Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Lost
"Did we already pass that sign?" She was right. The sign looked very familiar. "No," I said. "I'm sure I've seen that sign before," she said. "Well, you haven't," I snapped. "All right," she snapped back. "I just want to make sure we're not lost." "Well, we're not, so just relax." We were hopelessly, hopelessly lost. I had no idea where we were. I felt certain that I would never see home again, never read my books, never sleep in my bed, never play my videogames. I was going to die, in the middle of God knows where, and no one would remember me when I was gone. "Are you all right?" she asked. "I'm fine," I snarled. "You're sweating," she pointed out. "I'm fine," I said. "You're sweating an awful lot." "I said I'm fine, so God dammit, I'm fine, okay?" "Okay," she hissed. She sighed, shook her head, and looked out the window. The odometer kept rolling and rolling, and there was no sign of the Thruway. "I only mentioned it because I don't think I've ever seen anyone sweat so much." I flashed her an angry look. "I'm concerned for your health." "Well, thank you," I said sarcastically. "I'm touched." "And I just want to make sure that we're not lost" "We're not lost," I insisted. "I know," she said. "You said that before." "And I meant it," I said. "All right," she said. "I just wanted to make sure." "You've made sure," I said. "Now please sit quietly. You're breaking my concentration." She sat quietly. But not for long. "What are you concentrating on?" she asked. "The road," I said. "You're not concentrating on how lost we are?" "How many times do I have to say we're not lost?" "I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "Please don't make me say it again." "Okay," she agreed. I began to notice there were a lot of unrecognizable dead things in the road. I hoped none of them were human. Poor, lost, dead humans… "Sure is desolate out here," she pointed out. "It's not desolate," I said. "It is desolate," she said. "It's not desolate," I persisted, wondering if, in these parts, people ate their own young. "Besides," I continued, "when it gets…rural…like this, it's a sign we're close to the Thruway." I made that up on the spot. I was proud of the lie. It had sound logic, a trait all of the best lies have. She wanted to believe. "Oh," she said. "So we're close to the Thruway?" "Absolutely," I said definitively. "Okay," she said. Two hours passed. In silence. "Do you think we should turn around?" she asked finally. "Why?" I asked. I was on a roll. I sounded like I genuinely had no idea why we would want to turn around. "Because if we don't, we're bound to drive into the ocean soon," she said. I snorted. "We're not going to drive into the ocean." "We're not?" she asked, unconvinced. "No," I said. "There'd be signs. I'd slow down." "There's some good news." There was a gas station approaching on the left. I didn't like the looks of it. Rusty cars on blocks rotted in the front lot, the building looked like it had been assembled with superglue and old pieces of discarded plywood, and the pumps were circa 1932. But I didn't think I had a choice. "I’m going in here," I said, pulling off the road. "To ask directions?" she asked. "No," I said. "To get a soda." "Here?" she asked, amazed. "I'll be right back," I said. I was eyed with distrust the moment I walked in. A fat guy was hunched over the cash register like he thought I might snatch it from him. He had oil under his fingernails and sandy stubble smeared across his face. A thick cigar was stuck in his mouth and he'd been chomping feverishly at it for hours, maybe days, and the tobacco was unrolling, leaving strips of black leaf in his teeth. "Hi," I said. "You buying gas?" he asked unhappily. "No," I said. "You gotta buy something," he told me. "I'll have a soda." "Don't have soda." "No?" "No." "What do you have?" "Got beer." "I can't take beer," I said. "Why not?" he asked. "I'm driving." "So?" he asked. "I'll take a six pack." I said. He slapped a six of Bud on the counter. I paid. "So," I said casually, collecting my change. "How far is it to the Thruway?" "Thruway?" he asked. "What the hell's that?" "It's a big road," I said. "A hundred miles that way," he said, pointing in the direction I'd just come from. "I thought so," I said. I grabbed the six. "Thanks for the beer." He didn't respond. When I got back to the car, she eyed the six suspiciously. "That should help," she said doubtfully. I started the car. "Nice night for a drive," I said. She made a noise. I pulled into the road, hoping she wouldn't notice we were headed back the way we came. If she did, she didn't let on. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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