Medusa

August 24, 2011


I remember this drive. That this story is based on.  I had just broken up with a young woman. So I drove my motorcycle up north. I figured I would drive until I got tired. Maybe something would happen to change my mood. Which was sullen. At some point I just go bored and turned around. On the way back it started to rain. I had to slow down. The roads were slippery. I thought my luck couldn’t get any worse. Don’t count on bad luck. Sometimes it can turn to good. My gas pump started to leak. Not a lot. More like a drizzle. To match the rain. The gas was leaking into my crotch. I kept thinking that if a spark of some kind hit me, my crotch would go up like a torch. Luckily for me it was raining. I think that’s what might have saved me. I crawled home. Put my bike away. Showered. I smelled like Ode de Sunoco.

……………………………….

Medusa

 

Out of the city. 500 cc’s. Funneled madness. Tortured grin on my face. A Japanese chariot. Breaking wind.

 

No fixed mailing address. No income tax forms. No telephone. A free spirit. Sliding through life. Bruised bones. Cheeks. Insects pasted like stamps on my grin. Heading for Sudbury where civilization falls off the edge. Of the world. Into wilderness.

 

Only Medusa could challenge her hold on me. God I detest arrogance. In female form. Its always based on a true assessment of the facts. A river of wind. In my pipes. Motorcyle Nightmares. Girls with thighs like vices. Behind.

 

Day was white with silver linings. Hoped it wouldn’t rain. Transport trucks rushing their destinations. To places no one knows. Sucking me up in their draft. The sound of her bare feet. Sticking to the hardwood floor. Dust settling. Around the slippers she’d forgotten. In my room. Silence piling up against my bedroom door. Had to freeze her image. In my memory. So that I could defrost it later. When I had a yen for something Ukrainian.

 

A farmer in a field. Like a stamp in the corner of an envelope.

 

Highway black. Heart of diamonds. Traffic slow. A crowd of grey women. Filling church pews. Flirted with the oncoming traffic. Passing car after car. Thought about death. And being buried under a Volvo.

 

Cop car. On side of road. Radar.

 

We’re gauges the gods measure time by.

 

Lake Simcoe. Dead fish. Floating. Exhausted. Out of breath. Scooped up by fishermen. On dinner plates. Poison on the menus. Of the best restaurants.

 

Hitchhiker. He climbed on back. You can’t talk on a motorcycle. We communicated by banging our helmets. He said he was getting a headache.

 

Coffee and doughnut. Orillia. Syd Eats. Blond waitress. Handlebars. For big hands. ‘where are you going?’ Told her I was headed up to the French River. Dusted off my doughnut for me. Said she envied people. Who could just take off. Sighed. ‘Seems like all I do is meet people passing through.’

 

Hwy. 12. Cracks and pot holes. Cattle in a field. One turned its head toward me. Suggestively. And winked.

 

Waubaushene. Turned north on 59. recalled the trip monica and I made. To Georgian Bay. Secluded beach. Both went skinny dipping. I can’t swim. Monica resuscitated me. Her legs wrapped around my waist. I burned like bacon. Except my cock. Which stayed in the shade.

 

The dead aren’t conscious of time. They’re too busy trying to get comfortable.

 

Parry Sound. 8 o’clock. Place was dead. Outside the town a large crowd of people were gathered in a field. Night baseball. As I passed the parking lot I thought I spotted Howard Cossell. Bent over an old pick-up. Si-phoning gas.

 

Sunlight fainted. Night was a river. A chopper. Appeared beside me. A dude dressed up as a bear. Said his named was Franklin. Looking for the north-west passage. I told him he should have turned west on Highway 7. He shook his head. Sadly. Said maybe he’d turn back. And go see his mom.

 

Ray had said. ‘Monica is afraid of you.’ I couldn’t get that thought out of my head.

 

Each side of the highway darkness. Like thighs. The moon. A rose at the end of the road. Light like snakes. Crawling up the sky. My hand squeezed the throttle. Shoved the bike into overdrive. Back bent. My arms felt like wings. As I turned into stone.

 

 

3 Responses to “Medusa”

  1. […] Medusa « Hallidd's Weblog […]

  2. tbilisi said

    quite intriguing post

  3. Leah said

    Very interesting subject, regards for putting up.

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