You're probably wondering why I didn't want to take advantage of the pre-dawn quiet and get some good writing done. I wanted to settle down to work, really I did, but within 30 seconds I was hooked on the story of the First Lady, formerly Laura Welch. A studious young woman, she received a bachelor's degree in education from Southern Methodist University, taught elementary school, and later earned a master's degree in library science. Then they showed her high school and college yearbook photos. Can you say hottie?  She had glossy hair flipped up at the ends and wore those granny glasses women had back then. I bet the second George found out she was a librarian, he wanted to hook up with her for some of the 'ole in-out.

Anyway, by this time my energy was beginning to flag. Hoping I might find inspiration elsewhere, I threw on some clothes—t-shirt, leather jacket, pajama bottoms that resemble sweatpants, and sneakers—and drove down to Dunkin's.

Besides the usual contingent of cops and taxi drivers, there was the requisite pack of drunks on their way home after a long night of partying. If nothing else, these clowns are useful reminders of why I don't drive after 9pm on the weekends. In line ahead of me, a menage a trois (two girls and a guy) debated in French or German or Russian (who can tell?) whether to get "ze Munchkins" or "ze cwah-sonts." One of the women, a heroin-chic redhead, stared at my hat and smiled. I smiled back.

"So, you work for ze President?" she asked. This got her companions' attention.

She was referring, of course, to my "President of the United States" baseball cap with the official seal emblazoned on the front. She must not have noticed the PJ's. I casually looked over both shoulders and replied softly.

"Yeah, Secret Service," I said. "I'm with the advance team."

"What's that?"

The guy with these two, now well emasculated, sauntered up to the counter and ordered for his companions.

"I travel ahead of the President and check out locations he might visit. Right now they have me sampling the donuts and coffee here."

"Come on," said the other woman. A cowboy hat was tilted back on her head.

"Seriously. We have to check for poisons."

The second line opened up, so I stepped forward and ordered an extra-large black coffee and six munchkins. When I pulled out my wallet to pay, the one that looked like Debra Winger in Urban Cowboy tossed a five dollar bill at the clerk.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"I want to."

I nodded.

"Good luck," heroin-chic said.

"Thanks," I said, biting into a cinnamon munchkin. "And your government thanks you."

Back in the car, I opened the coffee and waited for it to cool. Many years ago I spilled an entire cup of the stuff on my crotch while driving, almost slammed into a milk truck, and spent the rest of the drive with my testes somewhere in my neck. It was a performance I never wanted to repeat.

After two minutes, coffee sufficiently cooled, I was ready to go and started to back up. Without a hint of warning, a little Hyundai shitbox—about as big as a toaster—zipped past my rear bumper. My stomach flipped. If I'd been holding the coffee, there would have been trouble.  For a moment I fantasized about just broadsiding the thing, but the part of my brain that recognizes such things as illegal told me not to.

Still, this person, whoever he (or she) was, had pissed me off; I wanted to put a little scare into him. I decided to follow the car. Starting out with the Hyundai about 100 yards ahead of me, I checked my gas gauge (3/4 tank, I was set) and put the hammer down.

I'd read enough Spenser novels to know that when you follow someone, you don't want to drive right on their tail.  Too obvious.  Still, you have stay close enough so you don't lose them with traffic lights.

Starting in Yonkers, NY, I figured I'd tail my quarry for half an hour or so while leisurely sipping my java, see where he ended up, then drive home and try to write something. At one point I got close enough to see there were two people in the car, but I couldn't tell if they were male or female. It didn't matter.

The drive began inauspiciously enough—the Hyundai led me up the narrow, serpentine Bronx River Parkway, exiting in White Plains. I imagined I was tailing a couple college stoners looking to score some dope. However the pair quickly navigated through the city streets, almost losing me once, and then we were on 287 heading east.

Okay, I said to myself, they're heading toward Connecticut.  Or maybe they're lost.

A few minutes later, we were on I-95 north. Traffic on the interstate is conspicuously light at 4:30am, so I memorized the tail light configuration, backed off their car and set the cruise control at 65. Probably heading back to New Haven, I figured. A couple of rowdy Yalies, good-time Charlies like the current President, who went slumming down in the City for the night and were heading back to sleep off their debauchery.

New Haven came and went and the Hyundai showed no signs of stopping. Same with New London. Meanwhile, I'd finished my coffee and its laxative effects were kicking in. Something had to give. I just hoped it wasn't my sphincter.

It occurred to me that I ought to creep up on the car and try to read the license plate. If the thing said, "Maine" or "New Brunswick," screw it—I was turning around.

I accelerated, quickly closing the quarter mile gap between us, and as I neared their rear bumper, I saw them slowing down. Their right turn signal was on. A rest stop!

The Hyundai rolled up to the gas pump. Not one to miss an opportunity, I parked in the fire lane in front of the McDonald's/rest rooms and dashed inside. I had my pick of bathroom stalls, and although it took me a minute to create a barrier of toilet tissue between the seat and my bottom, I finished quickly. Despite being in a rush, I took a moment to wash my hands—hygiene is important to me.

Walking through the lobby, I checked my watch. Two minutes. I couldn't believe how fast I'd done that; hopefully there wouldn't be any permanent damage.

When I got back outside, the Hyundai was gone. I suppose I expected it, maybe even wanted it to be gone. The pair were probably heading to Rhode Island, or even worse, the Cape. I, meanwhile, needed to get home and feed my cat.

The sun had just begun to peek through the trees. It was going to be a beautiful day.

- 30 -
 

©2002 Chris Orcutt and www.notwriting.com. All rights reserved.