse.

“Oh yeah,” she says, that toothless mouth sucking in her cheeks, the rolls of ripples shaking with chuckles, “but he drives like’em Idaho drivers.”

“Okay,” he laughed, relieved that she hadn’t sicced the hound on him. “I’ll be sure to steer clear!”

“Yeah!” she giggled, pony tail bobbing in affirmation, “You better do that! And steer clear of thum Idaho drivers too!”

The transcendent mind soon found itself lost, again, this time way west of Idaho.

The Refectory Manager