(Raven’s Rail Car. A concept design from the American Motors design studio, circa 1955. Photo Socotra.)
Whammo!
The Hubrismobile became possessed by Germanic demons immediately upon impact. I don’t know what it was- a trench or really significant pothole of some sort on North George Mason that I could not see in the darkness. I should never have tried to visit the framing shop after Willow.
It was a hard slam to the undercarriage, significant enough that I cursed loudly and instinctively. The fine German-engineered machine immediately decided to dial “SOS” and the dash display showed the vehicle trying to do the right thing.
The engine still ran, so I punched the menu paddles on the left and right sides of wheel to try to forestall a 911 call that would get me in trouble with the authorities. After several frantic tries on all available menu options, I got the car to calm down and cease dialing, but the poor thing clearly was freaked out.
The status board told me that I had one malfunction, but for the life of me I could not determine what it might be. Both car and driver settled back into routine operations as we passed the office, heading south, and I was relieved that there did not appear to be any significant damage.
I wheeled into the garage under Big Pink and backed into my slot past the elevator bay. Looking into the rear-view, there was a curious curtailment of my field of view. Engine idling, I tugged on the flipper to raise the top, and the car told me to take it to the shop. I looked at the display blankly, and then in the rear view, and saw what the problem was.
The impact had caused the adjustable head-rests on the rear passenger seats to elevate to their maximum extent, or beyond. They appeared to give the rear seats the look of rabbit ears behind me, certainly appropriate for Easter Weekend, but troubling from the perspective of being able to put the top up.
Damn.
I toggled the lever again, in the hopes I could convince the rabbit ears to retract, but the panic reaction of the finely engineered machine was intractable, and it looked like I was going to spend the weekend with the top down.
Jiggs had called while I was out- I missed it, since the phone was in my pocket, and with the top down there was enough wind noise that I didn’t hear it.
I called him back- it was a kind invitation to participate killing or eating a lamb, I think, in celebration of the Risen Christ, but he made a point of saying that he was thoroughly done with stories about Detroit.
“Get over it,” he growled. “That town died fifty years ago and it is not coming back.”
“Yeah,” I responded, looking in my other phone contact list for a number to contact the very professional German engineers who, at vast expense, will cause the ears to minimize themselves.
I over-carred myself on the machine. Damn car has been off warranty for more than a year, and it still has less than 35,000 miles on the odometer. “But there are a lot of stories we have not covered. It was a great town. I haven’t talked about the underwater barges that smuggled real Canadian whiskey under the Detroit River during Prohibition. Or the Purple Gang hideout in Grabbingham, or the crazy concept cars that the Big Three used to put out every year.”
“Nobody cares, Vic. Done deal, it’s over. Be here around five on Sunday for the leg of lamb.”
Jiggs clicked off the connection and pulled out some chicken soup to heat up to fill up the corners of my stomach that the Pollyfarm Deviled eggs at Willow had not got to.
The table was littered with files; real life stories of an epic rocket through the greatness of the American Century to despair.
How could I give up? There was the story about Monica Conyers, wife of Representative John Conyers, (D-14-MI), who modestly advertises himself as a “strong advocate for the disenfranchised and a powerful proponent of justice for all.”
Monica began her service to the city as an activist and community organizer, and later as a member of the City Council. She is not there at the moment, having been convicted of taking $6,000 in bribes in exchange for a vote on a city sludge-hauling contract.
She wants a do-over, despite her guilty plea, but it is not going to happen. She got 37 months in the slammer, which if you do the math, makes honesty seem like a much more economical policy.
(Altar Road Sign. It is going to be a busy Good Friday in Dearborn.)
That idiot Pastor Terry Jones is in court, as well, looking to have a permit approved for his two-person demonstration in front of the Islamic Center in Dearborn.
I wanted to tell you about the Windsor Tunnel, the only sub-aqueous international border crossing in the world, or at least it was before the Chunnel, and the privately-owned Ambassador Bridge (“May I see your passport, please?) or the resurgence of the downtown and the gritty tough soul of a city that will not quite die.
And maybe I will. It is precisely nine days until our little band of urban explorers arrives in the Motor City. Pastor Ford will be long gone, I hope, Mrs. Conyers will still be in custody, and with any luck at all, I will have the top up on the Hubrismobile.
Should be driving Detroit iron, you know? You can hit the Bluesmobile with a sledgehammer and the car won’t yell at you or get hysterical.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com