This morning, as I made my way down the Trail of Tears to the town of Scooba, I passed a man in a reddish-shall-we-say-bleeding-into-burgundy Chevy Aveo…reading a book.
While he drove.
The Bible, children, is always spelled with a capital "B."
We were heading into that infamously, always congested section of highway right outside a town, or village, or tribe, known simply by the wooden staked sign, signaling both the start and the end of what appears to be a mostly dirt road, bearing the mysterious name of Wahalak.
For some reason, and I feel that voodoo has a large part to do with it, they simply cannot get this portion of the road stabilized. They’ve been working in this same exact spot for a solid month, at least. And by they, I don’t mean men from the county jail – that’s who they hire up the road in Macon – no, I mean bona fide employees of the state of Mississippi.
Personally, I don’t mind the decrescendo of their slow progress. I enjoy being a deliberate passer-by of Wahalak because I like to say the word “wahalak.” I do. I say it out loud every morning and afternoon when I drive past it.
Wahalak means “running water,” but that is so unoriginal and less than exciting that I’m going to have to make up a new definition.
Did you know? The name Wahalak refers to madness and amnesia, in the common Choctaw tongue of today’s tribes. During the Mississippian Epoch of the Carboniferous Period, however, the term was often used as a directional indicator signifying various geographical areas within a tribe’s property where the evil dead were buried, having been sacrificed to the gods for their wicked and abusive ways. (i.e., Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, misspelled accordingly). Also, and this part is actually true, Wahalak is best known as the temporary hideout of fugitive Kenny Wagner, who was on the FBI Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list in the 1950’s.
Ahem.
I lie because I needed a hobby when I was six and that was the only thing I was good at.
What I wanted to tell you was that the man, in the Aveo, he was reading the Bible. The Book of Jeremiah, to be exact.
I’d gotten in the passing lane (which, by the way, People, is the fast lane, on the left side), and I had every intention of getting around this man so that I could lead the charge through the orange cones and the death-defying men who paint the dotted lines down the middle of the roads. They have no patience for you or your car.
But, when I saw that he was reading, I got curious. So, I paced myself. (He never once looked up).
Then, when I saw that he was reading the Bible, I got nervous. Like, this was a sign. (Word to the wise: Anytime someone is reading the Bible in your very presence, it’s probably a warning from God that you’re sinning too much, as of late. Especially, if they’re reading the Bible while operating a vehicle – and you only know that because you’re driving alongside them).
I would have prayed about it, but I had to merge. The left lane was closing, and fast. The accompanying road sign stated that the “left lane would be closed for the Next 22 Miles.” If only I could have kept up with him, I might have gotten the whole chapter read.
Lord knows I need it.
Then, it struck me. Wasn’t Jeremiah one of the Naysaying Doomsday Prophets? (I’ll cross-reference that more, later, over wine…but yes, he was).
Good enough for Jesus, but not Southern Baptists.
So, anyway, here’s this man, reading Jeremiah, KJV-version splayed across his steering wheel, reading glasses on high alert, maneuvering on faith, I suppose, through the treacherous Wahalak sliver of Highway 45…and then, there’s me, trying to read over his seatbelt.
I barely made it around him. A few seconds later and I would have gotten up close and personal with the man on the walkie-talkie…who I might add was also staring at this devout, if his devotion was a little misplaced, Bible Belter.
I also was rather taken with the way he was sitting behind the wheel, like a vice (i.e., the clamp not a form of immorality).
He was scooted so far up to the wheel, itself, that I’m not sure he wasn’t driving with his nipples. I’ve never in my life seen anyone sit so close to the wheel of a car. It almost triggered my asthma. (Remember: Sucks to your ass-mar, Piggy)?
And then, for the duration of my sojourn into Scooba, all I could think about was what the way you drive a car says about you. I mean, I have no doubt in my mind at all that this man is a tightwad. Albeit, he might be a well-intentioned tightwad…but come on, you don’t drive a car frenching a steering wheel to that degree and not know how to stretch a dollar until the eagle grins.
Here, you try one.
I’ll set the scene: tinted windows, rolled down, clove cigarette, and a seat reclined to such an extent that a) it appears the car is driving itself, and b) your forehead is in the trunk. Now, characterize that driver. Or, what about this: the car is immaculately clean, spotless; hands are at 10:00 and 2:00 (two times of the day that mean nothing to you other than 10:00 is still two of the longest hours before lunch, and 2:00 is just a hateful hour, plain and simple), the shoulders are squared and the neck unable to turn. Who does this remind you of? (Aunt Lola).
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I shifted my position a thousand times, trying to find just the right “feel” of the car against my backside. How did I look while driving? I turned the rearview mirror onto my face (not the first time, either, I assure you) and tried to picture what others see when they look at me behind the wheel.
I was more than pleased, but then again, to be fair, the rearview mirror’s on my good side.
I like to think that I look scholarly while driving. But then, I caught myself hanging my left wrist on the top of the wheel, limped ,and resting my right elbow on the arm rest. That doesn’t look scholarly, at all. That looks like how a Secret would drive, like a husband having an affair would drive…showing off the absence of a wedding ring…I was ashamed of myself.
It's OK if your finger itches, as long as you're not holding a gun.
I also weirded myself out a bit…I mean, who on earth thinks up things like this?? Whatever happened to just “driving to work?” Does everything have to be an adventure, a story, a piece of fiction, a make-believe world of comedy and tragedy, Kris??
Well, I have an answer, so listen up, because I’m rarely this sure about things…but the answer to that question is Yes.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes…everything, and I mean Every Thing, most absolutely, positively, has to be.
And if you don’t believe me, don’t worry: I drive a 4-door.
You just show up, put your seatbelt on…and above all, make sure you bring your Bible.
The Clever Kris 