After a night of drinking, a plan:
me, them, some costumes and
a forest north of Pemberton.
Come morning there were four of us,
and one of us wasn't exactly wonder-woman
as thought to be the night before,
but instead a hungover demon
wondering aloud if the mannequin
she was promised mid-bender
resided in the forest was real.
Unlike some classier parties,
fancy dress would be required in this forest,
and anyone lacking in this department
was shuffled over to a trunk of tricks
in the corner of the sitting room,
and force fed some Seventies-era
monstrosity that was
never to know the dignity of a drag ball.
The morning of departure, or
the morning after the night before,
there were delays of a practical
but also culinary variety.
one of us brought potato salad and
another sung about 5 packets of cigarettes
-sweet jesus have mercy on our lungs-
but the car itself had made
a jaunt to a destination unknown
while we were drinking,
and had yet to return from its own night on the tiles.
En route with only one of us knowing how to drive
I gave thanks, to be with fellow undriving people
and to be given time to gather my anxiety,
to stare out the window
to write my pending eulogy;
God knew how little sleep we'd all had.
The car was a crotchety old battle-axe
a scrapped tin can full of bullshit,
but it fits the last of the required supplies:
a 10 litre jug of water
two litres of wine and chocolate
dreaming up my eulogy.
Whether the driver was sober enough
to drive wasn't my problem,
my own desire to learn how to drive
frozen in time
in an old deep freezer dated 1994,
and as we drove towards downtown
aiming for the narrowest of bridges,
the wheels rattle and bump
like they are about to fall off.
And even though the car didn't look so bad,
we were comforted by her declaration
don't worry I put air in the tires.
But my fear of death and my fear she was drunk
were two different animals
and so I was convinced:
we were going to die.
We were in a turning lane
before suddenly a bus
the side of her car,
and took the passenger window clean off'
like it never happened at all.
Our driver pulled over curb-side
into the bus lane,
turned to her passengers, and
saw three faces staring into hers
like she was a fucking oracle
and could portend the drive to come,
but all she could pull out of
her bag of tricks was
what the fuck.
A man walked by,
tucked the violated mirror
into the window, opining
shitty deal guys,
to which she she answered:
that's why I don't have a good car,
like a Camry.
Still, we arrived eventually,
and built a fire meant for sunrises,
put on our fancy outfits
watched for the meteor shower
promised to appear mid-bender,
and drank wine until we were
tramping through the forest,
searching for a mannequin.
© Christy Frisken