AN ALLEGORY
“I was there the other day,” she said, pointing out the passenger-side window as we drove down the dusty, sweaty, midnight road. “At the store, in the back isle where the dusty bottles of top-shelf gin sit unloved above the hustle and bustle of the lintless bottom shelf.”
“I was there,” she said, “studying a particularly interesting label, trying to decide if this was the bottle that contained all the answers.”
We drove on in silence, me icing a swelling jaw, her sitting awkwardly and pushing the seat back as far as it would go, resting her heel on the side mirror, pushing it down so all I got was a great view of the drying, blackening stain on the blue door of the car.
“I didn’t find it,” she said, over the increasing volume of the rushing wind. I accelerated, the humid breeze flowing into the car, kicking up a dust that was ground in before I was born. The sturdy engine spat ’60’s-era hydrocarbons, leaving a light chocolate-tan cloud in its wake, highlighed in the flashing lights.
“And anyways,” she continued, “I couldn’t have afforded it. I din’t have anything to trade. At least, nothing the red-hatted fop behind the counter wanted.”
The tires screamed like a cat in heat as I cut the corner, briefly losing track of which side of the car intended to precede the others. She kept her heel on the mirror, now pointed down at its limit, reflecting the painted lines that looked like engineer’s stripes as they spun past the car. She was trying to be casual, but it wasn’t working.
“I’ve only been on this road a couple times,” she said, louder, but still audible through the wind and the smoke and the sirens. “I like where it goes.”
I’d dropped the ice in my lap, but ignored it. My foot was to the floorboard as the rapidly-aging chariot strained its iron muscles to the breaking point, flying up the onramp to the highway. The telephone poles on the side of the road looked like a picket fence.
“Only a few more miles,” she said, her heel still on the mirror, her arms over her head. “Home free.”
There was an explosive pop as the tires gave way. I struggled with the wheel, trying to keep the right end pointing up. Slowly I gained control, and brought the steaming rig to a stop. The lights surrounded us, enfolded us, as the sirens grew louder in my ears.
She got out of the car and drew a circle around herself with a piece of chalk.
“Home free,” she said.
It is thus that I begin this, The Week That Was. As Follows:
MOVERS AND SHAKERS
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition! There have finally been some trades of note. First off, and occurring right on the heels of the last post to this blog, is the trade between the Wild Berries and Da Libbyerators. Pat gave up on Alfonso Soriano, possibly the most electric leadoff man playing the game today, deciding instead to put his eggs in the basket of a middle-aged man with a corpse-tendoned knee. Josh decided to give up on Magglio Ordonez, the 2007 AL Batting Champion and Triple Crown threat, in favor of a streaky Cub that has fewer RBI than Emil Brown. Good job guys. Seems like a fair deal for both.
In the midseason league, Jay decided to trade away Brad Penny, a contender for the NL Cy Young award, in favor of a power-neutered first baseman coming off a devastating wrist injury. Josh countered by trading away Derrek Lee, a contender for the Batting Title, and one of the steadiest offensive forces in the NL, in favor of a pitcher known far and wide as a first-half stallion and second-half gelding. Well played, sirs. Well played indeed.
TOP PERFORMERS
Pat, like the labrador puppy you bring home, only to realize that he’s not housebroken and chews your doorknobs and newel posts like Lindsay Lohan in an LSD-fueled frenzy, continues to claw and scrape his way into places where others told him he ought not be. Pat has gained 9th place. More details as events unfold.
TOP PERFORMERS: At Sucking
I believe this tells the tale:
Eight? EIGHT? Really? Is that the best you could do guys?
Those are British troops at Arnhem. They’re hurt bad. And you’re just gonna sit here… and… drink tea?
BASEBALL, RAY
The Cubs, that scrappy little team that could, end the first half at .500 + 1, 4.5 back of the Brewers, who stumbled their way into the half like they’d been sampling a bit too much of their own product.
The A’s continue to injure their players. Apparently the Cubs were playing Moneyball all these years.
The Braves continue to doggedly track down the stumbling Mets. My personal prediction: Met’s self-destruct in the second half, finishing third behind the Phillies, who are eliminated on the last day of the season.
The Giants still suck.
FIN
And that…was The Week That Was.