Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms

Dedicated, with love and admiration,
to the woman who makes all things possible.
My beloved wife, Ann.

If, on that particularly warm night in April, you had been anywhere near the one hundred seventeenth exit of the US 108, just south of the city where the road first wanders off like a drunken frat boy and begins to flirt with the dangerous curves of the coast, you likely wouldn’t have been able to see anything anyway because of the fog.

But if you
had
wound up there—in spite of the lack of visibility, and the fact that no one goes there unless they’ve read the map wrong, gotten directions from an incompetent friend, or been forced to stop due to some bladder-related emergency—you likely would have parked somewhere near the old stone fence off the side of the recently resurfaced road to wait out the sudden, surprisingly thick and disturbingly dark mist that had swept in from nowhere to envelop everything, including the hypothetical you.

Had you been there, you might have yelped a bit at the unexpected, unusual, and more than a little scary, low-to-the-ground lightning that suddenly erupted from the center of that eerily dense fog. Perhaps you would even have turned off the engine, moved away from anything metal, and begun muttering a prayer or two to whatever god you thought wasn't too busy to help.

Had you been there, in the right place, at the right time, and had something been visible once the low clouds and mist had begun to fade along with the intense lightning strikes, and low, rumbling thunder, you might have seen the deeply worn, patchy, and faded, ostensibly white 1956 Rambler explode toward you from the center of those flashes and booms like a cannonball shot from the mouth of hell.

Had you seen, you undoubtedly would have watched with fear and concern as the dingy car slid headlong toward you with considerable speed and lack of control until its brakes locked, its tires skidded, and the heavy machine swerved to an eventual stop on the rain-slicked asphalt mere inches from where the front of your bumper would have been, had you been there.

If you had then stepped out of your automobile and moved closer to the steaming, pinging, rusted old driving machine that had nearly crawled into your lap, you would have seen a very pretty— and very frightened—young woman staring out the front windshield. She would not have been staring at you, not at anything so much physical as the flickering ghost images of her short, but mostly happy life as it continued flashing before her eyes, complete with end credits, catchy song and special thanks to the producers.

You might have noticed she was sweating a little, shaking a bit, and breathing heavily as she gripped the steering wheel tightly in white, blood-drained fingers. You might have seen her swallow, once, very hard, as if downing a small rodent that had become lodged in her mouth but would have preferred to stay right where it was.

As she would have sat there staring emptily at the space before her, and you would have stood there staring emptily at her, you might have noticed movement along the side of the road, and—with her—turned your gaze to see one of those irritatingly healthy couples who do everything together, including power-walk their excess caloric intake away in public with the specific intent of shaming the rest of us for our lonely, passive, and sedentary lifestyles.

You might have seen them smile nervously at the frightened woman in the Rambler and then continue along their way as the driver, in turn, watched them stride off energetically toward their evening protein drink, relaxing sauna, and erotic massage.

If you had paid particular attention, you likely would have picked up on the fact that the woman in the Rambler was paying particular attention to the tight-fitting tank tops, spandex shorts, and name-brand running shoes of the passing pair.

And if you were close enough, you couldn’t have helped but notice the nervous, sweating, yet still remarkably lovely young woman glance down at herself and say quietly, “Damn.” Then shake her head sadly as she—and you—realized that she was entirely naked in her little car.