 Dispatches of theEmergency Queer Reserve |
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Tuesday, September 14 ( 9:04 PM ) Timothy State How Far Must You Launch the TV? It had to have been the worst rest area I’ve ever stopped in. Driving I-65 north some 30 miles south of Indianapolis, we took a smoke and pee break. As we were getting back into the Ford Escape, Dan said the guy getting into the Mercury Marquis opposite us was a big Mo. As I put my rhinestone-studded wing-tip sunglasses on, I looked up in time to catch his wave, smile and a wink. He hit the road at the same time as we were, and as we pulled away from the scary rest stop, Dan and I both remarked that he was a rather attractive man for being so hairy. He had a beard, and you could see the chest hair trying to escape his collar and his forearms were incredibly hairy. Obviously, he was a bear of some sort, although we were not sure of the specific type. He had a lean build, and was very hairy in a scary way. Does that make him a Cub? Or is a cub a hairless man who likes hairy men? This thought occupied our conversation as we passed Sexy Harry in the Mercury Marquis. He waved again and giggled at my sunglasses. And that was all it took. For the next thirty miles, he would pass us, then we would pass him. Each time, he’d be more serious with his waves. Then his tongue would start to dart back and forth between his lips as he’d roll back his eyes in what he thought was seductive pleasure. Dan had the cruise control, so we were maintaining a comfortable pace. He, on the other hand, had no idea how to use the cruise control. The lights would flash, and the windshield wipers would go—an obvious sign he didn’t know where the controls were on his car. “I think he wants us,” Dan said. “Obviously. But I think he wants us for different reasons than you think. I think he’s a serial killer. He doesn’t fit the demographic group for a Mercury Marquis. And, he doesn’t know where the controls are on the car, so obviously it belonged to the closeted banker he knocked off yesterday morning in Nashville. I bet he ditched his car.” “It was probably covered in blood from the deed, and he torched the thing to delay the investigation. That’s why we haven’t heard anything.” He passed again, this time making obvious sexual gestures with his mouth and hands. “We’d better call someone, just so they know the real story when we don’t show up somewhere,” Dan suggested. “You’re right. This way, someone on Dateline will at least be able to say in a sound byte, ‘I heard the guy was sexy, in a hairy sort of way.’” We dialed up Buckhead John to let him know of the situation. Just in case. On the phone, I turned to my right, and there he was, in his serial-killer blue Mercury Mystique, signaling us that he had to exit in 5 miles and we should follow. “Do you think there is a protocol? At 75 miles per hour, it’s appropriate to give a five-mile warning, but if we were traveling at 35 miles per hour, your could get away with a two-mile warning?” I asked rhetorically. “If we need to loose Scary Harry using evasive measures, the TV is going,” I said. “Out the sunroof,” said Dan. “I wonder, at this speed, how high you have to launch the TV out the sunroof so that it will miss the back end of the car, and land on Scary Harry’s windshield?” For a brief moment, I wished I had taken another semester of calculus. # |
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