Weekend

. . . continued from The Lost Treasure of Yinzer™ . . .

	After a few hours of driving west, morning dithered between mist & rain. 

11AM traffic flowed surprisingly smooth with the usual alpha-politics of weekend lane-changers manically vacillating brake lights through a series of obstacle course chess moves en route somewhere to desperately relax in, ultimately, failed escapes. 

I exited to a turnpike travel plaza & followed a wide-load casually bottlenecking the restroom entrance. 

Upon return to the food court lot, the minivan was silent when I twisted the ignition. I called my hometown dealership. They prescribed wiggling the battery connection. The engine turned & I drove toward a nearby service department they recommended — north of the interchange — open on Saturdays.

	By noon I was maneuvering around a building looking for the Service entrance & passed uniformed mechanics out back, grilling, laughing & talking in the meat smoke. The bay doors were closed, so I parked, left it running & went inside through a side door. 

A dealership button-up behind the service counter said they had stopped working for the day & didn’t mention the BBQ, but suggested I drive about half mile more & look for a garage under a large American flag. 

“Find the flag,” they said.

I did. It was massive. I could see it as I pulled out from the dealership lot, beelined & parked beneath. It smacked in the wet gust like a snapped gym towel. 

A youthful gait, so nimble he seemed made of rubber, sprang from somewhere with a rag & pliers. He smiled, pulled the hood & tightened the battery connections.

The hood slammed tight for “no charge” & the youth bounced away.  

The elements died down, the flag sagged & I headed northwest.  

	At 6PM, I loaded a few guitars into the venue helped by a sound person being trained by an older man who said he'd once worked for a company that made cryogenically-treated audio cables. He complimented the way my cords were coiled.  

The stage manager introduced his teen daughter who skulked through a performance of extreme boredom as set times were confirmed. 

The promoter went over the contract details & presented his young-adult son who, the father said, “hates children but loves hockey.” 

It was also revealed that the opening act's guitar player is a corn farmer & has a dog with diabetes. 

	My memory of the show is that I forget some songs, but kept moving with kind support from the audience. Load-out was assisted by the child-hater & cryo-trainee. 

I drove towards the motel noticing gas prices on the way & decided to gamble it towards the state line.

It was colder when I found the lit, open-curtained room. The wall heater below the window started on its own as I chained the door & pulled the drapes, whirring & exhaling upwards, making the curtains dance.

	Heading south, the next morning’s sabbath gas price gamble paid off thirty cents cheaper & I celebrated with a secular thrift store stop.

A man in cycle apparel & holding a bicycle helmet explained to a woman stocking shelves how much could be made reselling thrift store finds with “. . .  you spend a hundred you make five hundred, you spend two hundred, you make a thousand . . .” She listened silently as she worked with her back turned. 

When the man left without buying anything, he got in a dented sedan & threw his helmet in the back seat.

	Meandering a loose Sunday-drive route, I fell for a business route historical marker billboard to the nation’s first concrete paved street. It was roadblocked for repairs. 

That evening’s motel was located next the city’s Expo Center offering a gun show & free glucose allergy testing. I was tempted, but instead practiced a few songs that’d been detoured the night before & snacked from a vending machine. 

The show that last night has escaped retention. The Monday drive home, I remember though, was dry.